Chateau on the Hill

Literotic asexstories – Chateau on the Hill by JBEdwards,JBEdwards The Chateau on the Hill

The monastery has a strange pull on Véronique

This story takes place in southeastern France, not far from Grenoble.

A huge thank you to my editor Ken. Without his help this story would have been a mess.

**

The château looked gorgeous. It was up on the tallest hill in the area, and as gorgeous as it looked, it looked equally foreboding. We girls were forbidden from going up to explore the château.

“Why?” I had once asked my mother. I was 16 at the time.

“Monks live there. They belong to an order with vows of silence,” my mother explained. “You and your friends would not be welcome. You’d be disturbing their peace. They practice cenobitic and eremitic monasticism.”

“What does that mean?”

“Some live together and others live as hermits. You really should learn more about these things.”

I ignored Mom’s dig, since after all we’re Jewish and why should Jews have to know such bizarre things about monks? I blithely continued. “Who feeds them? Where do they get their food? Do they shop in town for toothpaste and toilet paper and such?”

“Why do you always have so many questions? Look, it’s simple — you cannot go to the château. It’s too dangerous. The monks are supposed to be celibate, but they sometimes find that a hard dictate to obey.”

“I guess they get hard, and that makes it hard to obey the chastity rules,” I joked. Mom raised an eyebrow. After all, I was supposed to be her innocent little girl.

“Look Véronique, you cannot go up to the monastery. I forbid it. Got it?”

This was silly, and now it’s two years later. I’m 18, and so I’m an adult. I’m a little sweetheart of a girl, or more properly a woman, since Pierre had seen to that in the backseat of his mother’s Citroën right after my birthday. A couple of months before, I had gone on birth control as my birthday present to myself.

Pierre had been trying for some time, and he was surprised that suddenly I was willing. He was accustomed to getting me naked, and he would always try to get his cock inside me, but I was just too good at squirming. I’d squirm out of the way, and he never managed to get it inside me. I secretly enjoyed teasing him.

This time I changed tactics. I squirmed in such a way that he just slipped right in. I was already good and wet. He was a virgin, and he lasted only about 20 seconds before firing off inside me. I didn’t hide my disappointment, but then he tried again around 10 minutes later and wow — that was much better!

For the past two years, I’d volunteered to cook and serve at the home for the old and indigent, which was just outside of town. I wasn’t even paid. As I said, I’m just a sweetheart of a girl.

One difference in finally letting Pierre have his way with me, on almost a daily basis, is that my style of dress changed. Now my skirts are shorter and my blouses are more revealing. I was pleased to see that this had some effects on the old men at the home. It made me giggle.

Most of the elderly at the home were women. We live longer than men. Pierre says it’s because men marry women and living with a woman ages a man prematurely. I pointed out to Pierre he was a sexist asshole, but it wasn’t a good time to make that observation since I was only half-dressed, and Pierre was slobbering all over my boobs. Men are so messy! He was angry because he wanted to fuck me yet again, but I kept saying no.

The old women at the home seemed bitter, and not that appreciative of all I was doing. They treated me with the contempt they must have had — back in the day — for their hired help. The old men, in contrast, always had a smile for me.

One day I came without a bra. It was not a big deal because my boobs are small and don’t bounce around that much when I’m braless. Also, since the pandemic, many young women have routinely gone without bras. It’s the fashion. Anyway, that day all my bras were dirty. Mom was on strike and not doing the wash — I think it evolved from her fight with Dad. It was probably about sex. Most of their fights seem to be about sex.

Let me tell you, going without a bra and displaying my pokies got me big smiles from the old men. It also got me more scorn from the old women. One man even patted my behind, which is considered a serious offense by the home’s management. I ignored it.

**

I knew from Pierre (and also from Marc, but that’s top secret) that guys like a lot of sex. I do mean a lot of sex. It’s way more than we girls like, at least in my experience. I mean, I have sex with Pierre to keep him happy; mostly to keep him as my boyfriend. Having Pierre as my puppy dog gives me a certain status among the girls. I like that. If I have to fuck him all the time to keep my status, well clearly I’m going to do it.

Don’t get me wrong. I like sex. I like it especially when I get orgasms. The problem is that rarely happens, which is also why I tried out Marc on the down low. I figured maybe the problem was Pierre. But no, sex with Marc was even worse than sex with Pierre. Too bad.

It might be better if Pierre (or Marc) used their mouths, or even their fingers, down there the way — I’m told — they do in America. They wouldn’t do it. It was just kiss me, play with my boobs, and then stick their cocks in and plunge away. It was nice, but I rarely got a climax. Later, I’d get myself off with my fingers.

I figured Mom was not giving Dad enough sex, and that’s why they were fighting. It would also explain the lustful looks Dad was giving me. I was giving Dad wider and wider berths. Dad had Mom and also his young mistress Marie-Louise in Paris. She went by Louise, but Dad liked to tease her and called her Marie-Louise. He didn’t need me, too.

**

Pierre is a bit of a wimp. It was a gorgeous, warm March day, and still he refused to go with me up the hill to the château. The ground had dried out after the snowmelt and the recent spring rains. It was perfect weather and conditions for a long hike up the hill. I told him it was just to explore and take some pictures. I’m a pretty decent amateur photographer. I guess I inherited my artistic talent from my mom. Maybe I could sell a picture to the boutique postcard company in town. You never know. Probably though I’d only get photos of hermit monks masturbating behind a tree or something.

