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It had been a hell of trip sailing from Larochelle to Casablanca to the island of Tenerife in about week of shifting November winds. When endured ten days of storm the captain threw his hands in the air and said “we’re dead” and headed below deck and only peeked out the hatch a few times per day to check on me and the large ships that floated about the rugged Spanish coast.

And found some relief out in the open ocean. We tried to follow their example and put some distance between the fragile hull and the jagged rocks that could rip a hole and sink us in seconds. Often passing them within mere feet was nerve wrecking.

My misplaced sense of invincibility faded quickly when I spotted the bodies of some unlucky sailors floating past. Unable to pluck them from the sea, leaving them to the elements until rescuers who waited out the storm reclaimed them. Unfazed by way of lack of experience, but talented enough to steer the yacht through, over and across enormous waves, I volunteered to stand at the wheel.

It gave me me a misguided sense of control while the other crew members huddled inside, occasionally handing me a warm beverage, can of beans or reached out to rub my ice-cold feet. I tried to keep the bow from heading in to rocks and the stern from being washed over by a crashing wave.

After days of pounding rolling and dodging rocks, I actually never expected to ever walk on land again. Let alone have dinner on a terrace overlooking a bay full of fellow yachtsmen rowing in and out to shore on a calm moonlit ocean. That same ocean no longer fooled me, under different conditions it could sniff out life in an heartbeat. If you only let your guard down for a second.

There was a lot more than ocean vistas from where I sat, several fancy dressed ladies had already passed, returning our shameless stares with subtle glances, some of which lingered far longer than I could endure without thinking of that morning under the Eiffel tower.

As much as I had wished my friends could have seen me making love to mesmerizing Isabella, as much I wanted to have her see me steer the Clementine down thundering foam crested waves. It would have made her see the man in me that emerged from below the layer of boyish naivety I had been so eager to shed, living up to all of her expectations.

While the six years she had on me weighed heavy, I may have overlooked the fact that I wasn’t exactly a “little” boy in the same sense I viewed my self compared to other, mostly shorter but older and more experienced men. For me, my height was nothing special. Sure, the gasps and moans of the ladies in Paris had confirmed, I wasn’t exactly small in the nether-region department, another thing I would learn to appreciate in ways I had not been able to even imagine.

It would take a few more steamy adventures with experienced ladies kind enough to point out such basic facts, adding confidence to my insecure demeanor.

I may have been six foot five, and about to grow another two inches, but despite Isabella and Veronique’s encouraging sexually enlightening lessons, on the inside I was very much an eighteen year old, barely scratching the surface of sexual enterprise, especially in terms of romance,– the part that plays outside of the bedroom.

I still had no idea how to pursue a woman who wasn’t falling all over me or dragged me to their love nest the way Isabella had done. Unaware of why, the teenage girls who kissed me within moments of meeting them obviously liked me, but adult woman in their prime were a whole other animal. Isabella was a fully grown woman and I wasn’t so sure if she was an exception. Would other gorgeous grown women even look at me?

The crew, Jean, Robby, Wim, Bertus Frans, my fellow sailors, all older than me by at least ten years, loved the endless supply of strutting ladies in their finest wear. Whenever the men looked at the women it hit me that they were as enthralled as I was but in a slightly different way.

Despite the unbelievable liberating lessons in Paris, most of which none of my friends ever believed, if it wasn’t for the fact they knew I never made things up, I was still overcome by shame.

To blatantly look at strange women, even when they put their bodies on display by wearing heels, mini skirts and tiny tops, that all asked for attention, I still felt it was “wrong.” Maybe because it always bothered me when men looked at my mother with the same lusting eyes I saw around the table. I liked these guys.

They were my buddies who sailed through some terrible weather conditions. I respected most of them for one or another skill. Their character, trust, loyalty meant a lot to. They voiced their appreciation after I steered them through a hell I never wanted to face again.

Despite all of that it still bothered me that they evaluated ladies the same way the casting directors and producers had evaluated me in Paris. Or was I wrong? Was is OK to “check out” these gorgeous creatures without any hesitation or shame? Didn’t they dress up to be admired?”

