Veronique Goes Sailing Ch. 01

I was fishing on my mate’s forty-foot launch a couple of years ago, and we pulled into a bay for lunch. We moored alongside a dozen other boats. After lunch, I climbed onto the flybridge for some peace and quiet, as there were teens onboard, and they were horsing around.

Moored next to us was a yacht with four teenagers, three guys and a girl. I took note, as the girl was clad only in a skimpy bikini, and she was beautiful. One of the guys looked like a gypsy, dark-skinned with a ponytail; the other two were younger and vying for the young lady’s attention.

When they jumped from the yacht into the water with her, I could see that both boys were having a good grope with her. I was even more certain of this when the young lady rose topless on the stern ladder, and one of the guys was holding her top in his hand. I almost fell out of my seat when he reached up and pulled her bikini bottom down below her knees. She just stepped out of the bikini bottom, leaving it in his hands, and pulled herself on deck, giving an old man a trill he had not experienced in many years. I was very jealous when both guys climbed out of the water and followed her below deck. That brief moment in time was the catalyst for the following story.

While this story is a work of Fiction, it contains many genuine events. On several occasions, I have sailed to the Mercury Islands, once with a young lady whom I fucked in Peachgrove Bay. And I once attended a party out in Henderson that, after some party games and much booze, turned into an orgy, and I got to watch a young wife gang banged on the dining table. So, without further ado, let me tell you about Veronique.

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My name is Veronique, so named because my mother spent her last year of High School billeted with a French family in Tahiti, and she named me after the family’s youngest daughter.

 

My mother and father met in high school and left when they turned sixteen to get jobs and save some money for their big OE to Europe. At eighteen, they were on a boat to England and based themselves in London, as it was easier to get a three-year working permit there. But their intention was always to spend as much time as they could in France as they had good contacts from the family my mother had met in Tahiti.

In their third year away, I was conceived, in a small town called Marly-le-Roi, a suburb of Paris, hence my middle name Marly. My parents returned home to New Zealand for my birth. And my father got a job with a local car dealership as a mechanic. A good job but not especially well paid, and I was brought up in a small house in a modest suburb of Auckland.

I had a very normal upbringing; my parents were always open and honest with my younger brother and me. They were an attractive couple, especially my mother. They had been hippies when they were young, and my father still had long hair and wore tie-dye tee shirts and baggy jeans.

My mother spoke both French and English to my brother and me from the day we were born. So no surprise that I topped that subject when I attended secondary school. I was not too shabby in most of my other subjects as well.

I was among the last of my friends to develop. But when I finally did, my petite frame was sporting some decent curves. I was in my final year of secondary school and had a large circle of friends. The big topic of conversation amongst us girls was about boys. And especially about sex with boys. 

My best friend, Tania, had lost her virginity after the school ball. The rest of us girls were all pretty envious of her. However, we noted that although she raved about how good it was, the guy that took her cherry did not ask her for a date again, and he broadcast their liaison to all his mates. That was a life lesson for all of us.

At the end of that year, when I left school, at least another half dozen girls in my class had lost their virginity. My girlfriends were always on to me, making hints about it being time I lost mine. But I was in no hurry. However, I constantly checked out the guys and pondered who would be a good prospect.

My parents had taken me to church every Sunday for as long as I can remember. Neither was very religious, but my mother said we kids had to go so that we could make up our own opinions. But by my mid-teens, I was questioning the teachings at youth group and began missing the odd Sunday. But I didn’t give it up altogether, as my friends and I enjoyed the dances they held every second Saturday night.

It was a confusing time in life; I’d just turned eighteen. Half the people I knew were telling me, No! The other half was giving me shit about still being a virgin. The most confusing, though, was my youth group at our church. It seemed ironic to me that my girlfriends in the bible group were the ones losing their virginity. Yet the leaders told us every Sunday to save ourselves for marriage and not become fallen women!

