Naked Grief

Chapter 1

July 1996

The first time I saw the girl she had her back to me, kneeling on the fine, white sand while fixing an outboard motor. She wore nothing but a pair of minute white panties.

I should have looked away...walked on by. But I didn’t.

It was a warm Sunday morning and I had taken myself for a walk along the shore from the French port of St. Malo in order to get away from the other tourists. I had to get away. My mind was screwed up tight, and then some. They didn’t tell me when I booked the European vacation that I would be the only single man amongst a dozen couples. A sad widower caught up amongst a group of happy all-American twosomes. Had I known, I would never have signed on for the tour.

Fifteen months had passed since Penny died, and the pain had not lessened one jot in all that time. Fifteen months of purgatory. You’ll get over it, people told me as if it was nothing more than a toothache. You’ll find someone else, they said, and I hated them for saying it because I was certain there never would be anyone else like Penny.

Dear God! Why did she have to die?

After three weeks of pretending that I was enjoying the organized tour, I was on the verge of jumping ship, making off on my own. The pretence was too much. The courier probably suspected something was wrong. She kept eyeing me at odd moments—a strange, puzzled look on her face—and I wondered if she had any inkling of what was going through my mind.

That Sunday morning, I’d finally decided to leave the group, I just couldn’t take any more of being the odd one out. After breakfast, the need to distance myself from their cheerful chatter was just too strong. So I went off on my own and found a quiet stretch of shoreline. I suppose I had wandered a couple of miles from St. Malo town, deep in thought, wallowing in sad memories of Penny.

And that’s when I came across the girl.

She must have heard me because she glanced back over her shoulder and then stood up. She was slightly built, like a schoolgirl. I guessed she was in her late teens, slender with an elfin face and long, blonde hair. Her naked tits stood out on her chest like limpets clinging to a rock face, conical with absolutely no trace of droop, and surmounted by prominent nipples. She made no attempt to cover them. Her thin white panties were damp and moulded tightly around her pubic mound.

Didn’t mean to interrupt you, I told her, belatedly wondering if she understood English. She didn’t seem afraid of me, which was odd. Most girls of her age would have run a mile on being caught out alone by an older guy. She was no more than a kid while I was just turned thirty-three and had enough experience of life to fill a book.

Do you know anything about engines? she said in a soft, utterly fascinating, upper-class English voice. She used a greasy torque wrench to gesture to the small outboard engine, which was partially dismantled, the components spread across the beach. A dinghy floated smoothly on a calm sea a few yards from the shore.

I grimaced, imagining what the sand was doing to the vulnerable engine parts. Reckon you ought to get a proper mechanic to look at that.

I was on my way back to the harbour when it cut out on me. She knelt down again and picked up a length of thin pipe. I think there may be a blockage in the fuel line. I tried blowing through it, but it still wouldn’t start.

I knelt down beside her and wished I hadn’t. She was so close and the sweet smell of her body was almost too much to bear. After fifteen months without Penny, without a woman to hold and touch, without sex, the girl was too much. She just oozed sensual femininity.

You’re not French, I said, stating the obvious because my brain couldn’t come up with anything more sensible. Not with those naked tits only inches away. I began collecting up the engine parts with the idea of putting them back together. The darn thing probably wouldn’t work for me, but at least it would be in one piece.

No, I’m not French. She laughed. English as they come, but I like it here and I speak pretty good French. Are you on holiday?

I began reassembling the engine with a kit of tools she had set out on the sand. Sort of. I thought I might get to see something of Europe. You know: Rome, Berlin, Paris. The usual sights for American visitors. So I joined an organized trip. We’re supposed to be taking a ferry to England tomorrow, but I probably won’t go. I’m not sure why I chose to confide in her. Perhaps it was because, for all her semi nudity, she had an air of innocence about her. A child of nature alone in a foreign land.

You don’t like England? She frowned.

It’s not that. The engine parts went together easily enough. I figured if I could reassemble the thing, we could put it in the bottom of the dinghy and paddle our way back to the harbour on that flat calm. Finding a mechanic in St. Malo would be no problem. I dusted my hands together and focused on her face, homing in on her soft, appealing eyes. "The tour party is a bit overpowering, too much noise and false bonhomie. Know what I mean? I prefer to be alone. Her gentle gaze unnerved me so I looked away and pointed to the fuel line. Hold that in place while I tighten the locking nuts."