I already had a photo like that of my cousin Claude. I even was able to capture the arc of his spunk when he ejaculated. It’s not so much my photographic talent as having a great Leica camera with a telephoto lens and a shutter burst. It was a bit disturbing. I had thought he was beating off to a standard porn photo. In reality, though, he was using a dirty picture of me that Pierre had taken.

I should never have let Pierre take that photo. I was wearing only panties. As I mentioned earlier, my boobs are not big or anything. But they are bona fide boobs, and that’s enough for most men, I guess. To compensate for their small size, I suppose, my nipples get huge when they are hard. My nipples are good and hard in the photo because Pierre took it right after he had played with my boobs. I knew the photo was circulating. I was furious at Pierre for a long time.

Still, Pierre is handsome, an athlete, and a good student. He still fucks me all the time, of course, but no more photos are allowed. Often his mother’s Citroën smells of sex. His mother doesn’t seem to care. She does look at me funny, however.

When Pierre refused to climb the hill with me I tried to get Marc to go. Alas, it turns out he’s also a wimp. Even my offer of a reward like a sexual romp at the top of the hill, naked and in daylight, was not enough to entice him. He now had Hélène satisfying his sexual needs. Also, Pierre had found out about Marc and me. That made sex with Marc problematic anyway.

I learned my girlfriends are all cowards too. Everyone seemed to be afraid of the monks who lived in the château, or monastery if you will. Rumors had it they were a sex-starved bunch of men. Probably it’s due to their vows of celibacy. I naively thought that was why God gave them nuns, but nobody agreed with me. Most of my friends were Catholics, so they should know better than I.

I figured that monks were deeply religious. They wouldn’t rape anyone. My friends were just using a dumb excuse.

So one fine late spring Saturday I set off on my own. My backpack contained a lunch, a water canteen, and my camera.

The hike up to the château was exhausting. Pierre had given me some last-minute advice. He explained monks don’t wear underwear, and if I want to be accepted by them I shouldn’t wear any underwear either. I of course ignored Pierre’s advice. I was sure he was just playing with me.

During the interminable hike, I began to think about Pierre’s advice. About a quarter of the way up I removed my bra. I took a selfie of myself topless in deep nature and sent it to Pierre. My phone barely had enough bars to send the picture off. Afterwards, I got dressed but left my bra off. I also texted my Mom saying I was out in nature with my camera.

My T-shirt was tight and a bit too small, but fuck it. Nobody was about, and if I saw a monk he’d be too busy praying to notice my attire. I kept my panties on, because Il ne faut pas exaggérer, which means there’s no need to exaggerate. Without my bra, I felt sexy — perhaps even a bit risqué. My bra joined the canteen in my backpack.

I finally got to the château. One side faced a cliff, and it had windows overlooking the town below. A high stone wall surrounded the other three sides. The wall was too high and forbidding to scale. There had to be a door in the wall somewhere. I found it of course, although it took some doing.

I rang the bell. My camera was ready to go, the light meter perfectly adjusted. Nothing happened. Nobody came to the door. Why did they have a doorbell if there was no response when you rang it?

I was hot, tired, and frustrated. All this effort, only to be met by silence. I sat down and opened a small bag of cashews. A half-hour later I tried the bell again. Maybe the first time they were praying or in the middle of a Gregorian chant or something?

Still no response. Not even to say “Go away.” What if it had been important? Or urgent? With that thought, I saw it. The medieval monastery had a modern camera, partially hidden. Someone could see me — if they had bothered to look — and must have decided I wasn’t even worth the effort to say hello. And these monks were Christians?

Well, if they could see me, I could play to that. My sleeveless T-shirt had something in Hebrew written on it. Pierre had given it to me — he had bought it in Israel. Even though I’m Jewish I could decipher only one word: בְּבַקָשָׁ. It’s pronounced as be va ka shah, and it means please.

The monks supposedly were scholarly, so I figured they probably could read Hebrew — the Old Testament and all that. I had planned to ask one of them to translate my T-shirt for me.

Pierre had gone to Eilat, the Israeli resort on the Red Sea. He was obsessed with fucking Jewish girls. I had given him a taste of what it was like, and he generalized. I knew he had also fucked a few Catholic girls, too. (Almost all girls in France are Catholic girls.) He didn’t know that I knew. It seems he was disappointed with how they fucked, compared to me.

It was flattering I suppose, in a degrading sort of way. I don’t know if Pierre had any successes in Israel, but Marc told me he bragged about several successful conquests, so maybe he did. I was not about to ask him about it.

I took a deep breath and put my idea into action. I looked directly at the tiny doorbell camera, and I gave my best smile while I raised my T-shirt up to my neck. I was exposing my tits to the camera and presumably to the eyes of at least one monk. That should do it! After all, monks are men, right?

