She pulled back her hair in defense of the wind along the Rue du Marché au Charbon in Brussels, around midnight, their time. She had lost her own time through constant travel. She slept when tired, remained awake when alert, and she had met some interesting people. Her dark tresses wouldn’t be captured and so a halo of darkness played over Windy’s ponytail. She walked with a purpose, and her eyes scanned the street: the bodies pouring from bars, the groups smoking on the corners, anyone walking solo. This was her ninety-first country, and she was getting tired of this game. Ten to go, she thought as she came upon a parkette filled with the nighttime’s people. She entered and lit a cigarette. She didn’t smoke.

A pack of four girls in the park with bottles of cider, waved her over. “Who is the pretty lady?” they were saying in French and Flemish.

“Hello, Bonne nuit!” she said, walking over to the bench. They introduced themselves in clumsy English, except one who seemed educated in English more so than the others. Windy couldn’t seem to retain any of their names but Pitre, attached to the girl with the blondish red hair, which was clearly a nickname. It meant Clown. “Welcome to de city of brudderly sisters,” said, she thought the one named Marie.

“Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Windy said. “Is this the happening spot?”

“‘appening spot?” mimicked this chubster.

“It isn’t. Listen, Windy,” said Pitre, “We were heading back to my flat… you should come. Pitre’s flat party of five!” Marie laughed. She stunk of whisky. “Let’s go!”

“I’d be glad to join you,” Windy said politely in French. Besides, this was already her third night in Belgium without any luck. This could lead somewhere.

They walked and talked, mostly in French but with the other three girls trying on their English. Mostly cuss words. They came north on Rue de Midi for five long minutes while Marie ingratiated her drunken self on little Pitre. They turned off finally into a building with a gray awning titled L’Aigle. They took stairs two floors only, but it took forever because they were stupid and drunk and Pitre kept apologizing for them.

Her apartment was cool with only black and whites on the wall, in contrast to the colourful placemats, dishtowels, pillows. Marie came over where they stood, and touched Pitre on the ass. She was slurring in French, and in those moments, Windy was glad she wasn’t ruining English. Two girls poured themselves a shot of whisky, straight. Windy maintained a single Bailey’s on the rocks for the entirety of the evening. She took a good look while Marie slumped over on the couch. The place was nice, but not particularly comfortable. Larger than she had imagined, with wainscotting and flat plaster ceilings. The floors were hardwood and the furniture, sparing. The fat one and the blonde hovered in the kitchen while Pitre, Marie, and Windy sat down in the main space.

The other two pulled up a video game. It was clear that Marie wanted Pitre. Go home, Windy thought. Marie was shooting Pitre’s avatar, and sinking slowly into the couch. Her eyelids drooped as they played.

“À Bientôt, Pitre!” called the fat one with the perfect skin. The kitchen wenches left, and Windy checked her watch. It had gotten late, but the video game was turned off, and suddenly it was quiet. Both Windy and Marie were staring at Pitre, or whatever her name really was.

Marie yawned and lay on the couch with her thick legs across Pitre’s lap. You’re mine, those legs said, but Pitre didn’t look too sure. If this doesn’t go anywhere soon, thought Windy, I’m getting out of here. Marie turned on a nature show from BBC.

“Hungry?” asked Pitre sliding out from under Marie’s legs.

“‘Ungry?” repeated Marie. “Non. Mal a la stomache, ehh…” A gazelle ran across the screen.

“Sure,” said Windy quickly. “What are you offering?” She winked behind Marie’s back. Pitre blushed.

“Ice cream?”


“Come to the table. Allez-y.” The kitchenette had a white laminate table and three metal chairs. The picture on this wall was Collette- a photo taken in the 1890s. Pitre turned with two bowls of vanilla. Instead of sitting across from Windy, she sat in the chair beside her. Windy watched her eat, trying to gauge what to do with this one by how she ate: Slowly with a lot of tongue. Windy smiled, and tucked a strand of Pitre’s hair behind her ear. Never pierced, she noticed. They stared at each other, flirting with their eyes. Pitre must have been nervous because she glanced toward the couch and dropped a spoonful of ice cream in her lap. Windy leaned over and ate what had fallen. Pitre’s face registered surprise. So she was a good girl.

“Don’t worry about Marie,” Windy whispered. “T’inquiète.”

“She’s kinda my girlfriend…”


“Yeah… We just started hanging out…” Windy put both hands on Pitre’s thighs.

