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Defying Customs 2 — Off To The Motel!

10500 words | 2 |5.00

Elizabeth drives out of town with the teenage lad after treating him to a fine Italian meal. She’s the dessert, to be served in a roadside motel.

Once she gets changed, I learn that a girl can wear pants and still be just as adorable, if not more!

Elizabeth got cleaned up and changed in record time while I was with my mother on the phone. This was the first time I ever lied to my mother; I made up a story and told her I had met a pretty girl near Cartier Avenue and we were going to have a milkshake before going to the movie theatre.

When I hang up the black, straight-cable dial phone, she is right there, crouching beside her bed and watching me with passion in her eyes, as if I were the only man left on this earth. I’m surprised to see she’s already dressed up and ready, with her rouge refreshed and all. She is truly gorgeous. I have trouble wrapping my mind around the notion that we just had sex.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have yet to see her in the nude, and she has seen even less of me. Our intimacy was intense and urgent; we hardly undressed and I only pulled her garments up her torso because I was ravenously lusting for her breasts during our intercourse. Oh my God! I just lost my virginity! I did it! With a glamorous woman twice my age, wow! Then, there was also a diffuse sense of loss in the back of my head, for whenever I’d do it with a girl my own age, then this wouldn’t be a shared first time.

With this unfathomable sense of elation comes a sense of straying away from life’s perfect course; I’ve struck a long and powerful shot off the tee, except I didn’t land on the sunny fairway; I now lie in a more shadowy area with an unplanned stroke to take, perhaps with a two-iron. What else can you expect when you just shagged Lady Luck herself? I love, worship Elizabeth’s raven hair! And even now that we just had sex, I’m eager to have more of her. Eager to smell and kiss her feet, eager to take all her clothes off and kiss her all over! Over and over again…

She’s wearing the same clothes, that is, her vest displaying a black fishnet pattern on a cream-yellow field, over her classy white blouse with small ruffs at her wrists. There’s only one change, but it’s a major one—black pants have replaced her long skirt. Her crouched position allows me to perfectly make out the shapes of her legs and hips, a healthy poetry of female lines and curves. Yet nothing compares to the passion in her black-Scottish eyes and the way she amorously gazes at me.

And her feet… Oh, Good Lord and Heaven, her feet…

She’s wearing wicker shoes… without socks!

“How do you like my shoes, young lover? I’m wearing them for you,” she says, smiling while looking up at me with her brown eyes to die for. “You see, darlin’, that I’m not wearing socks; I’ll be cold in my feet tonight, but I know I can count on you to keep them warm, is it not? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

This is too much female splendour for me to endure. I rush at her, kneel down next to her and I move in to kiss her while I take hold of her lovely feet.

“Not now, not now, young lover! You’ll undo my rouge! And as you said yourself, I’m in danger and we need to be off,” she says while stopping me from kissing her. “But don’t worry,” she adds, “you’ll get all your fill of me later… And I’ll get all my fill of you! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

She’s right. My story to my mother will only buy us so much time; they will eventually start inquiring and call the cops to say I’m missing, but in all logic, it will take a while before the police really start looking for me, and by this time, we’ll be long gone. Knowing how I rebelled in front of the priest, I’m not exactly in a hurry to get back home. For the first time in my young life, I’m turning a bit of a bad boy.

“Now, lover,” she says, all smiles as she gets up with unfathomable grace, “now, be a good boy and clean yourself up while I pack my luggage. I want us to be gone in five minutes.”

When she checks out of Château Frontenac, I’m in for another surprise. As I become an impromptu groom and carry her luggage for her, she leads me to a black Chevrolet, a Deluxe Sedan from last year. It’s parked and waiting for us by the curb, with its smooth curves, frames of chrome, rounded rear-wheel fenders, and those sad-looking black tires due to Korean-war restrictions. She’s rented it from Hertz for the next two weeks.

“How do you like this beauty? Driving an American car… I was dreaming of America when I was growing up in Glasgow. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“She sure has got nice curves, but I still like the driver better!” I reply, smiling at her and longing for her kiss as I stand by the trunk with her luggage.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! All right, let’s open that trunk… Now, let me take you out to a fine restaurant I know. The owner is an old friend of mine. He makes the best Bolognese sauce you’ll ever taste, and I mean it!”

At the restaurant, a joint for a niche clientele, we are greeted by a tall and thin waiter with Sicilian-black hair that takes us right to the back, where Elizabeth introduces me to Antonio, a friend she knows from way back in London when the Germans were bombing the streets.

No one comes bothering us. Antonio sets us a table in a private room, and he seems so happy to see Elizabeth that he says our dinner is on the house. He gets us started with minestrone soup with bread that tastes fresh and truly delightful.

The spaghetti with Bolognese sauce is indeed the very best I’ve ever had. The sauce is surprisingly pale. Elizabeth tells me that there are very few tomatoes in the true recipe; it is mostly ham, chicken livers, ground pork and cream with white wine, pinot grigio to be more precise, Antonio adds, jealous of his culinary reputation and his eyes always wandering south on my companion’s bosom. She smiles and laughs. We eat on.

It is beyond delicious! And the pastas are unbelievably fresh, cooked al dente of course.

“Well, Eliza, there are certainly nice things in life when you are a celebrity! You must be famous in Europe…”

“Hmm, yes and no, and you know what? I like it that way. I can go out and about without being pestered all the time; I have plenty of unwanted male attention as it is, but beside that, I am as free as a lone dove when I’m not acting. Do you want some more wine? Please, remind me that I must not have more than two glasses; I’m driving tonight, and I must keep in mind that we drive on the right lane here.”

“You’re driving tonight? Whereto? Am… Am I…”

“We’re going to Montreal! Yes, you’re coming… if you want to. To tell you the truth, Gaston, I’d like it very much. You won’t let such an attractive woman drive alone at night, won’t you? Lord knows what could happen to me!” she says, playfully pressing her right hand on her chest as she speaks, before picking up her silver fork and taking another bite of pasta.

“Well, Eliza, I… Of course! Yes! I’m coming with you!” I blurt out.

“Splendid!” she exclaims with the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen on a femme fatale. How can I say no to such a woman? I’m still too young to know that it is a very rare man, young or old, who would say no to such an offer from such a lady.

I’m going to see her in the nude!

“We’ll stop at a motel—a real, authentic American motel! Oooh, how exciting!” she exclaims, giving me that smile with the sparkly eyes of a little girl in a candy store.

