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Saturday morning, the weather was somewhat overcast. Some of the group were disappointed, others thought a milder day on the beach after several sunny ones was a good change. Sans-culotte stood up and repeated his invitation to watch the Bastille Day parade in the suite he and Stepan were now sharing with two women. Some immediately said they would be there. I saw Stephan talk to him, and then he stood up again, grinning, and announced:
“It’s our national holiday;” gesturing at Stephan: “we invite you all for champagne, not a popular brand that you may know back in your countries, but it’s just as good. I think we’ll have enough to watch the parade.”
We all looked pleased, nodding, someone saying that we should celebrate the French national holiday with them. He smiled again and was about to sit down, then turned back to the group and added with a slight smile:
“The President won’t be able to see us; don’t have to dress up. Just bring towels, since most will have to sit on the floor, and glasses. Ten o’clock.”
There were some chuckles and then apparently discussions at the other tables like that at ours: how informal “don’t have to dress up” might be; if “just bring towels” was all we should wear. I mentioned that at parties at Paradise Lakes, some people wore shorts or a cloth around their waist, but that others didn’t, and that everyone was comfortable either way. Marge thought it was good alternative to wear towels, explaining:
“Have to wear something in the corridors, but then I can just wear it around my hips … or whatever.”
I agreed. The couple at our table didn’t commit themselves, just nodding in acknowledgment of what we were going to do. We saw our young men ask if they could bring the German students, Sans-culotte nodding with a smile.
Back in our room, we chuckled as we undressed, exchanging comments about how we thought the others would interpret his comments. We had seen them all nude on the beach, but as we knew, it might be a little different when we were all together in their suite, crowded together in the room in their suite with the TV. Marge snorted and remarked:
“Can’t bother us, and if we just sit on our towels, that will also be nice.”
“Um-hmm, but maybe more interesting with enough champagne to watch the parade.”
“And if …?”
She smiled, then remarked:
“I’ve got just the right thing, a sarong. You can use my other towel, the one that hasn’t been on the beach.”
Shortly before ten, we joined others on the floor of their suite. We all smirked slightly as we observed the others’ choice of clothing. They all had towels, some wearing them like I was, including the oldest couple. A couple of women had a light shift on, what they wore going to and from the beach. A couple of men were wearing shorts. One woman was wearing a man’s polo shirt, which concealed what she was or was not wearing under it. She smirked and lifted it to show us that she was, but then let us see that it was only a string. The young men were wearing their towels. Their German friends smirked, wearing bikini bottoms with just their towels slung over their shoulders.
While I was looking at the others, Sans-culotte opened the door, also with just a towel around his hips. He greeted us with a smile and chuckle, apparently also about our choice of dress, and then his friend welcomed us. As we responded, congratulating them to Bastille Day, the women appeared, bare breasted, also with towels around their hips.
Marge and the other women with a towel or sarong immediately loosened them and fastened them again around their waists. The German girls also immediately took their towels off, smiling in response to the men’s glances, mine too, which earned me a chuckle and pat on my ass from Marge. The woman and another one in a shirt, quickly took them off. One in a shift remarked:
“Oh, this is all I have on,” to which the other, gathering up hers, snickered and replied:
“You could have thought of that.”
Her shift came up, revealing panties. Sans-culotte remarked:
“Whatever you want, doesn’t matter, with or without your dress.”
She kept it on, smiling wryly, as she rubbed her stiff nipples. A male’s voice remarked:
“We won’t mind.”
She gave him a smirk, her nipples popping out again, but she still kept it on. We all chuckled softly. Then Sans-culotte called:
“Glasses please, before the parade starts.”
We held them out, and he and his friend and the women with them quickly filled them. The TV was already on, and the vehicle with the new French president, Fran?ois Hollande, was approaching down the Champs Élysées.
“To France!” someone toasted, and we all echoed his toast and drank.
We stood, watching him get to his seat on the VIP stand, and then Sans-culotte said:
“Make yourselves comfortable. Guess it will be a little crowded.”