“She’s asleep.” They listened to her light snore, and lowered their voices.

“Yeah, but…”

“And I’m pendik escort right here…” Those hands slid further up Pitre’s thighs until her fingers crossed in the middle. “Let me make you feel good.”

“I dunno…”

Windy flattened her hand on the area and rubbed in heavy circles. Her long nails picked up the light and shone white against the girl’s dark pants. “Shhh,” she said, “I know you can be quiet.”

“I… ok.”

“Come sit on the white chair.”

“In front of her?”

“Yes,” said Windy, brushing her hand over Pitre’s perky tits. “Go.” Pitre did, and sat down in the chair beside the couch. Her eyes were on Marie. Windy sat on the ground between her legs.

“I’m not sure…” started Pitre in a whisper.

“Shhh…” Windy said with a smile, and undid Pitre’s pants. She pulled her black jeans down over her hips and left them around the girl’s ankles. She was wearing these sensible pink panties with an elastic waist. Windy

slid her hand underneath. Pitre was staring over at Marie, hoping she wouldn’t wake up. Windy didn’t like the distraction. Marie’s hand moved and she scratched her face and they froze. Then she turned over so her back was to them and resumed snoring. Windy almost cheered. She turned back to her number ninety-one and slipped the crotch of the panties to one side. She felt Pitre’s body tense, then relax as her warm tongue licked Pitre’s folds, slipping up and over the clitoris. The girl jumped a little in her seat, and finally took her eyes off of her sleeping girlfriend and closed them. Windy wound her tongue on the most sensitive of areas. Pitre slid down in the chair so her leg was touching the couch on which Marie slept. Windy licked her, the tip of her tongue dancing on Pitre’s swollen clit.

The girl was grinding now into her face, emitting little “oh! ohs!” as Windy did her best job. Her hand took over. “You wan’t to come in my mouth,” Windy teased.

“I… Yes!” she squealed. Windy moved her hand, and resumed flicking her tongue. She took a pointer finger, careful of her nails, and slid it into Pitre’s hole. She gently stroked the top from the inside while her tongue worked the outside, to predictable results. Pitre forgot about Marie’s presence, and started begging, “ne vous arrêtez pas! De plus que… don’t stop. Keep going!” Windy was glad to oblige.

Suddenly Windy felt squeezing pressure on her finger which was slippery with juice. She rubbed harder. Pitre came hard and it was beautiful, with her whole small body involved. She throbbed and throbbed, and finally allowed her body to collapse into that plastic white chair. Windy wiped her mouth on Pitre’s fallen jeans. She loved making women come.

“Where’s the bathroom,” Windy asked the now comatose woman. Pitre pointed, and then her hand fell down on her lap as if weighted with lead.

Windy washed her hands, and rinsed out her mouth. The bathroom had a seashell theme. Wishful thinking as in many inland bathrooms.

Windy thought she’d head over to Switzerland if she could get a stand-by. She walked past sleeping Marie, bent down and patted Pitre on the bare leg, and stood up. “Ninety-one.” She grabbed her handbag, and left without a word into the cool night.


The good looking forty-something wasn’t in the chalet for ten minutes before a young woman came asking him for lessons in a squeaky annoying voice. “Do you take credit?” She posed and flirted shamelessly as Windy watched. She was young enough to be his daughter. He waved her off. The man ordered a hot chocolate and blew on it to cool it off. He winced when he took a sip too soon. He couldn’t wait. Windy watched as he slid his shaded goggles back into his hair. And looked around, bored. Another pair of young girls moved in on him. Whatever he said, their shoulders fell and they left dejected. He sipped his hot chocolate. Windy knew who he was; his picture hung in the lodge. She walked over in her unzipped jacket.

“You must be so bored of this,” Windy said in English. He brightened.

“Are you an American?” he asked, removing his gloves.

“No,” she said honestly. “I am from Quebec,” she lied. Ma français, desolé, est me langue maternelle!”

“I prefer to practice my English, if you don’t mind.” He looked at her warily. “You looking for a lesson?”

“No, just a new friend. I’m here alone.”



“Lonely or alone?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “

“My goodness, your English is fantastic.”

“Thank you, and you are right. I am bored with this.”

“Bored with all of those girls?” he made a face.

“They are teenagers. I am a grown man. I used to be…” he searched for the word, “flattered by their attention… now…”

“You’re annoyed by it.”