I’m definitely going to see her in the nude.

As I finish my oval platter of spaghetti with extra mushrooms, each one a paradise of delight, I’m very much hard between my legs. I don’t know why, but I’m starting to think of those guys working in the kitchen and doing the dishwashing. They must be Italian-looking with dark hair and olive skin, at least some of them must be.

I start to picture Elizabeth being grabbed and carried back there, where they have their way with her and she greatly enjoys it. In my imagination, I see her bent over the dishwashing sink while all the male employees take their turns in banging her from behind, as she fills the room with her moaning and repeatedly calls them “my young bucks!” And as they repeatedly gang-bang her against the sink, she keeps looking at me while I’m watching. What a daydream! An evening dream, given it’s already eighteen past seven. “Duo de viginti” Two before twenty, I say to myself in Latin as I look at my wristwatch.

“What’s on your mind now, darling?” she asks upon taking a sip of red wine from a crystal glass. I can’t help but notice the similarity between the dark-ruby wine and her rouge as she drinks, gazing at me with dark eyes that I can’t get enough of.

I’m unable to answer. I blush with shame for having such sordid thoughts.

“Oh, you’re blushing! Now, things are getting interesting! Tell your sweet girl! Your sweet girl wants to know! This must be something dirty! What is it? What is it? Don’t be shy! We’re just between ourselves here. No one’s going to know… Tell me, please do…”

The excitement in her eyes speaks volumes. She almost tips her glass over as she puts her forearms on the table and leans closer, her napkin hovering dangerously low above her half-eaten platter.

“I know, you’re young and very new to this game, darling, but trust me, trust your girl, you must tell me what you were thinking of, especially if it’s a dirty fantasy involving me!”

Her eyes speak loud cheers about her excitement. She grabs my forearm across the table and presses me on…

“Come on, handsome! What is it? Were you thinking of having sex with me right here on this table? Is it something you’d like to do? Or is it something else? Something… even wilder…”

“Eliza, I love the way the candles throw their golden light on your dark rouge. Well, yes, I think I would enjoy taking you here on that table, but…”

“But you’re a bit tired? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

She takes a large sip of red wine as she laughs. Then, she licks her lips, looking remarkably like a vampiress licking blood as she does so.

Finally, she adds: “I’m quite tired too. I’m still a young girl, but even young girls need to take a rest sometimes, and besides, with all the spaghetti I’m having with this delicious Bolognese sauce, you certainly would not like the unglamorous mess that I’d make on that white tablecloth as soon as you would start shaking me like the teenage champion you are… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Yes, I guess you’re right. And it would be a lot worse if you did just what I was thinking of…”

“What is it? What is it?” she pressingly asks, her eyes ablaze with curiosity.

“I was imagining you were back there in the kitchen, bent over the dishwashing sink and getting… getting gang-jammed by all the male staff…”

There, I said it. Now, she’s going to get angry…

“Oooh! That is wild! Ooh… So wild!” she ejaculates, her eyes filled with candlelights of savage excitement.

Then, she lights up a cigarette and takes a puff. She offers one of her Camels, but I’m still finishing my pastas. I was starving when we got there.

I watch the greyish cloud of smoke she blows from the ring of her rouged lips, like the true femme fatale she is. I’m learning to take my time, to just sit there and enjoy the moment.

“What are you thinking of now, handsome? Me getting shagged by the restaurant’s staff? I think Antonio would very much enjoy this; he sure would! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He’d be the first in line! Ha! HA! Ha! Ha!”

“You mean, you and him, you never…”

“Good heavens, no! He was already married when we got acquainted, and I never fancied him, but I think he’s always fancied me; a girl always knows. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Just as she speaks of him, Antonio walks in the small room and asks us if everything is to our liking. I tell him this is the most delicious meal I ever had while I closely watch him.

Indeed, as he smiles and thanks me for the compliment, his dark eyes briefly go down toward the shapes of her breasts, and there is something about the way he smiles at her that tells me that he would indeed greatly enjoy having sex with Elizabeth.

Antonio is a middle-aged man, balding and a bit overweight, who looks a bit like the Neapolitan version of a South American general leading an army of revolutionary rebels. The thought of him having a fiesta with Elizabeth bent over the table seems incredibly preposterous, a bit gross, but unfathomably arousing, and hot.

Yet, I’m not sure I would actually want to share Elizabeth with another man. I’m finding out that there’s a huge gap between having a daydream and actually living it out. Perhaps such a gang-fuck fantasy is better off only dreamed of and no more.

A busboy comes to remove our dirty dishes and the crystal wineglasses. He’s a lad, not much older than me; he too surreptitiously takes a peek at Elizabeth and her breast shapes. She smiles as she finishes her wine before handing him the cup; I’m pretty sure she noticed his passing gazes. She looks pleased.

Elizabeth tells me she isn’t very much hungry anymore, but she’ll gladly share a part of tiramisu cake with me, along with a fine espresso. Then, she finishes her cigarette and excuses herself to the loo. I soon follow suit.

The tiramisu cake is wonderfully fresh and each bite explodes with flavours galore. The espresso is just as exquisite, nothing in common with Maxwell House.

“I love a good gang-shag,” she suddenly says, sipping her espresso while I contemplate her raven hair against the candlelight; I can’t get enough of her! I suddenly realize what she just said and nearly choke on my coffee!

“Yes, lover, I enjoy a solid gang-shag. The first time I had one was during the war. There were two of them; two black GI’s!” she exclaimed, looking sharply at my reaction to the atomic bomb she just dropped.

“You?! You… you did… with… b… black men?!” I blurt out.

As I picture Elizabeth topless with black men, my breath becomes deeper and my manhood suddenly starts on a quick growth spurt, soon fully hard and pushing my trousers. I’m picturing her half-naked in the arms of well-built Afro-Americans, who take their turns and press her breasts under their dark-brown hands; I find such a scene ungodly hot.

The notion of such a glamorous brunette getting gang-fucked by such GI’s is just too wild to handle. A white woman sharing intimacy with a black man has always been something I would sometimes imagine and feel ashamed of, even alone with myself. It is nonetheless something I find extremely erotic.

“Ohh! I can see that you like this! I see it in your eyes. Lovely eyes, by the way!

“Well, during the war I worked with the Entertainments National Service Association; we played in theatres, mostly Shakespeare. These two tall soldiers… They both caught my eye. We managed to find a quiet spot; it was very dangerous, especially for them. If we had been caught, they would have been court-martialled and possibly hanged, and I would have been severely punished… and shunned for life.