What will you do?

Take off and see something of France, I guess. The real France. I grabbed the engine cover and stood up to fix it in place. You’ve got oars for the dinghy?

Yes, but it’s at least a couple of miles to the harbour.

No problem, I told her. I’ll give you a hand. Pull the boat in to the beach, will you?

She splashed out into the shallows and came back towing the boat, her panties now thoroughly wet and translucent. She might as well have been wearing nothing. I turned away to pick up the outboard and hoped she would not notice my prick struggling to get out of my pants.

My name’s Mike, by the way, I said by way of a belated introduction as I hoisted the motor across my shoulder. Mike Bodine.

Viola. She smiled back at me. Viola Bracewell.

Get into the boat, Viola. I’ll row you back to the harbour. I waded out to the dinghy, carrying the outboard, and heaved it over the transom before pulling myself aboard.

I took the oars while Viola sat at the stern and trailed one hand in the water. It was easy rowing and the exercise did me good. It also helped take my mind off the sight of her tits and her cute little pussy.

Do you think you should put some clothes on before we get to the harbour? I asked as we glided along the coast.

She glanced down at her chest. I don’t think so. The French don’t mind seeing girls topless. They’re nothing like as repressed as the English.

You often go around like that?

Oh yes. And I always swim nude. It’s quite okay as long as you stick to the right beaches. She ran a finger down the cleft between her breasts. I just love being nude, but my parents simply don’t understand. I think English people are so silly about covering up their bodies on the beach. Don’t you? But not the French. That’s one of the reasons I like living over here.

I took a moment to think about that one. There has to be more to France than nudity. Is there another reason you’re here?

Her face took on a frightened expression for just a fraction of a second, enough to hint at a dark, untold secret. Then she brushed aside my query with a silent shrug and brightened up again. What do you do, Mike, back in America?

I’m an airline pilot.

Wow. That sounds exciting.

Not really. It’s like driving a bus, but a bit higher off the ground.

That seemed to puzzle her, but she grinned back at me and then closed her eyes. She lay there, semi naked in the stern of the dinghy, until I told her we were approaching St. Malo. It was an idyllic summer’s day and the sun was at its height as we pulled into the harbour. Holidaymakers and locals crowded the quayside cafes. The blistering heat of noon had sponged them up from the beaches, wringing them out into those cool cafes where they drank cold lager beneath colourful parasols and lazily observed the harbour activity. Barely a breath of wind troubled the limp rows of sails hanging lifeless along the length of the marina.

With perspiration visibly dripping from his face, a solitary yacht-owner walked across the edge of the quay before hiding himself away in the dark recesses of the harbour office, away from the cancer-inducing ravages of the sun.

Where now? I asked.

"Over there. You see that boat, the Breton Belle?" She pointed to a sleek motor cruiser moored alongside the quay; a Sunseeker Martinique with twin Volvo engines.

That’s yours? I gasped.

Not really...well, not exactly. The thing is I’m taking care of it. Bring the dinghy alongside, will you?

I coasted up to the cruiser, twelve meters of pure luxury, and shipped the oars. Viola jumped up to the Breton Belle’s deck and took the dinghy painter from me.

I’ll be fine now. I know where I can get the outboard fixed, she cooed.

I boarded the cruiser and took in the fine lines of the fittings. Money had been spent on that boat, lots of it, and it showed. Nice craft. Bet you wish you owned it.

Again, a dark look crossed her face. She turned away as if the question was awkward. Thanks for your help. I do appreciate it.

I took that as a way of saying she didn’t want me around any longer so I crossed the deck and hopped over to the quayside. You get into trouble again, you call me. Okay?

Okay, she replied and gave me a shy wave. Then, without warning, her shoulders sagged. In the space of a few minutes her self-confidence faded. The happy glow on her face was lost, replaced by anxiety.

Finally, she was gone down into the cabin and I was left alone.