Nope. Still nothing. Damn! Raise the stakes, right? I removed my jeans, showing off my panties and my shapely legs. I folded my jeans and laid them carefully on my backpack, so they weren’t touching the ground. I have thin thighs and there’s a gap at the top where my thighs meet my torso. That gap frames my bush in ways that men (well, at least Pierre and Marc) seem to like, Now I was close to naked, with my T-shirt bunched around my neck. I rang the bell yet again.

Eureka! A monk answered the door and pulled me into the château amazingly fast. I was in a kind of foyer, with a surprisingly high ceiling. It made the room look bigger than it was. The château’s architecture was a mixture of Romanesque and Gothic. The high, pointed arches of the Gothic parts were pretty. I had been pulled inside so fast that my jeans and backpack were left outside the walls. Oops. I pulled my T-shirt down, covering my boobs, but there was precious little I could do about my crotch. Thank goodness I had left my panties on! They were my favorite white cotton panties. I bought them at Monoprix.

Everything happened so fast that I barely could take in the structure of the monastery. I could tell it had cloisters which led to a great room, which had an organ, but that was about it.

“I’m Véronique,” I said. No reply. “What’s your name?” I asked. The monk said nothing but he turned me around so he was facing my back, bent me over at the waist, and began to stroke my pussy, right through my panties. Double oops. I guessed the monks had taken vows of silence. Abstinence too, I had hoped, but that one was looking dubious.

I spun away from the monk, who looked puzzled at my resistance. He kept pointing at the Hebrew on my T-shirt, so I whispered, “What do the words mean?”

The monk pulled out a pad and a pen from somewhere within his robe. He scribbled some words on the pad. He gesticulated, making it clear he was indeed writing a translation of the Hebrew. He wrote, Baisez-moi, s’il vous plaît.

“You mean my T-shirt says Please kiss me on it?”

The word for to kiss in French is baiser. Used in slang, however, it means to fuck. Was the monk telling me the T-shirt was asking for a kiss or a fuck? I didn’t know.

He nodded slowly while smiling. His smile was a bit of a smirk. I was now wary, to say the least. The monk was about six feet tall and his face was chiseled, with nice features. He had a small scar near his chin. I wondered what that was about. Had he fought as a youth? Fallen off a bicycle? Somehow injured himself? No speaking meant I couldn’t ask him.

He was around 50 years old, making him about 30 years my senior. He was also naked, having shed his robe. This made the story of his scar not that important just then. Pierre was right: he wasn’t wearing underwear. He had an erection, too. He began to touch me. I freaked.

My screams attracted an audience, and soon half a dozen monks were in the foyer with us. After all of the monks had studied me carefully, my first monk, let’s call him Alpha, gestured for me to remove my T-shirt. I declined. I was now terrified.

He led me around the room. Each monk smiled when he read the Hebrew. Each monk removed his robe and then kissed me right on the lips. Very obedient, these monks were. There I was, wearing only my panties and my flimsy T-shirt, and surrounded by six naked monks. Most of them kissed well. Better than Pierre kissed, in any event. Most even kissed better than Marc.

Loud organ music began to fill the monastery. It was Bach: the chorale prelude Nun danket alle Gott. Was I going to be fucked to Bach with five monks watching? I felt an urgent need to pee, as well as of course to leave.

I decided to leave. I walked boldly to the door, but three large monks blocked my passage, smiling and pointing to my T-shirt.

I figured prayer might help. A monk couldn’t fuck you while you were praying, right? That had to be a sin, or at least frowned upon. The problem was I barely knew any Jewish prayers, let alone Christian ones. Wait — I know — The Lord’s Prayer. Yes. I had learned it at summer camp.

I began to recite it. “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

**

My parents had been so worried! I had simply disappeared and nobody knew where I was, or even if I was alive. My parents had even asked Pierre. My parents had never met Pierre, even if they knew all about him. Mom knew Pierre’s mother, but that was it. They knew about my relationship with Pierre, and they didn’t approve. They figured Pierre and I were fucking. They must have been truly worried to have asked Pierre. They got his number from his mom.

I would have called my parents to calm them but there was no cell phone signal around the château. Pierre told them I was hiking somewhere. He texted the topless selfie I had sent him to my mother but thank goodness not to my dad. My mom relaxed a bit and calmed down my dad.

I returned three days after I had left, wearing the clean robe of a monk, given to me by a disciple of Saint Pachomius the Great. It was a bit big on me but it covered me and kept me warm. The monks had kept my bra and panties as souvenirs. My parents didn’t ask me what happened. My mother seemed to know, and she shut up my father when he began to inquire. They were thrilled I was alive and okay and in good health.

When Pierre found out I had returned he came running over. I learned he had bragged to Marc about the practical jokes he had played, first with the T-shirt and its phrase in Hebrew on the front, and second with planting the idea of no underwear.

“What happened?” Pierre asked, all concerned.

I waxed enthusiastic about the hike, the views, the beauty of the monastery, the great photos I had taken of the flora and some fauna, and how nice and welcoming the monks were, the gorgeous music of the talented organist.

“I’m sorry about the T-shirt. I should have told you what it says,” Pierre said. He was fishing for information.

“Oh, the T-shirt turned out to be a blessing. It helped to convince six of the monks to give me a gangbang. They’re a horny group of guys. I had so many orgasms during those two days of fucking, it’s amazing. I guess it had been quite a while since they had enjoyed a teenage girl, you know? They want me to come by again and maybe bring a girlfriend or two with me. I had my first vaginal orgasms, too.”

