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Dans le Murs (Part II)

(Part 1 from 3)

Synopsis: A chance encounter with a group of French teenagers has drawn Englishman Colin deVilliers into the JOKER organisation- a Paris based sex production company. After some hair raising scenes filmed at a local studio and an evening at an ‘off-the-wall’ night club at which any deviation is permitted, Colin sets about scripting a feature length film loosely based on his earlier life. Now read on.

Part II – L’Ecole

During the following days I drafted the outline of the scenes, some based on my actual experiences, others based on missed opportunities. At the end of the allotted period I had some fifty scenes that could be developed into the film. By this time Tessa had travelled over to Beaumetz and returned to England, somewhat bemused. Normally our sex life had been restrained but since that night in Lille I had been rejuvenated and she had had to take more cock and spunk than she was used to. Not that she was particularly concerned but when I ejaculated prematurely over her pubic hairs before even penetrating her vagina she really began to freak. This had not happened since our wedding night and she had not been amused then. But when I suggested that she might like to use her mouth on me, something she had steadfastly refused to do throughout our marriage, she really flipped. Screaming something about a ‘sex maniac’ and ‘perverted’ she had stormed into the spare room and returned to the UK the next day. I never saw her again. Anyway, on the Saturday morning I had arranged to see Pierre, Robert and Therese in the studio in Lille to discuss the project and to consider which scenes could be worked out. I arrived at 9:30 just as Pierre was parking the big Citroen; we greeted each other warmly and went inside. In a small room set up like a conference room we found Robert and Therese. After a preliminary coffee I distributed the drafts and explained the story. It was intended to be a young mans adolescent awakening, with girls in the road and including a slightly homosexual experience. After a quick read of the drafts they all agreed that it was promising and that Therese and I should work together to produce a set of scenes for filming.

"casting is going to be difficult." I acknowledged, "After all, we are really talking about representing quite young people in some scenes; it’s going to be a bit like casting for Nabokov’s ‘Lolita’."
"Mmm," Pierre mused, "perhaps not. I know a state run college where there are older teenagers and some of the things that go on between the staff and residents must not become public. I think I can persuade them to allow some of their charges to become film stars for a while. In fact I think we should adjourn here for this morning and go and see the 'commissioner' right now, in numbers so to speak. It's only about an hours drive and I think it could be very fruitful. We can discuss what sort of characters we need on the drive. Robert, we don't need two of you for this, perhaps you would stay and work on some locations"

In fact the drive took nearer ninety minutes as the result of a rather nasty accident on the motorway. We left the A26 at the A3/A1 junction and continued south of Arras to a town called Flechin sur Lac. Off the market square was the Rue Giscard and we drove between tall, typically Picardy, buildings until, adjoining a forest and lake, we came upon the imposing gates of l’Ecole San Sebastian. The drive was some five kilometres of delightful mixtures of marais and woodland; we would describe it as a copse in England, terminating in a grand, whitewashed chateau complete with moat and bridge. It looked as if it had come straight from the days of the revolution. Pierre parked the car in a gravelled area adjacent to the bridge, crossed over to the far gate and spoke into a telephone cleverly hidden behind the trunk of a large weeping willow that was spreading green towards the rippling water. From a distance the conversation appeared animated but eventually he returned with a triumphant smile on his lips.
"He was not too happy with my proposal at first," he grinned pulling himself into the driving seat and turning on the diesel preheaters, "but I reminded him of a few 'skeletons in his closet' and he soon came around to seeing it as a good business deal. We will eat while we discuss our needs with him then he will match our requirements with some of his charges. I feel that today is panning out to be a good day."
We drove slowly over the narrow bridge, through the gate that had mysteriously opened and parked neatly in a cobbled courtyard. As we left the car we could hear the sounds of play from open windows. A stout man of middle years limped over to greet us. Despite his size he moved very fluidly and I guessed that he was neither as old nor as arthritic as he appeared. About five metres behind followed a petite, teenage girl.

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The man embraced Pierre who then introduced him to us as M Claude-Yves Glisson the commissioner of the school, or more correctly, the orphanage. His English was non-existent so Pierre translated for us. The girl was Anne-Marie d’Estang and she was this week’s assistant. He explained that each week he assigned one of his charges to be personal assistant to each member of staff, like a secretary and 'gopher'. He said that it gave them a break and it was good for their social education. Looking at Anne-Marie I wondered if it was only social education that she received during the week. She looked very demure but there was something about her eyes and general demeanour that told me something about her sexual attitude. She saw me studying her intently and looked clean through me with limpid, brown eyes as her freckled face widened in a devastating smile. I returned the smile but she dropped her head immediately and put her right forefinger in her mouth as if being chastised. I felt suddenly guilty until I looked more closely. She looked slinkily at me as she did the most suggestive things to that finger. There was no question in my mind that she was making very obvious suggestions about what she would like to do to me. My body responded accordingly. I felt my penis stirring and swell until the head slipped out of my pants only to be stopped by the tightness of my trousers. Whether she could see the resulting lump I never knew but I felt as if it was thrusting out like a tent pole. I tried to adjust my dress but it only made it worse.

"Ahhhhm. Pardon M'sieur," I coughed gently, "vous avez une toilette?"
"Certainment." he replied crisply and spoke rapidly, firstly to Anne-Marie and then to Pierre.
"It is some distance away and you could get lost," translated Pierre, "Anne-Marie will direct you and bring you back to lunch."