I wandered into the heart of St. Malo, but the afternoon dragged and I knew I just had to get away from the tourist areas. As soon as I got back to the hotel I went to see the tour guide. Her name was Marie de Valieur and I found her lingering over a cup of coffee in the foyer.

She was tall and walked with the purposeful grace of a model, a talent that alone captured the attention of every male member of our party. She filled every angle and crevice of her courier uniform almost to perfection and exuded the charm of a fairy tale princess. Her ebony hair had a glistening sheen, which was the real thing; no bottle could offer that sort of effect. Her face was bright, her complexion flawless and her deep, dark eyes held a promise of something that to the casual observer, could never be fully explained nor explored. Rather it was a manifestation of some greater mystique, which never left her for one instant.

If I had to be critical about Marie, I suppose I could say that she was just a shade too tall, just a touch too slender, her mouth was just that tiniest bit too wide and her nose just the merest fraction of an inch too long. And the outline of her breasts was just a shade less than perfect. But such criticism would be quite wrong because it was those very small imperfections that brought her down from the realms of a godly dais to the uneven playing field of the human race. She was, in a word, as good as any guy could wish her to be.

I sat down in an uncomfortably low seat opposite her. I’m not coming on the ferry with you tomorrow, I blurted out, with no attempt at small talk to lighten the impact. I want to make my own plans from here on.

Her face broke into a frown. You’re leaving us...completely?

Guess so.

I’m sorry to hear that, Mike. Marie was part French, part English and she spoke with a strange mixture of accents. She said she could speak four different languages, but I had only heard her in French and English. She sounded cute in both. She had a clear, soft voice, which was publicly prim like an English governess and privately sensual like a French courtesan. Is it anything we’ve done wrong?

No, nothing like that, I said. It’s me. I guess I’m out of place in this group; a lone male amongst all these twosomes. I want to get away on my own for a while.

I’d noticed that you were uneasy. Her eyes interrogated me with something amounting to compassion, as if she was ready to hear my tale of woe.

The past catching up with me, I guess.

The past?

Something personal.

Do you want to tell me what happened?

There’s not a lot to tell. My voice choked. I’d told no one on the tour anything about me, but now I had to get it off my chest. It was my wife. She died in childbirth and the baby died with her. There was nothing anyone could have done to save them. It happened a while back, but I just can’t seem to shake myself out of the effect of it. I thought a vacation would help, but... I stood up then because I knew I’d break down if I had to tell her more. It still got to me when I talked about it. Still hit me hard. I made to wander away, but she rose up gracefully from her chair and put out a hand to me.

I didn’t realize. Now I understand what’s been behind your aloofness. This trip hasn’t helped you at all, has it? She came close up against me and put her hands to my shoulders. Oh, Mike, I’m so very sorry.

It’s something I have to get out of my system, but I chose the wrong way to do it.

I see now why you’ve seemed so strange these past two weeks. It must have been terrible for you.

I nodded. I’m trying to handle it, but I’m not doing it very well.

I wish I could help you. She was close up against me now, soft and smelling like a hint of roses wafting on clean fresh air.

I miss her so much, I mumbled.

Of course you do. She must have been very precious to you. She leaned closer still and kissed my cheek lightly, soft as a feather. Just like Penny once did. A gentle touching of her lips against my skin, a gesture that meant so much. You must never forget her, Mike. But you also have to move on, deal with life. And I’d like to do something to help you. Will you let me do that for you? Will you let me try to help in some small way?

Help? What could she do? What could anyone do?

Yes. Would you let me do that?

How?

Come to my room after dark, she whispered and her gentle breath fluttered against my face.

Am I hearing you right?

Yes.

There’s been no one since...

Maybe this is the time to move on. You can spend the night with me. If you’d like to. Her eyes held just a hint of begging.

Guess I’d like that a lot.

I’m glad. I can see that you’ve been so lost to the world for a long time. I think you need to have a woman in bed beside you again.

It was an offer made with kindness at its heart, and I was glad of it. Other women, friends back home in Los Angeles, had seen my loneliness, but none had been willing to do what Marie was offering. You’re quite a woman, I told her, recalling all those times in the past three weeks when I had secretly admired her body.