“Well, we did not get caught and, ooohh! They each took their turn inside me. It was in some empty warehouse. They had me half-naked, sitting on a barrel and bouncing me, very much like you did yourself on that side table at Château Frontenac—honest, darling, I’m still shaking in my legs from the shagging you’ve given me! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“So, they had me sitting on a barrel, and each of them took me like a champion; they had my dress tucked up all the way and my uniform shirt wide open, so they could play with and suck my milk mounds all they wanted; Oohh… Their African mouths on my nipples… It was so… so unthinkable!

“I remember biting my own hand as I screamed my bliss in their arms… Oohh… It was the most savage and primal shag I ever got, but if finished too soon. We had to hurry it up…”

“Did you see them again? I mean after…” I asked, tenderly holding her hand, feeling a bit jealous too.

“No. They were too afraid of getting caught. Understand that they were risking their life. Their life! It is so sad…”

“Oh, don’t be sad, my sweet girl! Would you give me one of your Camels? I’d like to try and smoke one… Thank you…”

“You’re welcome… And that was the end of this affair. They went on to fight in Normandy and I never saw them nor heard of them again. I hope they’re fine. Life is rough for them in USA… But, eh, what about you? Am I really the first girl you ever kissed? I find this difficult to believe, for you are so handsome, so tall and sexy to look at! I noticed you in that park from a distance…”

“Well, Eliza, before you came bursting in my life, my only moment of intimacy was getting a bit too close to my sister while we were washing dishes; I was curious and just wanted to get a whiff of her hair; she got mad; I was just curious. She told me to find myself a girlfriend. I was just curious, honest…”

“That’s sensible advice your sister gave you. You’re so good-looking! If you started asking out girls, I’d be damned if you didn’t get a girlfriend within two or three weeks. And I’d be jealous! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Antonio came himself to offer us a refill of coffee. His eyes never left Elizabeth. Once he was gone, we resumed our chatting. It was very pleasurable to watch her radiant beauty as I sat opposite her; the candles were casting spells of lights and shadows on her glamorous features. She was presently refreshing her rouge while gazing at me with half-closed eyes.

“And did you, did you had other black… black lovers?”

She nodded enthusiastically while finishing the retouch on her rouge…

“Yes. A few years ago, in ’48, I got acquainted with another American, none other than the heavyweight champion of the world in weightlifting. John H. Davis. He easily won the Olympic gold. He was titanic! So ungodly strong! Imagine! A man who can press three hundred pounds over his head, with ease! I saw him lift. He’s a true African Hercules!

“And a real stud in bed! Wow! My legs are still shaking from the way he punished me. Bless me, it was incredible! I don’t want to make you jealous, you know; I’m just telling you the story as it happened.

“I will never forget the way he kept shaking me while I was wrapping my legs around him. He was topping me like a complete savage, with all his unbridled strength. And the heat! The tropical heat inside me when he relieved himself! I just wrapped my legs around him and let him have me all he wanted…

“He was indefatigable! He shagged me three times the same night. Three times, and I went nuts! I could hardly wrap my arms around his back; he was an ebony muscleman! So thickly muscled… I never imagined so muscular a man could exist. He had me melting in his arms several times over. I will remember this for the rest of my life. Don’t be jealous, handsome, please don’t…

“And at the end, I rewarded him by taking him in my mouth; I took my time and kept at it until his coconut tree was straight and hard again. I gently massaged his balls too; I worshipped his champion’s cock, coating it liberally with my Scottish spit. I gave him the best spit polish… He kept tenderly caressing my hair, telling me how beautiful I was and how he loved doing this with a white woman. You know, we white women look very exotic to them. But ooh, he was such a nice man too!

“When he fired on all cylinders, he yelled his bliss as he splattered his cream all over my breasts! I remember his final words when he did so… ‘the white woman! The white woman! Ooh, God!’ And after this, we spent the night together. I fell asleep in his powerful arms. In the morning, he tenderly cuddled me and we talked. He’s a very tender man; he had genuine feelings for me. He said he never does anything with a woman if he doesn’t have true feelings for her. I could tell he had, from the way he kissed me. These kind men are few and far between… Maybe you’re such a man; I think you are…”

“Did you see him again?”

“No. He’s married and lives in Brooklyn, New York City. He won again last year in Helsinki; the Olympic gold… and you can bet a hundred pounds that he made some Finn woman very happy in bed while he was over there. Some black men are utterly fascinated by white girls and the taboo they represent. I know these men from the way they look at me. Do you find this shocking?”

“No. The priests would!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, they would indeed…”

“I don’t! Sometimes I… You know, I… I mast…”

“You masturbate, yes, don’t be shy, young lad! We’re between adults here.”

“Sometimes, I… I masturbate and think of some girls from my neighbourhood… They’re on a ship near the Caribbean islands; passengers on a merchant ship, and there comes a pirate ship! The bandits are too fast; they’re gaining on their prey. Soon, the crewmen try to make a stand, but the pirates are too strong. They capture the ship! They find the girls, and then… Then something strange happens.

“The girls become all wild and excited. They freely, willingly offer themselves! It’s a messy dream, really… all of a sudden, the girls no longer wear dresses from the 18th century; they’re dressed just like I see them on the street here in Quebec City, but for some funny reason, they’re all barefoot. My sister is among them. I’m very ashamed to say it, but it’s the naked truth…”

“That’s okay, lover. I myself fantasized on my brother when I was your age. Pray continue. Your tale is quite interesting…”

As she speaks, she lights up another Camel while I resume my tale…

“My sister is wearing her pajamas; the other girls are wearing skirts and blouses. They’re all begging the pirates to undress them! These pirates are all grown men; many of them are Africans with coal-black faces and a ring in their ear!

“They rush at the teen girls! They rip their clothes off! My sister gets her pajamas torn to shreds, and her breasts are suddenly displayed amid the unreal fury, under the Caribbean sun. Two tall, dark-skinned pirates take hold of her. Each of them fucks her urgently, and my sister is yelling “oh, yes… yes! Yes! Yes! Ohhh, you’re so good and solid! Oh, yes, so good and solid!” And each of them gives her his seed, while the other girls are all being gang-fucked on the ship’s deck amid the remnants of their torn clothes…

“That’s pretty much my favourite fantasy…

“Uhuu, uhu! Uhu…”

I suddenly cough from taking too large a puff from my very first cigarette. Tears run down my cheeks as I suddenly feel defeated in front of my femme fatale. Once again, my rookie status has caught up with me. I just lost my cigarette virginity.