Pierre looked like he had seen a ghost. He sat down, speechless, seemingly catatonic. Then he vomited.

I had been teasing about their request for me to return with a friend. They’d never mentioned bringing a friend. I was so angry with Pierre that I didn’t care what he thought. However, I did manage to convince him that I was only teasing about all the sex. I was impressed with myself: I told the truth and simultaneously arranged for Pierre not to believe it.

**

So what did happen? After the monks passed me around in my “Please kiss me” T-shirt, I panicked. Six men, all but one between 25 and 35 I’d guess, were naked and erect. The sixth man, Alpha, was older, as I’ve said, around 50. He was handsome, with nice hair and a fit body. He even had a six-pack. He had a tight ass, which I was sure would look great in tight jeans, even if that would never happen. I had come to like his little scar and his craggy face. I felt a strange attraction to him that I couldn’t understand.

Just as the Bach music was getting to the good part, Alpha took my hand. He led me out of the great room, down the cloisters a ways, and then into a small room. It had a chair, a tiny desk, a sink, and a narrow bed.

Uh-oh, I thought. Alpha smiled at me. I looked up into his eyes, trying silently to ask if his intentions were honorable. I was honoring the code of silence.

Alpha conveyed his intentions by taking me into his arms, pulling my near-naked body flush against his (his hard cock angled up between us), and kissing me. The kiss was closed mouth, gentle, and loving. He kissed me a second time. And a third time. Next, he kissed my neck. He stuck his tongue briefly into my ear (that was new!). I was surprised by how gentle and loving he was. I realized what I had been missing with Pierre. I was finding it hard to resist him.

Alpha was kissing me again when Thierry de Bercy entered the small bedroom with two glasses of green liqueur and a few slices of toasted bread. Thierry had gone to my school but had left to join the church. I had never expected to find him here, and certainly not for him to see me wearing only a T-shirt and panties and kissing the Alpha monk. Having one of my classmates see me like this deeply disturbed me. I blushed and began to cry.

Everyone in school knew Thierry was not only a virgin but a hopeless virgin. He had never dated a girl, kissed a girl, nor even held a girl’s hand. We all thought he was terminally shy or gay or something. It was a pity because Thierry was both devastatingly handsome and a great guy.

Thierry got an erection upon seeing me in my compromised state. I deduced Thierry was not gay. Maybe he was bisexual, I didn’t know. Who’d have thought?

Alpha could tell Thierry and I knew each other. He gestured to Thierry and to me. I didn’t understand the gestures, but Thierry did. He had been communicating that he wanted Thierry and me to enjoy each other first; Alpha would take me second. I was not being consulted.

I began to speak, but Thierry hushed me. After all, Alpha was in the room, and this monastery had vows of silence. Stupid really, if you ask me. The vows did not apply to me, but I wanted to be respectful.

I knew only one of the two glasses of liqueur was intended for me, but I drank both. It was strong, delicious, and powerful. It went right to my head. Strangely, it also went to my crotch, making me wetter than I had ever been. It resembled Chartreuse, but apparently this was the local drink made by these very monks. It was probably just psychological, but it felt like an aphrodisiac.

Thierry pulled me into him and he began kissing me. I pushed him away during his second kiss. I gave him my best WTF expression. Somehow it was different with Thierry; I had a history with him and knew him well. Kissing did not seem appropriate.

Thierry looked crushed. I remembered in high school the way Thierry had always looked at me. Had I been one of the girls of his dreams? I knew I was considered pretty. Pierre had let the class know I put out. That didn’t mean I was a slut; I only put out for Pierre after all (and Marc, but that was secret), and he was my boyfriend. Still, that doesn’t stop boys from fantasizing.

As soon as I realized Thierry had entered Alpha’s Seduction Room (henceforth the ASR), I covered my breasts with my T-shirt. Alpha had it up around my neck and had been playing with my nipples. My panties were probably a little damp, but they nevertheless provided the minimal modesty specified at the Vatican 2, or some other ecumenical council. Of course, the bare shoulders of my T-shirt would have kept me out of St. Peter’s in Rome, but this was southeastern France, and the horny monks inside the monastery had a more relaxed dress code.

Bottom line? Thierry had seen both my naked boobs, and he saw Alpha twisting my nipples as he kissed me. Alpha then gave me to Thierry.

I wondered if I was the first girl Thierry had ever kissed. He wasn’t that good at it. However, being almost naked in front of so many men and being led off to a bedroom by Alpha, making it clear what was going to happen, all combined with Alpha’s wonderful kisses, had got me aroused. I had been expecting some monastic sex.

I was not that experienced at sex, but I felt I was light years ahead of Thierry. One thing in favor of Thierry was his perseverance. I gave up my reluctance and let him continue to kiss me. Thierry began gently to caress my boobs through my T-shirt while we kissed. This gave me pause. How far was I going to let the school nerd go with me? Then I glanced over at Alpha.