And you’re a nice man, Mike. I want to do this for you.

I’m a bit out of practice. It’s been a while since...

Don’t worry. She smiled brightly but kept her voice soft and gentle. Tonight, we will have sex three times. The first time, it will be pure animal sex because that’s what you need in order to get all that built-up tension out of you. We will enjoy each other’s bodies and then you’ll sleep.

And then?

And then I’ll wake you after a few hours and we’ll make love again, but this time it will be slow and gentle. It will be lovemaking as you and your wife once knew it and it will bring tears, but that will be good. That is also what you need. Afterwards, you’ll sleep again.

Guess I’ll need to, for sure.

Of course you will. The third time we make love will be when dawn breaks. That will be the best sex of all because you will be ready to show me what you can really do as a man.

With such an offer, how can I refuse? I told her and felt a sense of warmth toward her that I couldn’t explain.

I kept to myself over dinner that evening, much as I had throughout the tour. None of the couples made any attempt to draw me into their conversations and, in a way, I was glad of that. Afterwards I went off to my room and watched a film. I waited until darkness fell before going to Marie’s bedroom.

Her door was ajar and I walked in to find her stretched out on her bed reading a paperback copy of Thomas Hardy’s Jude The Obscure. Rimless reading glasses were perched perilously across the tapering end of her nose. She glanced at me tantalizingly, lips just parted, eyes half shaded beneath long dark lashes. I hoped you would come, Mike.

I said I would.

You won’t regret it. She stood up and undressed, doing it quickly because she was already naked beneath her uniform. I grinned and asked her why she wore such smart, expensive clothes outside and not a stitch of underwear beneath. No bra, no panties, no nothing. I recalled Viola on the beach and compared these two. One was a teenager who couldn’t fix an engine, but loved being nude, the other was a mature, twenty-something woman who knew how to use her sexuality to best effect.

My clothes are part of my public image, she said.

And what sort of public image do you aim to give?

She thought for a moment. To the tour party, I’m reliable and respectable. The sort of person you would see in church every Sunday morning. For them I wear smart clothes. Then she put a seductive finger to her lips and grinned. But to myself, I’m deliciously wanton. So, for myself, I always go naked beneath my outer clothes.

Two images at one and the same time?

But of course. We all do it, you know. Public image and private image. It’s human nature. Marie was clearly a student of all aspects of human behaviour. She lay back on the bed and beckoned me to join her.

The invitation radiating from her eyes was too much and my cock was rigid before I had finished shedding my clothes. Excited beyond reason, I lay beside her and ran my hand down her flat stomach and on across the lithe, even muscles of her thighs. She was slim and perfectly smooth everywhere, except where I could see the shadow of her ribs pressed against her skin. What sort of image do you think you’re putting out right now? I asked mischievously.

She spread her legs and walked her fingers down to her thick, dark pubic mound. You must turn the pages to find out. Her eyes grew wide and the tip of her tongue barely parted her moist lips. Slowly, she brought her upper arms closer together so that her breasts rose to meet each other, gently waltzing to the rhythm of her heartbeat. I want you to fuck me straight away, she whispered.

Now?

Yes, now. Don’t take your time, Mike. You can do that later. Just fuck me.

I took her at her word, forcing my cock inside her pussy with a wild, desperate desire. It was sudden and it was frantic, but it was what I needed. Marie stayed the course, riding my motions easily and naturally as I pumped away inside her, encouraging me on. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, exhausted, and quickly fell into a deep sleep. No dreams, just the remains of pure animal satisfaction.

A sweet kiss roused me a few hours later when the room was in darkness.

You’re awake, Mike?

Guess so.

Good. Now you can fuck me again, but this time we’ll take it slower. Marie’s voice came to me from out of the darkness. Her breath feathered lightly against my cheek. Without waiting for a response she pressed her lips against mine.

She felt for my hand and drew it down to her clitoris, which was already damp and rising in anticipation. Her nipples were already erect when I took them, each in turn, between my lips. I sucked them gently while massaging her clitoris with slow, circular motions. Her breathing grew louder, almost loud enough to drown the pounding inside my chest.