“I think the hour is getting late. We need to be off. Are you coming? I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t. You only live once! And this is our Spring… Come along lover, I pray thee!”

She finishes her sentence, all smiles and giggles and giving me that candy-store gaze.


It’s already quite dark outside when Elizabeth unlocks her driver’s door and I open it for her.

Once she’s behind the chromed steering wheel with me at her right, my white-gloved companion turns the ignition key and works the clutch with her lovely foot. She tells me that her wicker shoe, with its solid, flat sole, offers a very comfortable drive as she sets the car in motion, pulling the three-on-the-tree stick shift back and upward into reverse, then down into first gear as she gracefully clears the 1951 Ford Sedan in front of us and picks up a gentle speed on Rue de Claire-Fontaine.

On top of a curved chrome plate, the clock at the centre of the black dashboard says it’s 8:30 PM. She didn’t ask me again whether I was coming along with her. We both know I’m spending Easter Day with her tomorrow. I have no idea how long this fun ride is going to last. I don’t mind missing school. As she said, you only live once.

Feeling the chill breeze from the rolled-down window, we ask a passerby for directions, and we are soon off on Boulevard Wilfrid-Hamel, which turns into Route 2 as we leave Quebec City, westbound. We’re two hours late for the sunset, which must have been grandiose with cloudscapes and a heavenly ballet of fiery pinks and oranges. Such are my remarks upon passing the last bend before our westward escape, as her white-gloved hand gracefully caresses the gear-shift lever and pushes it all the way down into third gear, as I take unfathomable pleasure in watching her foot as she pushes down the gas pedal and we pick up speed. Off we go!

As we enter the open country, she settles for a cruise speed of about 45 miles per hour, and she suddenly comments about the night sky facing us…

“If we were in May on Summer Time, we would be driving directly into a golden twilight, like in the end of a western movie with a lone cowboy on his horse. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Yes, but you aren’t alone,” I say, putting my hand on her alluring thigh as she drives. I like the feel of her wool pants under my hand; most of all, I love the feel of her.

“No, darling, that’s true; I’m with you now. (She gently puts a hand on my own caressing hand.) You have no idea how good it feels for me not to be alone. I feel very much alone, very often…”

“Well, Eliza, you won’t be alone for the next few days! I’m here and I’m going to take good care of you…”

“Hey, calm down, big boy! I’m driving… You’ll have plenty of time for this when we stop at a motel. Oohh… I feel like I’m playing in a true American movie, driving a Chevy and headed for a motel! The kind of motel one only finds in America, with a young stud just as wild as a cowboy! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Would you like me to be a good cowgirl for you? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

As she laughs, I take great delight in watching her drive with her white-gloved hands on the wheel. It’s very dark inside the car, but the light purple glow from the dash allows me to make out a tiny bit of her essential curves. I have a difficult time believing that I have actually owned this glamorous woman. Wasn’t I dreaming all this?

She quickly explains that she’s in Quebec for shooting parts of a crime movie in Montreal. She came two weeks early to visit Quebec City and enjoy some time off.

She suddenly bursts out in laughter, filling the car with her crystalline, soprano voice. There is warmth and youthful spirit in her feminine laughter…

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m thinknig about Antonio! Did you see the way he was looking at me when I asked if he’d like to shag me right there on that table with you watching? The sounds! The sounds he made when he was inside me! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I knew he was going to sound like that! And as he slid my pants off my hips and bared my buttocks, I felt you gaze on me and I felt so excited! Otherwise I would never have let Antonio on me like that. But ooohh, he sounded like a sick bear… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Yeah, a rutting bear, like, ‘Uhhu! Uhhu! Uhhu… uooh, Lizbeta! I’ve been dreaming of this for so long… Uhhu! Uhhu! Uhhu! Uhh, uuhh, uhh, uuhh… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! … Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha…

“And when he reached his high moment, the priceless moment when he reached his boiling point! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He sounded like a man having a heart attack… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ‘UUuuhh! UUUHn NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGH!!!’ That was his finale! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! So preposterous! But Antonio is a gentleman. He went very easy on me, like I told him to. And he used a rubber safe, as agreed, ooh, but, bless my soul, he really enjoyed this! He was going easy as he greased his groove inside me, but he held my waist for dear life, quite frantically, and all the time he made these loud bear grunts of his… Uhhu! Uhhu! Uhh, uuhh, uuhh… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

We kept laughing togather as she commented how her old friend Antonio enjoyed her from behind while she was bent over the cleared table, with me watching and hard. Her laughter was just as feminine as her lovely figure as she drove on.

How could I forget Antonio’s expression of pure, unmitigated pleasure as he fucked Elizabeth like a stallion mounting a mare? He indeed gave her only gentle strokes so she wouldn’t throw up her dinner.

She was looking at me the whole time, with her head gently bobbing from Antonio’s worshipping strokes as the table was quietly creaking, supporting the copulating action with ease. Her gaze never left mine while her soft cheek and raven hair kept sliding on the snow-white tablecloth. I remember that there were two tiny stains of coffee just an inch from where her face was sliding sideways as she softly whimpered from her lipsticked mouth.

She was glamorous even as she was getting fucked by that Italian man who kept grunting like a rutting bear. She was even more glamorous from this preposterous contrast.

It was so intense! Antonio’s mouth was wide open, uttering these bear-like grunts that filled the private room with loud “uhh-uhh” sounds, fuelled by his bass voice. Antonio could have made a career as an opera bass; his voice was so powerful! I’m certain that the entire restaurant and some passersby on the street heard him when he screamed his complete delight as he exploded inside Elizabeth!

She was positively whimpering—looking deep into my eyes—when he filled his rubber safe in his glorious finale.

Then, it got better.

“Come on, my young buck; shag me! Shag me with all your youth! Oohh, your youth! Give me your youth… I want it so m-much… So m-much…” she said, looking directly into me, her eyes fully ablaze with excitement at the dying candlelights.

“Yes, I remember,” I say as she drives on, heading west on Route 2 at 40 miles per hour. “I remember how you said that you wanted me ‘so m-much’!”