It was. When the two young men, sitting together, suggested that the girls sit between their legs, others of us did the same. Soon we were all settled, watching the parade and sipping at our champagne. The way we were ataköy escort sitting invited the men, of course, to put an arm around their partner, also for her to hold one of his legs, each with a hand free for their glass. The parade continued with an impressive equestrian performance. Sans-culotte held up his empty glass and said:
“Help yourselves to more champagne, in the refrigerator in the other room.”
By then, most of our glasses were also empty, but no one made a move to follow his offer. Then the woman between his legs got up. Her movement caught our attention and we saw her refasten her to
towel before she took his glass and found her way between the couples. She returned with their refilled glasses, remarking as she stepped over legs:
“Do help yourselves; there’s plenty there.”
A woman nearest the door then stood up and took her partner’s glass, then asking:
“Anyone else? I’ll bring a bottle.”
“Good idea,” Sans-culotte, enjoined, assuaging misgivings that her offer might have been inappropriate.
The bottle was soon empty, and someone else fetched another bottle, smiling at Sans-culotte and his friend. Another bottle replenished all our glasses – water glasses, larger than the usual slender champagne glass. As we watched the parade, we sipped, the others probably also enjoying the effect of the champagne, probably the equivalent of three champagne glasses, when our second ones were half empty.
If the other men were like me, with my arm around Marge’s waist, their fingers wanted to explore. I resisted the urge to reach further around her and try to tickle. One of the young men didn’t, however. Petra – with the perky breasts – giggled and grabbed his hand and pushed it up on her breast, murmuring:
“If you have to do something.”
Not all the others could see them, but most heads turned, and those who could also see them saw where his hand was and that hers was holding it there, and that Anna was also holding the hand of her partner on her breast – without having giggled. There were soft chuckles, and not just my hand found the nearest breast. Marge turned her face back to me with grin, getting a wet kiss in her ear.
We all continued to watch the parade, now with soft chuckles that had nothing to do with it. When the fly-past started at eleven o’clock, the first women to get a bottle stood up again. Sans-culotte called – maybe a little louder than necessary:
“Bring a couple, enough for us all.”
We all snorted, and she returned with two bottles in each hand. Her man’s hand and those of the three nearest men took them. The corks flew with louder pops than one would hear in a restaurant, foam flowing, but we all got our glasses refilled. We all waited and then gave another toast to Bastille Day and drank – more than just a sip. Then someone out of my sight suddenly said:
“Bastille Day, July fourteenth! Know what else it is? National Nude Day!”
We all laughed and toasted: “National Nude Day!” and drank again. Someone asked:
“Really?” and a woman’s voice replied:
“Yeah, I saw that on Wikipedia about Naturism, when I was getting ready for the trip.”
We chuckled, and then Buffy, who was sitting close to the TV, looked around at us with a grin and pointed at the TV and then at himself and around at others and called: “Flash mob,” pointing back at the TV, at the view of the Champs-Élysée.”
As we laughed again, someone remarked: “Great idea, next year!” and there were more chuckles.
We returned to watching the parade, which seemed less interesting now, not only because there were only troops marching, but also because everyone in my field of view was more interested in his or her partner, and the soft chuckles and “um-hmms” from elsewhere in the room suggested that the others also were.
Marge and I were too. She chuckled encouraging, as I more than just held her breast, and scratched my thigh lightly with her fingernails. No one was seeming to mind that the party had become more sexually oriented. On the contrary – group dynamics – the fact that others were doing something reduced inhibitions. When Marge began to scratch the inside of my thigh, I felt my cock respond.
I didn’t want to be a voyeur and look to see what others were doing, but did notice the movement of their drinking – like us, emptying their glasses. Marge only gave a surprised “Uhn!” when the cold fingers of my other hand found her breast. I did look, however, when I heard Anna suddenly whisper:
“Petra,” and then something in German.
Marge and others also looked and saw that Petra had her hand down behind Anna’s back. Less discretely described, her hand was down in the crotch of man sitting behind Anna, He seemed only embarrassed that Anna had called attention to what Petra was doing, smiling slightly and murmuring: “If she wants to,” and let us see him squeeze Anna’s breasts. Anna was blushing deeply, having realized that others were looking at her, but just snorted with an abashed expression.
