by Jeremy Edwards
(11/24/10)

The fresh-faced young woman who helps staff this bed-and-breakfast is invariably there when I come in at night, and invariably there when I come down in the morning.

And I can't figure out when she's getting fucked.

Because when the sun is high, she always seems to show up in the square, or at the gelateria, or at the bookshop. If I'm running into her this frequently, I have to assume that she's out and about all day long.

But I know she's getting fucked. She has "I'm getting fucked" cheeks and "I'm getting fucked" lips. And the point is . . . well, the point is that I want to watch it happen.

I didn't come to Brussels with the goal of figuring out when a stranger was getting it. But that's only because my guidebook didn't tell me about the entrancing aroma of coffee and newspaper and satisfied woman that fondles me every time I walk by Nathalie.

"Bonjour, M'sieur," she chirps this morning. I perceive that she has dabbed some Eurofloral fragrance behind her perky ears, and it complements the other ingredients of her scent.

"How are you enjoying your stay?" When she switches to the accented English, I develop a hard-on on top of my hard-on.

"Everything's great," I say. "What a charming B&B."

"Thank you." She smiles appreciatively.

"I feel like such a lazy tourist when I see how energetic you are. In here, out there...you're always on the go."

She laughs musically. "C'est vrai, I am always 'on the go,' as you say. There is much work to be done here. And when I am not working, I want to enjoy my summer days in the city like a tourist, too."

But when are you getting fucked? No, I really can't say that. "But when do you sleep?" I venture instead. Funny how that seems like none of my business, whereas my consuming interest in her sexual gratification feels perfectly natural.

Again, she laughs. "Oh, you think I work all night? No, M'sieur, I have asked Madame for a split shift. I work between dinner and midnight, then in the morning from seven thirty to noon. Then I play." She flashes her deliciously crooked teeth, and I hastily wish her a good day, before the tourist comes in his pants.

So it's happening in the small hours of the night, or the early hours of the morning. Or, one can hope, both. It still doesn't sound like she's getting quite enough sleep, but that's not my problem.

My problem is what order to sequence my fantasies in, as I imagine Nathalie getting fucked.

First, I imagine her being awarded a treat from behind, at 1 a.m. in the back room of a disco -- lucky local guy's shaft pumping into her, to the beat of deep, deep house music.

Then I see her bare, lovely ass, smooth as the cream she serves on the little breakfast bar, being massaged at dawn in some big-windowed suite. Nathalie gets wetter and wetter and finally shrieks for cock in bedroom French. Her voice, in my head, sends a shiver of want through me.

But, sweet fuck, maybe it's not cock she insists on. So now I see a flat-chested brunette with long, shapely legs, licking the hell out of Nathalie's blonde slit in the quiet of the night.

It's clear that I'm not going to make it back downstairs before they stop serving breakfast. Nine o'clock, when the croissants turn into pumpkins, is a scant five minutes away. I sit on the edge of my bed and accept the inevitable...that I'll be paying out of pocket for off-premises food. It's worth it, I reflect, as I slowly unzip to the rhythm of Nathalie bouncing in heat on the bed in my mind. I care a lot more about the state of the velvet-lined pocket between Nathalie's thighs than I do about the state of my change pocket.

Yes. I want to see the delicate liquid that freshens her pussy when she's all desire. I want to smell its sweetness eclipsing the demure cologne behind her ears. I want to be, not one fly on the wall, but a dozen flies, to ensure that I catch the action from every angle. We promise not to buzz.

My tongue protrudes from my mouth as I relinquish control of my libido and give in to the warm release. If I have a fly on my wall, it's probably rolling its multifaceted eyes. I don't care -- I'm coming, damn it.

I would have liked to spend a little longer floating there, tingling all over while I envisioned Nathalie in her dripping arousal. Now I'm worried that the best part of my day is behind me, at 9:05 on a vacation morning in Brussels.

But the crisp warmth of fresh bread, which I chomp at a tiny table in the neighborhood bakery, makes the day feel promising again. I eat it with jam, no butter; it reminds me of a woman in a fancy dress and no panties.

At noon -- what do you know?--I'm sitting on the bench in front of the B&B. Nathalie comes out, humming an "I'm getting fucked" tunelet, and she seems amused to see me.

"Hey, where are you off to now?" I tease.

"Hey!" she teases back, parroting my Americanese with a delectable hint of brattiness. "Lunch, M'sieur."

"What's for lunch?"

Her smirk broadens -- as if she knows my type, but sort of likes my type. "You are hungry?"

The sidewalk tables are just beginning to clatter with promptly delivered entrées. As Nathalie and I walk past the beckoning prow of each open-air restaurant, something about her presence makes me feel like I'm sampling a bit of everything that's being served.

But it's not one of these daylight-glimmering miniature dinners we want -- though if it were 3 p.m. sex I was after, I might suggest that. No, it's Caesar salads, Med platter, and more fresh bread for me and Nathalie. I don't drink in the middle of the day, but she orders a half glass of white wine. The slight flush of alcohol on her cheeks adds a touch of romance to the modest meal.