Halfway through that year, I began seeing a boy from the bible group called Adam. I had known him forever, and he seemed as good a bet as any if I wanted to experiment with sex. From the day I first wore a bra, he had pressed me about going out with him (sleeping with him), which put me off. But after a few months of his persisting, I finally agreed to go a bit further than the light foreplay we had tried on some dates. I laid out some ground rules, though. I made him promise to wear a condom and pull out when he came. There were all these stories about condom busting and young girls getting pregnant. And most importantly, I made him swear that he would say nothing about it to his mates if I let him.

Two days later, he approached me with three condoms in his hand. 

“Why did you buy three?” I exclaimed. “You’re not doing it three times!”

He blurted out, “I went to the chemist and said I needed condoms, and the lady sold me a packet of three. Don’t know if you can buy one; I just paid and hot-footed it out of the shop.”

It was just as well that he did buy three, as the first time we tried, he came putting the condom on. I let him play with my tits but went home very frustrated.

A week later, we tried again. Adam managed some penetration this time, but how much is debatable, as he came so quickly and wasted another condom. He blamed it on me, said I was too pretty, and that he never had this problem with any other girls. Which was a joke, as I knew he’d not been with any other girls.

A couple of days later, we tried for the third time in his bedroom. He reckoned he had things sorted and should be okay. ‘Nope!’ Useless again; this time, I knew he had it in me, though, as it hurt, and I had blood in my knickers. But again, he came before I was even close to having any good feelings. I didn’t bother to try with him again, he did ask me out, but I had an excuse ready every time he asked.

Soon after I stopped seeing Adam, my mother had a heart-to-heart with me about sex. She must have had a clue I was starting to experiment. I admitted to her that I had tried sex with Adam. I expected her to be disappointed and lecture me. But instead, she just exclaimed, “Well, you held off much longer than I did. I had better see about getting you on the pill.”

Without thinking, I opened my mouth and said, “But Dad said you didn’t have sex until you were nineteen when I was conceived.”

“He told you a white lie, and there were many before your dad,” she said, suddenly placing her hand over her mouth, realising what she had just admitted.

We had the most open talk I had ever had with my mother. I told her about how useless Adam had been. She told me she had had a lot of guys like him and told me not to be in a hurry, as the right guy would come along.

A few days later, she took me to her doctor. He asked me some awkward questions and then sent me home with a prescription for the pill. I think I was the last of my friends to go on it.

I finished my school year with a scholarship to Auckland University and a full-time job as a laboratory technician. The laboratory freed up time for me to attend all my lectures.

A few months later, one of the girls I worked with introduced me to Maximilian; everyone called him Max. He was twenty-five and seemed so mature and in control. He was a medical rep, quite handsome and worldly-wise. On our second date, we had it off in the back of his station wagon. My first orgasm! With a guy! I was in love.

 But the bastard didn’t ring for two weeks afterwards, and I felt used and got pretty down in the dumps. I talked to my mother about him, which was great; she was so understanding. She gave me good advice about guys like him who only wanted one-night stands. 

So I resolved to give him the bum’s rush if he ever bothered to call again. However, when he did call two weeks later, he gave me the excuse that he had lost my number and was out of town with work. He had contacted my work friend and got the number from her as soon as he got back in town. He was so sheepish and guilt-ridden that I forgave him, and we arranged another date.

The next day at work, I asked the girl that had introduced us about her giving Max my number again and was not surprised to hear that she hardly knew him and that he had not called her. It must have been the thought of sex, addling my brain because I convinced myself it must have been my mistake.

We went out that Friday night, and sure enough, parked on the way home, he had me over in the back seat of his car with my knickers around my ankles again. The orgasm this time was even better, and again I thought it was love. Especially as he was so charming afterwards and apologised to me for coming so quickly. He said I was the most beautiful girl he had been with, and I made him come too fast. (Where had I heard that before?) I wasn’t concerned about his staying power; he had lasted ten times longer than Adam had.

But over the next couple of months, he kept messing me around. He always had excuses and treated me like a queen when we were out, and the sex got better and better. But I never could arrange anything, as I never knew when he would call.