There were no immediate comments, ataşehir escort but a few moments later there were again soft chuckles, and I imagined that other couples were being more active about arousing each other, like Marge was, her fingers creeping closer up the inside of my thigh. I chuckled and made it easier for them to. I let go of her breast and reached down and pulled at the hem of my towel. She snorted and rocked her hips to the other side, letting me pull it free. The chuckles then were less soft and sounded more encouraging than they had been.
I ventured a glance over at the sofa, obviously a fold-away double bed, where Sans-culotte and his woman friend and the oldest couple were sitting, sort of throned above all of us on the floor. The four of them were also infected by the erotic atmosphere in the room. The couples had turned towards each other. I couldn’t see where the women’s hands were, but my inclination was to imagine that they were under the men’s towels. The men were fondling one of their breasts and seemed pleased with whatever their friend was doing.
Marge’s fingers had crept far enough to touch my ball. From the angle of her arm, there was nothing subtle about what she was doing. She chuckled at her success and then whispered:
“Almost there.”
As I responded with an “Um-hmm!” and pinched her nipples, someone murmured loud enough for all the hear: “Nude Day.”
There was an immediate response from the room:
“Um-hmm!” “Oh yes!” “Yeah!” “Why not?” and then more hums of agreement, confirming a consensus.
We all chuckled, and for the next several seconds the bodies in the room were in motion as towels were unwrapped and shorts slid under asses and up over knees. The woman who hadn’t taken of her shift now did, letting us all see her almost fling it up in the air as she drew it over head. She snickered and murmured:
“It was up around my waist, anyway.”
We all recognized what that implied. It was the final catalyst that let us all to give up our last reserves about doing something with our partner that could end in group sex.
Marge hummed in her throat and slid her hips forward and reached behind her ass and fondled my balls – where she had almost been before. Then her hand grasped my not yet fully aroused cock.
When my hand slid down to her muschi, hers followed, obviously not trying to hide it.
I didn’t need to look up to see that others were also now openly arousing each other, but I did glance over at our young men with Petra and Anna. Petra again had her hand behind Anna, now obviously holding his cock. The men’s hands were where mine was. Anna had given up any pretense of being worried about what was going on; her hand was now also behind Petra’s ass. I had to snort about their agreement to share what they were doing with the men, thinking that it was more convenient than Marge’s reaching behind her own ass, and then wondered how much they shared when they were together alone – and how? Suddenly more images from videos.
For a while, there was a background sound of encouraging and appreciative hums. Then we heard a woman’s voice say:
“We’re going to.”
We looked where the voice came from and saw Sans-culotte’s woman begin to straddle him. If our host was going to, didn’t we all want to?!
“We are too,” added the oldest woman in the group, next to them on the sofa. Her partner nodded with a grin. She was holding his erect cock.
We’ll move,” Sans-culotte murmured and began to slide off the sofa with his woman. Then he spoke louder:
“If it get’s too crowded, you can go in the other room. The beds aren’t made, but that shouldn’t matter.”
There were snickers and nods, and we saw the older couple begin to lie down on the sofa – head to foot. There were more chuckles and snickers, and couples glanced at each other. Marge turned her head back to me and murmured:
“Bed; someone has to go first.”
“Um-hmm,” I agreed, and we stood up, showing everyone my aroused cock.
There were some nods and more chuckles. Our young men and the girls were quickest to follow us. On the way to the other room, Marge snorted and whispered:
“Now I know why we didn’t this morning; more for me taste now.”
I chuckled and dove down on the far bed, facing the other one, and she joined me. It occurred to me that sixty-nine was more appropriate than what Sans-culotte and his friend were doing, not because everyone didn’t know what we were doing, but because we couldn’t be watching others. Not quite, between Marge’s thighs I saw the girls lie down back to back and head to foot, and then the men join them, also for sixty-nine. Obviously, they didn’t mind being physically close, regardless of whether they shared in any other way. I didn’t notice if the girls were about to suck the cock they had been fondling or that of the guy they had been sitting with.
Marge was already sucking my cock, very mildly, and I understood that we should try to prolong our enjoyment for as long as possible; others would fındıkzade escort probably be joining us in the room, starting later, and we didn’t want to finish and be listening to them – nor watching them, of course. When I just lapped over her muschi with a broad tongue, she nodded, and we bided our time.