“Oh yes, this! And when you entered me… Oohh… It was wonderful! I sensed you were overexcited and that you were going to be quite wild. Ooh, bless my soul, I was melting in your arms when you grabbed my waist with your teenage hands… It was so wonderful… Did you like it, lover? Did you like watching me getting shagged by another man?”

“Yes, very much! The proof is in the pudding! I didn’t last long inside you. I was as hard as a centaur the whole time I watched Antonio take his pleasure. I went inside you and exploded in less than a minute, but it was so incredibly intense! And your butt… Oohh, your butt…”

“You love my derriere? Thanks for the compliment! I always think it’s a bit too slim… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“No, your buttocks are full and firm; they’re perfect, Elizabeth. Your buttocks are just… they’re simply gorgeous. They’re perfectly shaped and soft, really soft to the touch, like pure silk, and they look wonderfully full compared to your narrow waist, and you were still wearing your vest, with its fascinating fishnet pattern and cream yellow, and your blouse… the contrast was mind-boggling between these clothes and your… your naked derrière. I’m certain that the noble ladies in Ancient Rome did not have such a beautiful butt!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Gaston, aah, you’re embarrassing me! Now, come, aren’t you exaggerating?”

“No, not in the least! I’d say if they held a contest open to every woman in Quebec City, to see who has the most beautiful butt, and this including everyone, all the girls, sixteen years old and up, I’d say you would win!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Now, you are joking! And I would not be allowed to compete, since I’m only a visitor… But I can tell you a little something. I’m telling you because I know I can trust you. Once, a few years ago, I took a shower with actress Margaret Lockwood, you know, the very same who starred in A Lady Vanishes back in 1938. Let me tell you, lover… my butt is not much in comparison to hers!”

“Did you… did you kiss?” I ask, getting suddenly very interested. Margaret Lockwood is another glamorous beauty with raven hair and fair skin. The idea of her kissing Elizabeth under the shower looks very steamy.

“Hmm… This is very personal… Would you mind turning the radio? Let’s see if we can catch something on the air.”

“I want to know! Did you kiss and… and make out?” I say, pressing her on.

“This is very personal, darling. I’ll tell you later, at the motel, if you give me another good shaking! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Now, please, would you turn on the radio? I’d like to have some music.”

I take a mental note about asking her that question again later as I find the knob and turn on the AM radio. I play with the dial, looking for a station; we’re still close enough to the city to catch some singing…

“Toi, ma p’tite folie! (clap-clap) Toi, ma p’tite folie! (clap-clap)

Mon p’tit grain de fantaisi-ie!”

This is Line Renaud and her soprano voice. A lovely, warm voice; France’s finest! A clear, crystalline voice that takes you straight to a cabaret in Paris.

“I know this air,” Elizabeth says, her white-gloved hand on the chromed wheel, “this is a French version of “My Truly Fair” by Frankie Laine, or is it Mitchell? Yes, that’s Guy Mitchell who sings Truly Fair… Hmm, she sings lovely… Let’s sing it along together, and don’t make fun of my Scottish accent! Ha! Ha! Ha! …

“C’est toi, ma p’tite folie! Mon p’tit grain de fantaisi-ie! Toi qui bouleverses, toi qui renverses, tout ce qui était ma vie! (chorus: Ooohhh…)

“Tu es un garçon curieux; j’ai bien dû m’y faire, car tu m’as mis la tête à l’envers, tout est merveilleux!

“C’est toi, ma p’tite folie! (clap-clap) Toi, ma p’tite folie! (clap-clap) Mon p’tit grain de fantaisi-ie! …”

(You’re my crazy one! My sweet zest of fantasy! The one who capsizes, who upends all the life I had! / You’re quite a funny fellow; I had to take you in stride, for you drove me crazy nuts, and everything’s wonderful! / You’re my crazy one! You’re my crazy one! My sweet zest of fantasy! …)

We sing together until the final “Oui, je t’aime à la folie!” (Yes, I’m crazy for you!)

She slows down the car, swerves to the left, but then swerves it back to the right and laughs…

“I almost forgot, this is not Scotland here! Here, we drive on the right side of the road… Thanks to Napoleon Buonaparte… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

She stops the car and turns off the engine. We’re parked on the gravel roadside, in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, on Easter Eve, a tranquil evening. People are home and praying, or having a quiet night. Priests want us to ask God for His forgiveness on Easter Eve.

No praying for us tonight.

Elizabeth lithely slides on the bench seat and leans close to me. In the dreamiest French I’ve ever heard, with her delightful Scottish accent, she whispers…

“Oui, je t’aime à la folie!” (Yes, I’m crazy for you!)

We kiss.

“Oui, je t’aime à la folie!” she repeats, with all the suave warmth of her Scottish accent. Her mouth and whispers are beyond wonderful as we kiss and she puts her arms around me, while my teenage hand lovingly caresses her cheek and the other one finds the scandalous curve of her thigh, and I caress her pants up her hips and waist… We get lost in our feverish kissing. She gives me the taste of her lipstick, of her womanly fire. I’ve never kissed anyone else, but I know intuitively that no teenage girl will ever kiss like this.

“Oui, je t’aime à la folie!” she keeps whispering between kisses.

While we keep kissing, I stroke her hair, very gently. I do not press on for more. My hands remain on her waist and I keep kissing her and drinking the rouge of her lips. I love how close we are while I keep softly stroking her hair. I worship our togetherness.

We are alone in the darkness of a Chevrolet, two souls suspended in eternity.

“Elizabeth! Ooohh, Elizabeth… I love you…”

“Kiss me, kiss me, mon amour…”

She gives me the subtle tip of her tongue, her glamorous rouge, her sensual scent and her love. All her love. I’m the happiest man alive. I’ve never felt more alive.

We remain like this for the longest time while the radio keeps playing. The headlights of a car pull into sight; a car is coming. I’m suddenly nervous. This could be the police!

“Eliza, my sweet girl, I think we must go. A car’s coming and this could be the fuzz…”

She suddenly comes alive. In a flash, she’s right behind the wheel and turns the ignition. The other car is slowing down and is about to park behind us. I’m getting very nervous and worried. The fuzz! It’s the fuzz! They found us, already!

“Stay calm, lover. It doesn’t have to be a policeman. It could simply be a Good Samaritan who thinks we’re having some engine trouble.”

Her white gloves moving about the wheel with skill and grace, she pushes the clutch and pulls the tree-column stick shift back and down into first gear, then she pushes the gas pedal and we’re off! She soon shifts into second gear by pushing the lever up, and soon after she pulls it all the way down into third gear and we’re cruising into the night, meeting the lights of some farm house now and then.