Alpha was enjoying seeing Thierry explore the wonders of sex with me. I could see his cock growing as Thierry got fresh with his hands. I decided to be passive and to let Thierry figure things out. He slipped his right hand under my T-shirt. He nervously lowered his left hand where it would do more good. Lucky for me, Thierry was a fast learner. He found my pussy in no time, but I don’t think he knew about the clitoris women have.

Thierry was not fast enough. Alpha came over, silently told Thierry to watch, and he then drove me nuts. His left hand played with my nipples while the fingers of his right hand played with my cunt. He began to finger fuck me when I became wet enough. Then when he sensed it was time, he touched my clitoris with his tongue.

In my weakened state, Thierry lay me down on the small twin bed. He spread my legs far apart, mounted me, and began to fuck me.

Just like that, I was fucking! I couldn’t believe it. What was wrong with me — I’m not that easy. Maybe it was the green liqueur? And not only was I fucking, but I was fucking the school nerd. Okay, he’s handsome, he’s a sweet guy, and he has a nice cock, but still — this was ridiculous.

He gradually moved faster as he pumped his dick inside me. My soundtrack continued, although it was now more whimpering and squeaking than screaming. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I loved the fuck. It felt as though Thierry and I fucking was somehow ordained. Maybe it was the religious ambiance? In little time, Thierry unloaded a huge amount of spunk inside me. Good thing I was on the pill!

Alpha saw it all. He gave Thierry a hearty clap on the back and then took his turn. I rose from the bed and looked around for my clothes, such as they were. I should have had some say in who fucks me and all, but I knew Alpha was not to be denied. I just knew it.

Alpha was not going to be content with using only his fingers. He put me back on the small twin bed, and he spread my legs. What did I expect in a monastery, anyway? Of course, it was going again to be missionary position. Doggy style, for example, was only for animals. Religious Catholics are so strange.

Alpha had no problem driving me to a major climax. It was enhanced since Thierry had remained in the room and had watched the entire copulation. Having an audience humiliated me, yet at the same time it raised my arousal in the extreme. I blushed to the rafters when I belatedly realized that little fact. The ceilings were high too. God, Alpha fucked me well.

Alpha got off me and I quickly closed my legs. I was terrified and surprised when Thierry forcibly re-opened my legs. My goodness was he strong. He was also hard, yet again. I began to say no but was instantly hushed by both Thierry and Alpha. Thierry had a malicious smile. Alpha had a paternal smile. I had lost my smile somewhere outside the monastery. I couldn’t help it; I cried. It had no effect. I was about to be fucked by the two men yet again.

Thierry had a lot to learn about how to fuck a girl. I was not in the mood to teach him, since I hadn’t consented to fucking in the first place. His second fuck was better, but he left me frustrated, a frequent state I had discovered with both Pierre and Marc.

Alpha and Thierry conversed in sign language. Thierry left the room and Alpha loomed over me. Was he licking his lips? Maybe not literally, but metaphorically was certain. How do I say no while respecting the monks’ vows of silence? I tried shaking my head side-to-side but to no avail. As I debated this point my legs were suddenly forcibly parted. Oh, shit.

Thierry reappeared with a large glass of the deadly green liqueur. I chugged it down. It helped. My legs remained spread. Thierry stayed to watch.

Yes, Alpha took sloppy fourths and yes, I made my usual noises, including a scream when I came, vows of silence be damned. When we were all done, Alpha managed to convey to me it was time for dinner.

I had enjoyed yet another major climax, and my muscles felt like jelly. Yet Alpha expected me to hop up and go to dinner with all the monks, all of whom would know I had just been fucked four times, by two men. How could I possibly do that?

Minutes later I heard the dinner bell. A nun showed up with my backpack and more importantly my jeans. I dressed and was led off to dinner — despite my misgivings — where I was quite the center of attention. There were twelve monks (counting Thierry, who was something like an intern) at dinner. Plus me.

After dinner Alpha and two of his friends led me back to the ASR. I was now resigned to some inevitable sexual activity. Lots of glasses of their special homemade liqueur helped a lot. I lost track of how many times I climaxed over the next 36 hours. At some point during my ongoing gangbang, my smile returned. Once the horror of the idea of being gangbanged by horny monks subsided, I began to relax and enjoy it. I figured my shame would reappear once I got back to town.

Thierry fucked me at three different sessions. By the third session, he had become a reasonably good fuck, even if he still couldn’t kiss worth a damn. He did drive me to a climax, and quite frankly I love that. Of all the monks who fucked me, my favorite was Alpha. He was magnificent.

Thierry was a temporary intern at the monastery. Imagine my horror when I ran into him at school a couple of months later, since his internship had ended. He knew I was Pierre’s girl, but the way he looked at me — the look in his eyes — Jesus! Every time he looked at me my stomach got queasy but my panties got damp. Luckily, he never tried anything with me. Even more luckily, he never told anyone what happened to me — that he was a part of — up at the monastery on the top of the hill. Or so I thought.

It was the slut Hélène that Thierry hooked up with. I could just imagine him praying as he undressed her. I had to giggle. I’ll bet she furthered his education on how to please a girl sexually. Hélène was, after all, somewhat of an expert on the subject. Or so the gossip mill had it.