He smiled and said, “Yes, that’s right. Et Je suis ennuyé avec eux.”

“Je comprendes.” He thought her accent sounded Parisian, but her English was definitely without accent. Do they speak English so well in Quebec? kartal escort Or French for that matter? “Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, running her fingernail up his arm. She could smell the chocolate on his breath; was there ever such a fine aphrodisiac?

“Voulez-vous venir avec moi?” he asked, his voice low and even.

“Where?” she smiled mischievously. He pointed up one of the hills. “Ok,” she said, zipping up her tight jacket. He watched her fingers on the zipper. A shame really to hide those beautiful breasts, he thought.

“Where are your skis?”

“Outside on the racks by the brown gate.”

“Mine too.”

“Then let’s go!” she said playfully. As they emerged from the chalet, their breath appeared in puffs of cold before them.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked as his boot clicked on the bindings.

“No,” she lied. “Does it matter?”

“I’m Hauken. They call me Hawk here.” She knew, but played the fool. Hawk was a racing legend in Europe. Used to be.

“I’m Windy,” she said, though her given name was Wendy. Windy was more exotic. She had been given that name by number 40, Ricki from Equador, last year. He mispronounced her name as he called it out and she had liked it. That was many countries ago, and she had not completed her transformation then. Now, the numbers came easily. She had not had to look long for men and women who appreciated her affections.

“Come with me to that chairlift,” said Hawk, setting off to the north side of the hill. She followed him. She was not the most confident skier though she had learned in the alps only six months before. She saw that the lift went to the top of a thin run which looked difficult. Windy mustered her courage. I can do this, she thought.

They got on the chairlift, legs pressed together, and lifted off above a course called ‘Chemin Dangereux’ They had a while to go to get to the top. “Are you excited?” he asked.

“Of course, Hawk,” she said touching his knee. “I like giving people surprises. Anything to cure your boredom.” He smiled. She wished she could see his eyes, but his ski mask was iridescently reflective, and she saw only a distorted image of herself.

“I want to touch you now,” he said plainly once they were off, and unzipped the top of her ski jacket. Windy arched her back to show herself off. The chairlift rose and bounced in the wind. The fingers of cold touched her breast and her nipples stiffened. He slid his hand inside, appreciating her body with his palms.

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint, Windy.” The chair lift spilled them onto a path for the run, but they didn’t go that way. They skied behind the carved paths behind a copse of trees. Everyone else was turning to go down the hill. They were out of sight. She immediately began fumbling to lift his ski jacket, exposing the velcro holds on the sides of his pants. She stepped out of her skis and knelt in the snow. She attacked the velcro and yanked his ski pants down only to find a layer of long underwear standing between her and his skin. He chuckled, “Keep going, Windy.” She yanked his long johns down only to find a pair of underwear- now bulging – in front of her eyes. She placed her hand on the bump, and rubbed him until his cock was standing straight up below his knickers. It was so cold out, and she hardly wanted him to feel the cold, so she pulled his boxer briefs down, exposing a beautiful organ, almost seven inches long, and challengingly thick.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

“Hurry,” he urged, “its cold!” She wrapped her lips around his girth, and sucked his cock from as low as she could, to the bulbous tip. Hawk moaned appreciatively and leaned back while she stroked him with her tongue, her hand, her lips. She went faster as his breathing took on the quality of a steam engine. She worked on him until his hips were pushing that big cock into her mouth, and she took it like a champion, faster and faster, until his whole body was twitching with the build up of pleasure. “Do it,” he moaned softly. “Oh, Windy!” She suddenly slowed down, playing with him with her tongue. “Don’t!” he cried. “Don’t stop, please!” She smiled up at him, and then blew him with earnest. Faster, wetter, she could hear his breathing and hoped he wouldn’t hyperventilate right there. Windy’s wet hand was freezing as she took him entirely with her mouth. “Yes!” he cried out twice, and came in wet pulses against the back of her throat.

He stood there on shaky legs. She covered him back up with the boxers, then the long johns, and finally his navy ski pants. He fell backwards in the snow and his skis crossed in the air in front of him. “I don’t know if I can move,” he admitted.

“Well, it’s time.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, mademoiselle? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”

Windy pulled her sleeve back and glanced at the time. The rental skis were due half an hour before. She had taken a long time to find number 92; she had already been maltepe escort in Switzerland three days. “Rien,” she said. “Meet you at the bottom of the hill.” The smiled and flirted though it was no longer necessary. She stepped back into her skis and heard the binding click. It was late and it was too cold up here. “I’ll meet you in the chalet,” she claimed.