The car remains behind us. Whoever is driving does not try to overtake us. Both cars keep driving on at 40 or 45 miles per hour; we slow down and cross a quiet village with a small gas station. That other car pulls over and stops at the gas station.

“This was no cop,” I say, “but we don’t want to get pulled over and asked for our identity papers. By now, my parents must be getting worried about me, and as I said earlier, you’re very attractive, thus very conspicuous. Driving a black car of a common make is good. We must keep low and quiet!”

“Bless me, you’re very level-headed for a youngster. Do you hear yourself? You sound like you’re twenty-five! It seems like you’re the adult and I’m the giggling teen girl! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! But you’re right. Let’s find a motel and spend the night! I’m eager to continue what we just started! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

This time, the radio is playing Frankie Layne’s “Jezebel” and we both sing along… It is my turn to have the funny accent.

“Jezebee-e-e-ell! Jezebee-e-e-ell! If ever the devil was born, without a pair of horns, it was you, Jezebel—it was you… If ever an angel fell, Jeeeezebel! It was you… Jezebel—it was you!”

Her soprano voice, so warm, so lovely to hear; a musical gift from angels wrapped in her Scottish accent… I don’t understand all the words, but I do try to sing along with her, in spite of my Catholic-French accent…

“If ever a pair of eyes, promised Paradise, deceiving me, gr??… ing me blue, Jezebel! Pom-pom-pom! It was you!”

Elizabeth taps gently on the wheel with her white-gloved fingers when the music goes “pom-pom-pom”.

I suddenly feel like fucking her like a wild buck. I start watching for a motel sign ahead on the road. There’s got to be one within twenty or thirty minutes of further driving…

The song goes on and I try to sing along…

“Could it be better had I never known… a lover such as you…”

“Do you regret meeting me, Gaston?”

“Wh… What?”

She repeats her question, this time with more emphasis… “Do you regret meeting me, Gaston?”

“N… No! I’m very happy right now!”

“Yes, but, you know, I’ve taken your virginity. Won’t you come to regret not having kept it for a girl your own age?”

“I… I don’t really think so. You’re… After all, sweet girl, you’re just as adorable as a teenage girl! More! So lovely to hold and kiss! How could I regret having…”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oohh… My young love! You’re very romantic! You know what I want to hear! But… uho! I think there’s a motel right ahead…”


We see it as plain as day, a sign that says “Motel” in letters of reddish pink lights with a golden moon crescent on top. You can’t miss it. Elizabeth pulls over and parks her ’52 Deluxe Sedan in front of the door to room number eight.

“I’m going to check in by myself,” she says as she opens the door. “The bloke at the counter will get suspicious if he sees us together. You see, handsome, your Elizabeth is madly in love, but I’m not completely crazy yet! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

After a quick kiss, she adds: “Look, I have my fake wedding ring and I’ll make up a story and tell them my husband is dog-tired and asleep, etc. Everything will be fine and dandy. I’ll be back in just three minutes…”

She gets out of the Sedan and I wait, nervously and anxiously. What if… What if the cops were already looking for us, and somehow gained the knowledge of who she is and what car she’s driving? What if they already had the plate number and our description? But how could they possibly know all that? What lead do they have? None. Yes, my pesky uncle… Why did he have to be there just as we hopped in a cab at the Shell station?

At any rate, they have absolutely no way of knowing where we’ve gone. For all they know, we’re still in Quebec City. Even if they already have all those facts, and this is very unlikely, but even then, they would have no reason as of yet to broadcast the car and our description province-wide. And we’re headed for Montreal, the biggest city in Canada; no one’s going to find us there. Besides, our case is not a murder case. I’m the willing victim of a kidnapping.

It’s a case of teenage love.

There are thirteen rooms lined up over the long, low and flat building, which is painted white with some coloured frames and window shutters. Of course, there is no room number thirteen. The rooms play hopscotch from twelve to fourteen.

Only two other rooms are occupied. There’s a wood-panelled station wagon and another car. Oh my! A brand-new Buick Riviera! It’s dark red or perhaps brown with a black roof.

Oh, she’s back! She has the key to paradise—a simple motel room somewhere between Quebec and Three Rivers.


As soon as the door is locked behind us and the bedside lamp is turned on, she jumps into my arms and covers me with kisses as she wraps her legs around me!

“Now, handsome, you’re mine! You’re my prisoner!” she utters between her teeth as she devours me with kisses and my hands naturally cup her butt.

I locate the bed and I carry her there, just as she is. I let myself drop on the mattress with her light frame under me. Her legs remain firmly wrapped around me. She won’t let me go! She never stops kissing me as I feverishly tuck up her blouse and her vest. Now! Now, I’m going to strip her naked. At last!

“Do you want me to undress you, girl? Say it! Tell me you want me to undress you!”

“Yes! Yes, my sweet lad! Undress me! Take my clothes off… Take them all off and kiss me everywhere… You can do anything you want with me! Anything!”

I take the time to contemplate the average size of her breasts through the double layer of her vest and blouse, getting a bit lost in that fascinating fishnet pattern over that dreamy cream yellow, before tucking that vest along with the white blouse all the way up and away as she raises her arms above her head to help me strip her.

“Here, lad, let me undo my bra…”

She raises herself a bit and gets busy behind her back for a fleeting moment; I enjoy the richness of her peachy complexion against the classic white of her bra. Oh my God! I’m going to see her topless!

Elizabeth lies down, gently panting and intensely gazing into me with her bright brown eyes; her lipstick is nearly all gone, but her lips are nonetheless inviting. With less rouge on her lips, she looks more teenage-like than ever. Her bra is loosened as she lies under me, almost topless in her black pants.

This is the great, long-awaited moment.

With a hesitating hand, I gently grab her loose bra and push it up. Ooh, my God!

I uncover and worship her breasts with unbelieving eyes. I become just as hard as a black slave who somehow gets to fuck Scarlett O’Hara in the movie “Gone With The Wind”.

“Ohh, yes!” she exclaims in panting ecstasy as she feels my touch.

I cup the perky fullness of her milk mounds and gently press to see how firm and soft they really are. It seems the one on the right is slightly larger and fuller. That’s weird. She has a small birthmark about two inches above her left nipple.