Pierre still couldn’t make me come. Out of frustration perhaps, I snuck off and secretly seduced Thierry. Never had a seduction been easier. Happily, Hélène had taught him well. Thierry fucked me three times and he gave me four orgasms.

I thought about stealing Thierry from Hélène. Thierry would have been happy to be my boyfriend, I was fairly sure, but I couldn’t do that to Pierre. Despite his bedroom inadequacies, I liked Pierre; Thierry, on the other hand, was good only for sex. All he ever wanted to talk about was teachings according to this saint or that saint. It seemed a big price to pay just for fantastic sex.

I almost developed an addiction to Chartreuse, as I ordered a glass or two every chance I got. It was the closest commercial liqueur to the aphrodisiac concoction of the monks. My mother had always loved the liqueur, so it seemed natural that I would love it, too.

**

I had just graduated as summer (in theory) began. It was a cold beginning to summer, but that often happens in the Grenoble area of France. One day when Dad left for work, Mom took me to her favorite café, fronting the picturesque Isère River that ran through the town, far away on the east side. We’d taken a bus to get there.

I could see why it was her favorite. The outdoor tables had a lovely view of the river and the pretty buildings lining it, with the tall hill right behind. The indoor tables were not crammed together so that we could enjoy a quiet and private conversation. We took a table indoors since it was a chilly afternoon.

“Campari and soda, please,” I said to the waiter, a good-looking man with a handlebar mustache.

“Whiskey,” my mother said. Her taste in refreshing drinks seemed to have evolved. She also asked for ice cubes. She added a few to the whiskey when it arrived. I noticed Mom’s sweater afforded quite a nice view of her cleavage, which the waiter also noticed. Mom has great boobs, and she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Mom gave birth to me when she was 18, so at this point, she was 38, and pushing 40. She was quite an attractive woman, at least to my way of thinking. In America, she would be called a MILF.

I could tell by Mom’s body language that we were not about to have an ordinary mother-daughter café bonding session. Something dramatic was in the air; I just hadn’t a clue what it might be.

Mom drove the conversation, asking me lots of questions.

Finally, Mom revealed why she took me out to this remote café. I knew the heavy moment I had been dreading was imminent. Did Mom have cancer or some other horrible disease? Did Dad?

Mom spoke in a soft voice — almost a whisper.

“What I’m about to tell you Dad must never know. Can I trust you on this?”

I assured her she could. I swore my silence on a stack of espresso cups. Few things are more sacred than coffee. “I was once young and reckless, too,” she began. I nodded for her to continue.

“When I was 18 I went up to the monastery exploring, just like you did. Nobody would go with me. Everyone was afraid.” I nodded again.

“One of the monks got me pregnant. When I discovered I was with child, I quickly seduced your father. I told him the baby was his, he believed me, and we married.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You mean …?” I asked.

“Yes. Dad is your dad, but he’s not your biological father, even if he thinks he is. Your biological father still lives in that monastery.”

I described my prime suspect. I sketched his face on a napkin.

“Yes, that’s him. The telltale scar is the clincher. Did he seduce you, too?”

“I guess I fucked my father.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re on the pill, right?”

“Yes, but it’s a little freaky to have fucked one’s father, don’t you think?” I was suppressing the urge to vomit.

“How many orgasms did he give you?”

“Seven, over two days, and they were wonderful. He’s a great fuck.”

“Indeed he is. Are you going back?”

“I’m considering it. Want to come?”

“Do I ever!”

“You might enjoy some of the other monks, too. I had a gangbang,” I said, blushing as I said this. The news did not faze Mom.

“I figured you did. Was it fun?”

“Why do you think I’m considering going back?”

“What are you doing?” I asked. Mom was signaling the waiter.

“I need another drink. Want one?”

“Campari and soda, please; no, wait — make that Chartreuse, please,” I told the waiter.

“And Madame?” the waiter asked my mom.

“Chartreuse for me too, please,” she replied.

“Remember: This is our secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

Mom and I planned to go up to the monastery when Dad made one of his trips to Paris. He went there a lot on business. He also went to see Louise, although Mom pretended not to know about her. Louise was close to my age, maybe a few years older, and I liked her, having previously snuck up to Paris and met her. It’s easy to do with the TGV (a high-speed train). I never told Mom that.

Mom was happy. We had finished our drinks, so Mom ordered a bottle of champagne, even if it’s super expensive in a café. She was celebrating.

“Still want to return to the monastery?” I asked Mom.

“I’m sure God will forgive me,” she replied.

“I’m not so sure,” I said, as the waiter arrived with the champagne and we women degenerated into giggling fits.

As we were giggling and drinking champagne, to my surprise Thierry suddenly appeared and pulled up a chair, asking to join us. I introduced him to Mom, explaining in some detail who he was. Mom leaned forward as if to tempt him, and he took the look down her sweater. She winked at me.

“Two of my favorite women, Pascale and Véronique,” Thierry declared, smiling broadly. How did he know Mom’s first name? Did he even know she was my mom? “Véronique, may I take you to dinner tomorrow?”

“You know I am Pierre’s girl. He would frown on you dating me, I’m afraid,” came my rapid-fire reply.

“Yes, I thought of that. He and I had a long discussion. He was a bit surprised at what I had to say,” Thierry said while winking, as my stomach rose to my throat. Did he tell Pierre about my gangbang? What did they discuss? “He ended up agreeing we’d both take you out tomorrow. It should be fun.”