And there, in the darkness inside that French hotel, something magical happened. It wasn’t just my imagination. Penny was there with me, guiding me, wanting me. It was Marie who slipped down the bed, beneath the duvet, and began to play with my cock. But it was not her tongue that ran up and down the shaft, it was Penny’s. And it was Penny’s lips that drew my erection into her mouth. And later, when I was fighting against the instinct to ram my solid prick up into her cunt, it was not Marie who gently straddled my body, it was Penny. And when Marie slowly and gently fed my erection inside her, it was Penny’s tight and juicy vagina that clasped around me. And when we came to orgasm, it was Penny’s body that arched with joy, Penny’s short sighs of pleasure that split the night air and told me we were coming together. And that was when I felt tears running down my cheeks, but they were good tears, necessary tears.

And I thanked God for bringing Marie into my life.

I awoke as the first light of the new day was reaching out across St. Malo. Marie was already awake, standing naked out on the balcony with sunlight highlighting her soft skin.

When she saw that I was awake, she came back to me, smiling, and lay down beside me. Last time it was good, Mike, very good. But this time it will be the best sex of all. This time you will show me that you’re a complete man again.

And she was right; what followed was the best fuck of all.

* * * *

After breakfast the next morning I told the hotel receptionist that I would be staying a day or so longer. Then I walked down to the quayside with Marie. She had an hour to spare before the tour bus took the group to the cross-channel ferry. I had no real idea what I was going to do next. It was enough that I would be free of all those happy couples. My only regret was that I had to say goodbye to Marie.

We stopped at a café on the quayside and I ordered two coffees. In that early morning period of relative quiet, Marie gave me the phone number of her first stop in England.

Just in case, she said.

In case of what? I asked.

Just in case, she repeated without elaborating.

I thanked her and kissed her, but nothing could make up for what she had done for me the previous night. I couldn’t even find the right words to say how grateful I was to her. Maybe, one day we might meet again. I hoped so.

You still don’t know where you’re going next? Marie queried.

Suggest something, I told her.

She thought for a moment. "Nantes would be nice. Not too far but interesting. You could visit the Chateau des Ducs de Bretagne and the Basilica of Saint Louis."

I knew nothing about Nantes but decided to accept the suggestion for want of anything better in mind. Very well, Nantes it is. I shall send you a postcard. How do I get there?

By train, I suppose. Unless you can find a boat heading down the River Vilaine toward the Atlantic Coast.

A tour boat?

No. I don’t know of any tour boats. It would have to be a private cruiser or a yacht. She shook her head. On reflection, you’d best go by train.

I’ll pick up a ticket from the station this morning.

Glad that’s settled. She grinned and blew me a kiss across the top of her coffee cup.

It was about then I caught sight of Viola some yards away on the quayside. She was topless again, which didn’t surprise me, and her long, blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders like diaphanous drapes framing a classical portrait.

See that girl? I said to Marie.

Too young for you.

Yep. Far too young. I need a more mature woman. I winked at her. Her name’s Viola and I came across her yesterday. She was trying to fix an outboard engine, so I gave her a hand.

Just a hand?

I ignored the innuendo. Anything strike you about her? Anything odd?

Apart from the fact that she’s half naked?

Forget her tits. Look at her face. It’s so innocent, so school-girlish. And yet she seems to be in charge of that expensive cruiser. I pointed to the Breton Belle, tied up nearby.

I was about to add more when a scruffy youth in torn jeans and dirty vest bounded across the quay, bellowing loudly. It all happened too suddenly by half. Before I could gather my senses, he was laying into Viola, shouting at her and pounding at her with his fists.

What the hell! I belatedly leapt to my feet.

Viola raised her arms to protect herself and she shouted back at the guy in French for all she was worth, but no one seemed willing to help her. A small group of watchers emerged from a bar opposite and just stood around, doing nothing as if it was none of their business. With all the noise the girl was making, maybe they thought she was doing a good enough job without their help, but they were wrong. The polecat-faced youth suddenly socked her right in the face.

By that time I was racing across the quay.

I ran toward the fracas, my fists clenched and ready to do battle, but someone else had formed the same idea. Before I got to the