Instead she survived her way down the difficult run -and some point, he skiied right past her with perfect paralell. Windy skied to the rental hut to return her skis and quickly

took the lodge bus back into Berne. She would take the next plane wherever it was going in search of number 93. Standby. This time she would go somewhere warm.


The Cuban sun beat down upon the umbrellas in the market, which cast short shadows on the cobblestone walkways. Even the trees here were short, burdened by the heat of midday. Here in the village beside the resort there were countless opportunities to buy treasures to take home. She fingered a polished stone, and a pair of opal drop earrings, but she had no intention to buy. She was looking for someone. A man. This time a man. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

A white man shopped across the stall for fruit. To bring back to the resort, no doubt. Was he alone? He was. She crossed the aisle. “Are you alone here?” she asked in English.

“I’m here on a getaway. With Global Tours?” Why he asked her instead of told her revealed his character.

“So am I,” she lied. “We must have been on the same plane.”

“From Buffalo?”

“Sure,” she said. “You’re not here with anyone?”


“Oh.” Windy touched her own neck and let her hand fall over her chest. He was looking. “You’re happy with your mango?”

“Oh… I, yes. Yes.”

“Why don’t you take me back to your resort?” she asked with a smile. “We can share it.” His eyebrows raised. Really he was just a 52 year old girl computer technician from Tonawanda. What did he do to deserve a classy woman like her? “Let’s go before it rains.”

“Is it going to rain?”

“What if it does? Let’s enjoy the day.”

“all right. I’m Andy Addam.”

“Windy,” she said, and nothing more. She held out her arm and he grabbed hold clumsily. They walked back to the end of the market, and along the side of the road for ten minutes. He talked about his job, and she touched his arm. It wasn’t far.

“This is my room,” he said, gesturing to the dresser, the bar, the king sized bed.

“I see.” Windy moved to the window -a view of the poolside- and drew the curtains. The room fell into shadow.

“I like the view,” he said, “but I like the view inside much better.” So he was getting bold. She could appreciate that. The mango was placed on top of the bar and forgotten. She approached him. “I… Let’s take a shower together, Windy.” She remembered showering many times with Jeremy, and he would wash her… she almost said no.

“All right. Can you unzip me?” He looked pleased. Really, for an older man, he was in great shape. She turned and he took hold of the zipper on her dress and dragged it down her back, exposing delicious flesh and a white lace bra. Windy stepped out of the dress, and stood in her matching undergarments. he could see her fabulous body, and he could see no pubic hair through those white panties. She watched him look at her. “Take off your clothes.”

“Well, ok!” He shuffled out of his shorts as gracefully as a man can, and stripped his shirt off revealing a bit of a belly, but firm muscles in his arms. They stood looking at each other.

“Come here,” she said with an evil grin. “I need your hands.” He moved forward and cupped her breasts while she unclipped her bra behind her back. It fell to the floor. She slipped the panties off, and slid down to her knees. She rubbed his thighs, and swept across his groin to tease him. To wake him up. She touched him on top of his underwear and he hardened in her hand. “Turn on the shower.” He did.

They stepped in and got wet. He tried to kiss her on the mouth, but she turned and rubbed her ass against him. He reached around and took the soap and began washing her breasts. She grabbed the soap from him, and started masturbating him in the slippery suds. He moaned appreciatively, his hands on her breasts. She normally didn’t let them touch her so much. This nudity would have to stop; it put her in too dangerous a situation.

She rubbed his cock for a few minutes, and when he reached down to please her, she hit his hand away. She pushed him into the spray to rinse off, then dropped to her knees on the blue tile floor. The water beat on her head, sending streams down her face while she took him in her mouth. She had to swallow water in order to fit his thickness in her mouth. He practically fucked her face and loved every second. She sucked the head, and stroked the shaft with her hand. “I’m gonna go,” he panted. “Oh my God.” She kept going, pleased at herself. “I’m gonna go… I’m gonna…” he ejaculated into her mouth in a few strong spurts which she let drip out of her mouth onto the tiles and into the drain.

“Wait here,” she said, and stepped out, grabbed a towel, slipped into her dress, and grabbed her handbag.

“Count to 100,” Windy said to the shower curtain. She heard him chuckle.

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