My image of the three of us in the back seat of the Citroën almost made me laugh. “I know you must think I’m some kind of libertine after what happened at the monastery. I can’t explain it, but seriously, Thierry, I’m not like that. I’ll go out with Pierre alone, but thank you for asking.”

“Pierre is quite enthusiastic about the idea,” Thierry said.

I looked at him. He had to be lying. “Well, I’m not. Maybe a double date might work if you can find another girl, but I can’t go out with two men. I just can’t.”

“I understand,” Thierry said, looking thoughtful. Good, I thought. Thierry then turned to Mom and said, “Pascale, might you be willing to be our fourth? I’d love that.”

“Pascale is married,” I said. For some reason I didn’t understand at the time, I wasn’t revealing she was my mom.

“Yes, and my husband is up in Paris. Il baise sa paramour, Mom said, to my shock. (He is fucking–or possibly kissing– his mistress.) “I’d love to join. It sounds like fun.” I didn’t know Mom knew about Louise.

I turned and looked at Mom in shock, and I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh.

“Pierre will be thrilled to have a MILF like you join us, I’m sure,” Thierry said. Nobody seemed to notice my apoplexy. How did the pious Thierry know a word such as MILF? Did Mom know the acronym too?

Pleased as punch, Thierry rose. “I’ll text you the details Véro, and you can tell Pascale, okay?” Then he gave me a lingering kiss (his technique had improved!), and he furthered my shock by giving Mom a lingering kiss too. When he kissed Mom, he stuck his hand on her sweater and fondled her breast, right in front of me. I was on the verge of needing smelling salts. Thierry left. Mom didn’t seem to mind, even with us being in a café where anyone could have seen Thierry take a liberty with her. I looked around quickly and it seemed anyone had seen, to boot.

Mom and I sat in silence for a while. She refilled my glass with the champagne. I needed it!

“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

“I snuck up to the monastery the other weekend. I’ve been going over the years from time to time. In addition to the monk you call Alpha, I had sex with your friend Thierry. He’s become quite the lover. Quite.”

“Mon Dieu,” I replied.

“I think I should tell you the back story about Thierry. Even he might not know it; I just don’t know what he does or doesn’t know. You know his mother is Madame de Bercy?”

“I assume so, because Thierry’s family name is de Bercy.”

“Yes, well her first name is Chantal, and we went to school together. She was Chantal Besson back then. We were close friends. We still are friends. Well, after I visited the monastery the first time, and had wonderful sex with Alpha (Mom was using my name for the alpha monk), I told Chantal about it. She went up the very next week.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me …?” I managed to sputter out.

“Yes, my dear. Your Alpha knocked her up, too. She then did the same as I: she seduced Gérard de Bercy. It wasn’t hard to do. He was ripe for the plucking. She convinced him the baby was his. They named their son Thierry.”

“So Thierry is my brother? I fucked my brother as well as my father?”

“Well … I guess you only fucked your half-brother,” Mom replied in her saccharine sweet voice that I hate.

“I can’t believe you fucked Thierry, too???”

“Well after all, Véronique, he’s not related to me, is he? And, thanks in part to your tutelage, he’s a good fuck. Alpha knows Thierry is his son, and he’s quite proud of how you and Hélène taught Thierry how to please a woman.”

“Does Alpha know I’m his daughter and Thierry is my brother?”

“Half-brother. He suspects. He doesn’t know.”

I did a face plant on the café’s table. It was too much to handle.

**

“That’s what you’re wearing?” I asked my mom.

“Yes, do you like it?” came her reply.

“No bra? Your boobs are kinda big to go without a bra, don’t you think?”

“It’s all part of the look,” she said.

“Middle age skank?”

“Véronique, be kind. I’m not even 40 yet. Nowhere near middle age!” I noticed she hadn’t addressed the skank description.

“Still, is it appropriate for a woman of your age to be dressed like that? The guys are going to think — well, you know what they’ll think.”

“It’s only a dress, Véronique. At least I haven’t already fucked both of the men, like some people.”

“Truce? Here they come. It’s Pierre’s mother’s Citroën. You can sit in the front seat — it’s more comfortable.”

“It’s just a date. It’s also a first date. You seem to think we’ll have sex. Not going to happen.”

“I think the boys will expect something,” I said.

“I’m sure they will. I’m also sure they’ve been disappointed before.”

“Maybe so, Mom, but not by me. I can’t do both of them. It’s too freaky.”

“Well don’t count on me. Here they are,” Mom said.

Pierre had met my mom before when he would collect me for a date. Usually, he had looked at his shoes since he was embarrassed about molesting me. When he actually looked at Mom his eyes never left her boobs. Mom once told me it was all she could do not to giggle. I was hoping he would not even recognize Mom. I’m sure Pierre had seen my mom’s face at least a few times, but he never paid attention. I used to get annoyed at his focus on her boobs. I guess I’m a bit jealous of her boobs.