And now, I pose myself a question that's as hard as my cock: What am I after? Am I working up to asking if she'll let me watch her tonight, when she gets taken to heaven by him or her or them, whoever that may be? And then the follow-up question: Am I out of my fuckin' mind? And, seriously now, don't I really want to fuck her myself -- assuming she and her whoever are all cool with that? Because if I'm going to ask to be a fly on her wall, I might just as easily ask to be a bird in her bush or a snake in her grass, right?

I've asked myself tough questions, and I'm not sure I'm up to answering them. It seems too much like work, when I'm supposed to be on vacation.

"These stuffed fig leaves are excellent," I say, through a haze of distraction.

"Grape leaves, yes?" Yes. Her English is every bit as fluent as my Freudian.

There's a large chunk of French bread left over. It's too good to give up, so I wrap it for my afternoon snack. But the heel pokes out of the napkin, looking lewd. Nathalie's giggle lasts only a fraction of a second; yet the way her eyes meet mine, I know that she knows that my cock feels stiff like the bread.

And so I have nothing to lose. My lust has been calmly acknowledged. It may or may not be fulfilled, but it won't cause a panic. When I return from my afternoon activities, my suitcases will not be awaiting me in the lobby, packed in haste by a part-time housekeeper who has carelessly left my favorite necktie sticking out the side like a dick poking out of pajama bottoms.

"Well, M'sieur," Nathalie says on the sidewalk, "today I have shopping to do." She clasps my hand -- lightly, casually, naturally. It may be just a habit of hers, perhaps a local custom. But when she does it, I respond without thinking. And the manner in which I respond is by kissing her on the lips -- lightly, casually . . . desperately.

She takes this totally in stride. It's as if she expected it. She chirps, "See you tonight," and waves as she disappears around the corner.

I spend the rest of the afternoon clomping around the diminutive landmarks of the Mini-Europe theme park. I keep reminding myself that Nathalie is getting fucked, and that, even in the wake of a kiss, I am at best a side attraction.

At 9:00, I walk through the door of the B&B, ready to explore whatever may follow from a casual lunchtime kiss in Brussels.

At 9:01, I realize that this is "Madame's" night for sticking her nose into the operation of the bed-and-breakfast she owns. Nathalie, as a consequence, greets me noncommittally -- I am, for the moment, "M'sieur" once more -- while Madame hovers with accounting ledgers.

At 9:03, I go out again, in the hope that a long walk will make the hours pass more quickly. It does; but I get lost on what I mistakenly think is my way back to the B&B. By the time I've returned, Nathalie's shift has ended. Thus have I outsmarted myself -- a difficult task, but a challenge that I'm usually up to. I console myself with the knowledge that I have four nights left in town. I head up the stairs, fidgeting with the last bit of bread that remains, napkin-cherished, in the pocket of my windbreaker.

I didn't know that Nathalie's room was on the way to my own. But it's clearly her voice that I hear now, whimpering sensuously, and I break into a sweat.

Then I learn that the reason I can hear it so clearly is that -- oh my fuck -- her door is ajar.

So I'm about to see who's fucking Nathalie. Because averting my eyes as I go by is more than I can ask myself to do. After all, I'm on vacation.

In front of the cracked-open door, I seem to lose the power to walk. Because Nathalie is getting fucked, all right . . . by Nathalie.

Insanely enough, my eye is first drawn to the paperback that's split open on the bed, ass up, at Nathalie's side. I'm quite sure it's the Voltaire that I noticed earlier in the B&B's living room. Had I known what those books got up to after hours, I would have made a point of sniffing them.

But Nathalie isn't paying attention to the book. She's too busy fucking herself -- and doing a first-rate job. Her eyes are shut, and her legs are spread as far as they'll go. And it looks plenty comfortable, because her bed is generous enough to accommodate her petite frame, no matter how big a Y she makes of her lower half. Yes, judging by the expression on her face, Nathalie is very comfortable, to say the least. Oh, and she's also naked, except for a very lacy, very unclasped bra.

One hand cups her mound and pulls her lips apart. The knuckles bob like buoys on a medium-calm day, and I imagine her clit is a pretty happy camper. The other hand -- what I can see of it -- is thrusting in and out. Damn, she has three fingers up her own snatch, and she knows exactly what to do with them.

As I observe her, the whimpers grow louder. Yes, that feels so good, doesn't it. Even in my head, I can hear a tremor in my voice. I'm in ecstasy, too.

Suddenly -- and incredibly -- she pauses. I sense that she's become aware of me, somehow.

"Hey," she says, without opening her eyes, and without sounding the slightest bit bratty.

Then she resumes.

I enter the room, as softly as I can, just as Nathalie has the most beautiful orgasm I've ever had the privilege of witnessing. Her hands clutch her groin for dear life. Her shoulders pound the duvet, and her face is a picture of bliss. The pussiest pussy aroma envelops me, and I actually smack my lips while I watch Nathalie gradually come herself into rag-doll limpness.

Finally, now, she opens her eyes -- without closing her legs. She spies the book on the bed, and quickly tosses it to the floor.

"You are hungry?" she asks, for the second time today.

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