She beckoned me to follow and we entered to main building through a small door. The corridor was cool and dim as I followed the sprightly walk of the young girl. She walked with a delightful gait, her slim hips swinging gently in the faded denim jeans. She was superbly shaped with the striped tee shirt crinkling as she trotted. As she turned a corner the sun shone brightly through a high window illuminating her from above. I could see the firm upthrust of the small breasts and realised that she wore no brassiere. The beautiful mounds bobbing gently in the dancing sunlight did nothing to ease my aching and uncomfortable prick. I thought the best bet would be to get to the loo and quickly masturbate, at least that would reduce the size of the problem if only temporarily. After a number of turns and doors that left me totally disorientated she pushed open a door and stepped inside. I followed and found myself in a small bathroom complete with shower, toilet and bidet. She gave no sign of leaving and I was aching for relief so I took her gently by the arm and escorted her towards the door.

"No," she said in moderately good English, "I thought I was supposed to 'elp you because you are, 'ow you put it, deesabled."
"I might have the equivalent of three legs at the moment," I thought, "but not disabled."
"I 'elp you, yes?" she insisted closing the door behind her.
"You 'elp me, yes," I said resignedly standing in front of the toilet bowl and sliding my zipper down, "I need to 'relieve' myself."
"I do zat." she darted over to my side, "You wish to 'pee', no?"
"Not exactly," I said as her hand brushed the sausage pressing against my pants, "but for my part the amount is going to be about the same I think."
I let my trousers drop and we could both see my white Y Fronts bulging with the wet material outlining the bloated head.
"Mais oui." she hissed as her eyes read my dimensions, "Vous etre un grande homme. I 'elp you to - to.." She did not have the words.
"Come?" I offered helpfully.
"Ah oui," her face brightened, "I 'elp you to come now."

She moved close to my right side, pressing her soft breasts into my arm as she reached around and down and took my throbbing penis from inside and held it in her small, cool hand. It jerked spontaneously at the delicate caress, exuding a tiny bead of oil that glistened in the artificial light before succumbing to the force of gravity and forming an erotic streamer leading from the distended head. She hummed gently as she witnessed the evidence of my total arousal and with a tormentingly delicate touch of her forefinger swept the shimmering slick over the glans and helmet. As her digit passed over the hole carrying its fluid load I quivered once more and added significantly to the pool of juice trickling from the opening at the summit. She held the powerful erection tightly in her small hand while swirling her finger over the bulbous meat spreading the glutinous sap in a shiny coating. I couldn't help but continue to add to the quantity and she revelled in encouraging me to produce more. Her grip on me pulsated, not actually rubbing me, more a controlled squeezing. However young she was, and her age was uncertain, she certainly knew how to excite a man, and she could do it without him coming uncontrollably. I was grunting and moving my hips to get the best from her willing ministrations when she obviously decided that I'd had enough of this torture and it was time for relief. She repositioned her hand very professionally under the head, gripping the loose foreskin comfortably, and began to rub me off.

Slowly at first so that the sensations in my loins grew steadily in intensity. Then, as she sensed me getting closer to the inevitable climax she increased both her grip and rate but never excessively. She was controlling my sexual passion, at least up to a point. As the moment grew closer she studied both me and the monster in her fingers. The tip was continuously leaking lubricant now and some of it was a greyish, spunky colour. She sensed the final swelling before the outburst and changed her style, using her finger to stimulate the tingling glans. I shrieked as the sensations reached peak intensity as the fiery liquid, tightly contained in a tingling puddle at the base of my penis, was suddenly released and streamed upwards and outwards towards the bulbous tip and the tiny hand that was stimulating it. My muscles tensed of their own volition, gathering a cargo from that living pool and carrying it faster and faster up the quivering conduit. The wad reached the end of its life within me and burst out into the world in a fiesta of shimmering streamers that arced through the air and spread soundless droplets of warm whiteness on the floor. One, two, three times my prick fountained a charge of lust after which the sperm pulsed out of the twittering tip like lava from a volcano. It erupted from the hole and bubbled down the glans to spread freely over the ministering fingers that were still gently masturbating me. Her finger still stroked the tip occasionally carrying with it thick globules of juice that then dripped to the ground to add to the slippery puddle. I stayed her hand as I felt it finish, "C'est tout," I whispered as I forced the last drops out, "j'ejaculer est fin. Merci m’amselle."

She released my now softening penis and we took a few moments to remove the evidence and clean ourselves. Retracing our steps we rejoined the others in a small, but adequate, conference style room laid out with an attractive buffet. Pierre smiled knowingly at us as I found a place at the table. The company had been joined by a Mme. Selene Jacquard who was introduced as the orphanage Pastoral Director – or as good a translation as I could come up with. She was a smart woman, in her mid-forties but strangely quiet and, at times, seemingly discomfited.
"Better?" enquired Pierre quietly.
"Oh, yes thanks," I nodded as I shifted in the chair, "Anne-Marie was very, umm, helpful."
"Good." he commented, "Help yourself to some food and I will bring you up to date. While you were away Claude-Yves has had a chance to think about our needs and he believes that he has more than enough students here to meet our needs. In addition he has offered us the use of the building and grounds for filming. They have some one thousand hectares of land, forest, a lake and some meadow and we should be able to find most of what we need here. Everyone taking part will be paid a small fee.

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