The guys went all out. They were trying to impress us. I was fairly sure neither guy realized the MILF was my mom. No pizza that night. They took us to a real restaurant and bought not just drinkable wine, but good wine. I lost it when I discovered Thierry had paid the corkage fee to give us the liqueur made by the monks. The liqueur that resembled Chartreuse and which I was fairly sure was an aphrodisiac. He had brought a bottle with him directly from the monastery.

In addition to the wine, Mom and I must have drunk half the bottle of the liqueur. We were buzzed. We all piled into the Citroën, and Thierry drove us directly to the local Mercure, a nice chain hotel akin to a Courtyard Marriott in the US.

“Sorry boys — I’m not going to a hotel,” Mom declared. There was no possibility of discussion. I knew that tone of voice. She was not the mom of the boys, however, and they weren’t aware of the nuances of Mom’s tone of voice. The boys were not about to give up. It was clear to me they wanted and expected to have sex with both of us. Pierre drove to a remote make-out spot he had often used with me. They convinced/pressured Mom to get in the back seat with Thierry.

Mom and Thierry began to make out. They were noisy with running commentaries. They weren’t subtle. After around ten minutes Thierry had Mom’s dress off. All she had left on were her panties. I could tell by her breathing that she was turned on.

“I’ve never seen two people fuck,” Pierre whispered to me.

“Bullshit. I know you watch porn,” I whispered back.

“I mean real people, doing it right in front of me.” Pierre was as hard as I’d ever seen him.

“Pascale said no sex. Be content with watching Thierry slobber all over her large boobs,” I said, trying but failing to have my voice drip with contempt. I had never seen two people have sex either, but I had no desire to see it with one of them being Mom.

I hadn’t realized just how good at seduction Thierry had become. Upon reflection, I realized our father (and my lover) Alpha must have taught him well. I — for one — knew for certain how good Alpha was at seduction.

I didn’t want to look, but I knew just from the sounds coming from the back seat that at a minimum Thierry had his hands inside her panties. I turned to look just in time to see Mom raise her hips as Thierry leisurely slipped off her panties. Mom was panting at this point. I nudged Pierre and he turned to look too. Thierry also had his pants off, and his magical cock was right there, as hard as a rock. Mom spread her legs in invitation, and Thierry — always the gentleman — accepted the invitation.

I was watching Mom cheat on Dad while committing adultery with my school friend and one-time lover. She smiled as he entered her, and then I almost died when she winked at me as she said, “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. So good, so good.”

Pierre and I watched Pascale and Thierry fuck their brains out for a few minutes. Then Pierre reclined my seat all the way back, and he somehow managed to imitate a contortionist and got his cock inside my wet and welcoming pussy. I couldn’t believe how turned on I was — and not just simply grossed out — by seeing Thierry lasciviously fuck Mom, but also by fucking Pierre right in front of Mom.

Pierre, always the quick-draw artist, was the first to orgasm. I was hoping Thierry would be up for sloppy seconds. I knew I would climax with him. As I thought about it I played absent-mindedly with Pierre’s cock. As soon as Pierre was hard again we heard Mom call out in orgasmic joy while Thierry grunted. I quickly turned and looked and I got to witness Mom’s closed eyes and clenched jaw as her climax went through the Citroën’s roof.

Before I had mentally processed everything, Pierre whispered to me he simply had to fuck the MILF. He and Thierry exchanged looks, and Pierre left for the back seat while Thierry came to the front seat and a naked yours truly. I had gotten Pierre hard so that he could fuck my mother!

“I hope you don’t mind being swapped,” Thierry said as he took me in his arms and kissed me.

“Pierre you belong to me. I forbid you to fuck Pascale!” I shouted to the back seat. Psychologically I could not handle my boyfriend fucking my mom! I may not have had much credibility from Pierre’s standpoint since everyone knew I was eager to give myself to Thierry. And I did. Boy, did I. I got so carried away fucking Thierry that I forgot all about the back seat.

**

Monday I saw Thierry at a short summer school program, and he smiled wickedly. “I can’t believe I fucked both you and your mother on Saturday. Pascale was right, too. It was much hotter in the Citroën than it would have been in a hotel. Your mother is an animal — she’s fantastic. I see where you get it from.”

I almost fainted. “You know Pascale is my Mom?” I managed to eke out.

“Of course I do. You do realize you could be her twin if twins could exist twenty years apart.”

“Does Pierre know, too?”

“Do you care?” Thierry asked.

“Of course I do!”

“You said you were through with him if he fucked Pascale. He fucked her and you were livid. Maybe I misunderstood?”

“No, you got it right. Pierre and I are finished.”

“I thought you two were in love.”

“Puppy love,” I replied. “It has an expiration date.”

“Want to go out tomorrow, then?” My half-brother was asking me out!

“What about Pascale?” I asked, wanting to get a dig in.

“She has her husband. And now maybe Pierre, if she wants him. He’ll want her: she’s a great fuck,” and then he quickly added, “like you. Besides, I want you. I’ve had a crush on you since puberty, you know. Your coming up to the monastery was a sign — a gift from God, you know?”

“Are you saying it’s God’s will that we date? You do know I’m Jewish, right? I’m sure God knows.”

“Jewish girls are the best, I’m told.”

“What time tomorrow night? Do you drive a Citroën?” As an afterthought I added, “Bring along some of that liqueur.”