We heard chuckles and then were aware that the covers at the foot of the bed were being taken away. Someone murmured:
“Good idea, like that.”
I liked that they also apparently didn’t want to watch others, but they had seen us and the other two couples. Had it surprised them to see that they were sharing a bed, let them wonder if they shared more than just one bed? I licked a little, and Marge sucked a little, just keeping my cock aroused.
It seemed that another couple or two entered the room – a couple more chuckles. There was a rustle as they lay down, and then silence, and then muffled hums. Marge’s and my mouths became more active and we joined in the hums.
She knew better than I when it was becoming too arousing and slowed down, letting me recover a little. When I apparently aroused her too much, she grunted and rocked her hips back. That happened more than once. We had never prolonged our orgasms for so long, but we knew that they would be all the stronger for doing it. Once when we paused, I wondered if the other couples had the same thought – two thoughts – not to be the first to come; that it would be better the longer they waited.
But then there were more aroused noises from the other bed. I snorted: young people just couldn’t wait. The sound of two girls and two men seeking their orgasms was irresistibly infectious, and not just for Marge and me. We all were making more noise, also then the rhythmic sound of fucking, apparently only one couple.
I think that I only assumed that I could hear the sound of tongues licking wet pussies. Mine was, Marge’s very wet muschi, and I probably just imagined that the other tongues were making the same sound, hoping the other couples were just as aroused.
The younger couples’ noises made it very evident that they were having their orgasms. I’ll never forget the sound of four aroused persons moaning and grunting! I don’t know which of the rest of us won the race to have ours. It wasn’t a dead heat, just a long series of unrestrained moans and grunts, and one woman’s very aroused whimpering moans. Had to be the woman of the couple that was fucking; women can’t whimper like that with a cock in their mouth.
There followed a minute or two of long sighs. I rolled back and raised my head, knowing that just my head appearing above the foot of the mattress could not attract attention. Marge frowned and pressed me back, but I looked.
Three couples were lying on the covers from the two beds, still head to foot: one couple, both rolled apart. Only the man of the other couple had rolled back. The third couple were still close together, with their heads still on the other’s thigh. Of course, their cocks like mine were flaccid. The fourth couple were lying on their towel, both facing away from the rest of us, with his arm still around her. It seemed obvious that he had fucked her from behind or under her hip. I suddenly recalled unwillingly the final scene of a video of 500 Japanese couples fucking.
I dropped back on the bed. Marge snorted and fondled my soft cock, and I reached down fondled one of her breast. She rolled back and glanced at the other bed and snorted with a chuckle. I looked over, and we saw Petra raise her head, first with a wry smile and then a smirk. Her partner rolled back and also looked over at us with a wet face and snorted, licking his lips with a smirk, and then murmuring:
“I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“Who did?” I replied.
There were chuckles from the floor and then a louder one from the other man on the bed, who then asked:
“Is it an orgy if there just a lot of people doing something with one partner?”
“Yes! But I don’t want to think that I was part of an ‘orgy’,” Anna remarked without showing her face. From the floor came a snicker and also a couple of chuckles, and a woman replied:
“I don’t have any experience, but I always thought that for an orgy more than two people had to do something together, not with just one partner.”
“Maybe in the other room,” someone suggested.
We all snickered. The woman replied, apparently wanting to make Anna feel better:
“But not in here, no orgy; just you and your friend, and by chance all the rest of us.”
We all chuckled and sat up, smiling a little sheepishly at each other – Anna, very sheepishly. She seemed feel obligated to say something. She smiled wryly, looking like she was about to say something. Then she snorted with grin and remarked:
“Okay, then I can write home that we didn’t have any orgies.”
We all broke into laughter, nervous relief after a situation that was apparently a little problematic for us all, but also appreciating that she had found a humorous reply that could release our nervous tension. Relaxed, we smirked and smiled at each other. I wondered if anyone else had seen Petra’s expression when Anna had spoken: a slight smirk and glances at the men. Did her expression suggest that whatever the four of them had done also hadn’t been an orgy – by the woman’s definition? Or did it suggest that Anna had forgotten that what they had done did meet the woman’s defintion?
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