I stoop down and start kissing Elizabeth on her breasts. Her nipples and areolas offer a brownish rosy; the areolas are about two quarters wide and her nipples are just the round size of a dime. I put one of these flesh tabs into my mouth and I feel all funny inside from the sheer delight as I taste her feminine essence.

“Oooh, yes! The teenage boy… Sucking my breasts… Take it, lad, take my Scottish milk! Ooohh, yes… I want you so m-much!”

Someone is gently stroking my hair. That person is now breathing hard; I can hear her heartbeats in the silent room. It must be Scarlett O’Hara caressing the woolly hair of her black slave as he sucks her breasts. No, it’s a thirty-one-year-old actress having her breasts sucked by a lad who blew sixteen candles on a cake the month before.

Her nipples are just as neat as her raven eyebrows; these rosy-brown tabs are the appetizers before a scandalous banquet.

There is something deeply fascinating in the way her breasts display their fleshy expanse as she lies on a bed. I could watch her full whiteness the whole night through and still be kissing and sucking them into the morning.

“Eliza… You have the boobs of a teenage girl!”

“Ooohhh! This is so sweet! Come on big lad! Eat my Glasgow carpet! I would like this very, very much, and after… after, you will take me however you like and as many times as you like! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

I’m quickly learning that when you are making love, you get flooded with a flurry of conflicting options. There are so many things that can be done, but I can’t do them all at once! Taking a decision is not always easy when there are so many things I’d like to do with her…

I do what she asks for. I plan my next move in my young buck’s head—I unzip and take off her pants, sliding it along her silky thighs and down her delightful legs and feet, slipping off her wicker shoes in the process.

I kiss her feet, oh, her divine feet! But this time, I refrain from lingering there. I kiss my way up her legs, then I realize that I’m about to find the answer to the question I asked myself the very first time I saw her in that park, near the equestrian statue of Joan of Arc. Her black eyebrows are perfectly neat—does she have an equally neat carpet of midnight-black hair? Like all women, she has hair down south, but how neat is it? Is it bushy and heavily forested, or neat and trim?

I feverishly lower her classic-white panties and she moans as she feels my gaze on her perfect triangle of trim, midnight-black hair… so perfectly gorgeous that I swear as I behold it…

“Oh, crisse d’ostie de tabarnak!” (Oh, holy heavenly cow!)

Her neat triangle of intimate hair is deployed amid the white desert of her upper thighs as I lower her panties further down.

“How do you like my Scottish rug? Do you find the castle entrance to your liking?” she asks in a jesting tone. “Please, kiss me down there and just stick your tongue inside and to the upper edge…”

“You mean, like this?”

Her reaction is instantaneous and from that point on, she reverts to her Glasgow English, which carries notes of mysteries and fog and castles and she-ghosts…

“Yes! Yes! Like this! Continue! … Ooohh… Oooh, yes! Oooh… Oooh… This is so good! So good! Aahh yes! My young lover…”

She doesn’t taste as bad as I feared. She must have cleaned herself quite thoroughly at the restaurant, after having sex with me and Antonio. I even get a whiff of some nutmeg perfume that mingles with her natural scent, which strikes me as being yeasty and slightly bittersweet, nothing like the fishy smell I expected, let alone the devilish sulphur smell that some priest warned us boys against.

I give her my tongue in the upper edge, darting in gentle, but quick and busy strokes. I have no idea of what I’m doing, but she’s frantically running her hands through my crew-cut hair and fills the room with her moans, begging me to please go on. She’s getting quite juicy under my tongue. These juices are bittersweet with a tang of iron in them; I notice traces of blood. It doesn’t bother me. I run my hands along her hips; her skin is softer than soft and I’m enthusiastically learning her geography as I perform my mouth job for her.

She fills the room with the warmth of her soprano voice, with her pitch getting increasingly high…

“Oh yes! Yes! Yes! Ooohh… Ooohh… Oohh, my young buck! Ooohh… OOOooooohhhhhh!!! OOhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

I keep at it, running my hands all over her the soft fullness of her thighs. I keep fantasizing about Scarlett O’Hara having her raven-haired pussy eaten by her black slave in a stable, next to a carriage, with other slaves watching and eagerly waiting their own turn; Scarlett keeps stroking his woolly hair with her dainty hands as he keeps calling her Milady while pleasuring her with his African tongue.

In my imagination, Scarlett O’Hara is barefoot and she wraps her white legs around the slave’s upper back and fills the stable with loud moans, bellowing something like, “Oohh! Oohh, it’s preposterous! Preposterous… Ooohh… Ooh, no, I shouldn’t, but, ooohh… ooohh, oooh, ooohh, oooh, it’s so good! Yes! Yes! Preposterous! Yes, it is! Ooohh… ooohh!”

At one point, something bizarre happens. Elizabeth lets out a loud squeal and some liquid squirts into my lower face! The taste is rather sweet and surprisingly pleasant. That priest warning me about sin had no idea what he was talking about.

“Come on now, my young buck! Take me! Shag me right now! Please, I beg you! Shag me with your big teenage cannon!”

I stand on my knees on the bed, between her legs. I’m about to do just that, but I realize that I’m hot and profusely sweating. I’m still wearing my tweed suit! I laugh.

“Ooh,” she says, “that sweet laughter of boyish innocence; ooh, my teenage lover! Let me help you with this…”

I swiftly take off my jacket, loosen my tie and very quickly remove my white shirt after just undoing the topmost buttons, throwing it along with my necktie in a corner of the room.

Elizabeth unzips my trousers and immediately lowers everything. She grabs my cock and starts kissing it; she marks her territory by leaving tiny smears of her leftover lipstick.

Then, she raises herself some more and helps me remove my white tee shirt.

Finally, she lies down again and begs me to shag her, but her panties are still at her lower thighs, and this gives me an idea of extra fun; I have a crazy urge to enjoy the divine curves of her butt.

She frets a bit as I roll her over on the bed while sliding her panties all the way down her legs and feet. Against the tawny bedside lamp, her complexion looks even richer with a debauchery of cream white and inviting shadows delineating her curves.

Ooohh… What a butt! I religiously start kissing and licking the silkiness of her buns, running my hands all over their curvy expanse. My fingers become inebriated with her softness, while she bends her legs and impatiently taps her feet against my legs, begging me to please shag her forthwith.

Her Scottish derriere and the sound of her English make me stallion-ready. I hesitate. Am I going to take her from behind like a true buck? Or, perhaps… on top of her like… like that big black slave fucking Scarlett O’Hara on a floor of straw inside that stable, in my fantasy about Gone With The Wind. Yes!

Once I have her on her back again, she spreads her legs wide for me. I see the hole of a woman in full display for the first time. I enter her like a hot knife in butter.

“Je, t’aime, à la folie!” she whispers as we kiss and she wraps herself around me while I begin to fuck her deep and hard, with my pants down to my knees. I keep thinking of Scarlett as she moans and bellows, “Oooh, yes! Preposterous!” under her overweight slave, who keeps calling her Milady as he bangs her, holding her small wrists under his large hands on either side of her raven head of hair, and forcing Scarlett to howl and moan under his repeated hammer thrusts, while her firm breasts keep jiggling with that preposterousness she’s compelled to love.

Howls and moans is all I hear from Elizabeth for the next three minutes as I fully take possession of her, holding her wrists on either side of her head while banging her and contemplating the jiggling play of her conquered breasts, her Scottish nipples floating on her flesh in this loving tumult, under the light from the bedside lamp.

Her nipples are dancing beacons that show me the confused way to unfathomable pleasure while she keeps moaning with her fiery gaze into mine, her mouth gaping with her whimpers as she tightens her legs around me.

In my mind, I picture Scarlett O’Hara in the stable and moaning under her black slave as she tightly wraps her legs and crosses her dainty ankles on top of his powerful frame while she keeps moaning under him; her small feet are divine! Their delicate whiteness and rosiness are enhanced against the dark brown of his copulating buttocks.

Scarlett’s lovely feet are in my mind while I keep banging my beloved Elizabeth, feeling the tight glove of her vagina powerfully massage me and her legs so tightly wrapped around me. In my mind, Scarlett’s feet are radiantly small, white and tenderly delicate as the make a small buffeting play of brushes and bouncing on the slaves sweaty hide as he grunts his delight and fucks his Milady! Making Scarlett know what a big African stick feels deep inside her married pussy.

“Oohh, yes! Oooh, ooohh, oooh… Oooh, my young buck! This is it! This is it, this is it, this is it, this is it, oooh, oooh, oooh, aaahh… Aaah, aahhh, aaah, aaah… Aaaooh, oooh my God! Oh my… God! Aaahhh!”

Elizabeth kisses me and throws her loud moans into my mouth as her frantic hands course all over my crewcut hair and my upper back. Her tongue goes all the way in as her vagina powerfully contracts during her fiery salvo of moans.

In my mind, Scarlett O’Hara goes through the exact same phase, under her black slave who keeps plowing her and crushes all social customs with each mighty stroke. Two more slaves are naked and waiting for their turn with their big brown cocks ready for Scarlett. Elizabeth keeps kissing me throat-deep as I keep exploring her woman’s depths.

I’m passing my edge and keep my pace steady, and never stop picturing Scarlett O’Hara under her black slave. The slaves waiting for their turn are both huge with upper arms as thick as the leg of an average man.

I picture Scarlett O’Hara getting gang-fucked. She’s filling the place with her howls and moans, subjected to the grunting pleasure of her African slaves, now in a position of unbridled power over her and she preposterously enjoys it.

Scarlett O’Hara keeps moaning under them; Elizabeth keeps moaning under my teenage strokes.

There are no rules left. No social customs left to separate us from nature and its primal ways. Her breasts! Jiggling in submission under my gaze… Her nipples, dancing and lost amid that sea of fleshy bliss!

This is too much! Too much! Oohh! Eliza! The actress! Scottish! Her feet! Thirty-one years old! Scarlett O’Hara! Her black slaves! Her feet! White! Their cocks! Black. Her breasts, jiggling. Her nipples, dancing, and her feet, her raven hair, the Italian restaurant, Antonio bucks her, from behind, and it’s just so…

“Ooohh! Nnngggh! Uunngghh… Ooohh…” I groan against the nape of her neck, utterly pressed against her as I powerfully erupt inside her with a massive load, in three mighty bolts. The black slave screams loud in my mind as he ejaculates inside Scarlett O’Hara… just as the sweaty dream fades away, leaving me alone in that motel room; alone with Elizabeth. Our sweaty skin are stamped with one another, marking the official loss of my boyish seed.

After remaining like this and breathing inside the black forest of her hair, feeling her own breathing under me, and her tender fingers caressing my back, I go down a bit and kiss her breasts; I knead the divine pastry of her firm boobs and keep licking and kissing her superb nipples; she is full with sweat under the tawny lamplight; all this while my manhood is dripping with fresh cum.

“Bless my soul, you did fill me up proper! Let’s take a shower together. Let’s take a shower and I’ll tell you everything I did with Margaret Lockwood!”



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  • Reply BRITNEY ID:1e8sh3tot8dn

    Oh HistBuff you’ll have to put a picture of me wearing my vintage girdle with my attached stockings or my vintage multi-strap garter belt and fashioned stockings sitting or lying on top of one of those 1950’s car’s !! A lot of older guys tell me that I kind of look like and resemble Betty Paige so if you can find a picture of her all dressed in her naughty undergarments can you post it for me here on one of your pictures ??? if you can’t that’s ok too !! thank you sweetie and I give you a very solemn salute on this June 6th 1944 anniversary (THE DAY OF DAYS) (HUGS & KISSES) Britney

    • HistBuff ID:cxtp0kz6ij

      Posting a picture of a different woman can be very tricky, but it’s doable and it’s a subtle art that can add to a story if it’s done with flair and good taste.

      Yes, Bettie and Elizabeth were both raven-haired beauties, but their styles were just as different as UK vs. USA. Bettie was a bit curvier, yet still slim, whereas Elizabeth was equally delightful, albeit she was even daintier. More importantly, their facial features where quite different; Elizabeth had high cheekbones and a sharp triangular face, while Bettie’s face was more like a smooth oval and a playful “apple pie” expression.

      However, I think I found a picture where Bettie is turning her back away from the camera. She’s wearing some type of a bikini, and you see the complete shape of her hourglass figure and her buttocks, and this looks similar enough to post it as a picture of Elizabeth.

      I know how to seamlessly bring that picture into the story. With such a butt, you’ll understand how much Antonio enjoyed having her from behind against that dinner table!

      My wife has such a butt and I generally prefer having sex in a position where I see it as plain as day, along with her bright chestnut hair! She also has lovely legs and feet and a fair skin that is the softest I ever found on any girl.