“My time to poker oyna give it another thought ended when captain Jean leaned over and said “D., that foxy lady over there, the one in the white form-fitting one-piece is checking you out.”

I followed his glance and saw a tall woman, turned toward a shop-window. She had a perfect round firm bum and beautiful long legs, but since she had her back turned toward us I couldn’t see her face.

“She’s looking at you via the mirrors in the window. I am telling you, she is all over you,” Jean insisted when I shook my head, laughed and said “Come ‘on, she’s window shopping, not looking at us, and for sure not at me.”

“Yes, she is looking at you, and if you don’t get your ass over there and introduce yourself I am going to make sure you sleep on the beach tonight. You may steer a yacht, but I want to know if you can steer that cock of yours in the right direction. And that over there is a worthy way-point on your life’s map my friend. Trust me.”

Now everyone at the table looked at the girl in white, then to me, clearly expecting me to get up and beeline toward not only a total stranger, but a woman who was obviously much older then me and dressed to kill.

I hesitated, got up and carefully made my way to her. When I nearly reached her, overwhelmed by fear of rejection, I turned right, headed down the stairs in to a disco and stopped at the door, totally confused about what to do.

When I finally rallied some courage to head back up and confront her, hoping she had left, I looked up and saw her standing at the top of the stairs with her legs slightly spread, like a goal keeper, smiling at me as if telling me ‘what are you doing, where are you going, what is the matter with you? I dare you talk to me.”

When I made my way back up, I saw the men were watching, enjoying this silly old game of boy-meets girl from a safe distance. I knew it was time for me to grow some balls and confront the simple, but very scary act of speaking to what I now saw to be a stunning chestnut colored brunette with huge round boobs.

Her long wavy hair was parted over her left shoulder until she shook her head as if she was getting ready for a fight. With both hands she grabbed her hair and brushed it back and then shook her head again.

Her boobs swayed back and forth, making me think, once again, of Isabella, who still darted in and out of my thoughts every day, at night, and whenever I was trying to forget her. “Where are you from,” she asked without wating for an answer adding, “My name is Vivianne. I am from Germany.”

“Oh, well…I am from Holland and I am Dietrick…and I do speak German. I went to school in Germany.”

She looked at me, for a what seemed a long time. Absorbing every emotion and movement I made as I started to walk toward the crew, as if to see if her first impression of me matched her second.

She must have indeed peeked through the mirror at me because she caught up, perhaps viewing me as a good prospect to succumb to her charm and a inpromptu source of pleasure.

Ill prepared to match her determination, I knew then and there that I had to let go of every form of hesitation. Take charge if any away possible, and be a man. Like Isabella she was obviously much older, perhaps 25 or even 26 and I was, despite my height, once again outmatched.

Modeling in Paris and my quick vacation to the South of France had certainly made me aware that women were no less interested in playing the game of seduction while feasting on the attention they received from men, but also other competing women, who not always admired their favorable attributes.

Unlike like men who often view ladies as objects and necessary sources of satisfaction I learned that while women view men as a source of sex they also see them as life-style enhancing gateways. However, it appeared to me that the ladies had a little more finesse expressing their desires.

Men, the few I had seen, were brute and direct. It took the joy out of the dance, the emotion out of the song, the passion out of the act of conquering, no matter how little I know about any of it. But then, in all fairness, men didn’t exactly have all the tools women have to do the dance.

Isabella and Veronique once explained the enormous effort and expense men went through. They loved turning in to absolute irresistible beasts of pleasure to drove men crazy, open their wallets, and lose control far beyond their better judgment.

Of course, they were lucky to be born pretty much physically perfect, as far I could see. Certainly ompared to all other models I had seen personally and those featured in magazines.

Fortunately for these men, Isabella and Veronique didn’t take advantage of their suiters, but simply enjoyed the game of ‘catch and release’ instead. It gave them a sense of “conformation” and what they called “self expression.”

Like an artist manipulating paint or materials in certain order or a fisherman who winds his own flies and lets go whatever he enjoyed catching, they refined canlı poker oyna their skill, analyzing the phycological and logistical methodologies.

Unlike many other women, self sufficient and not materialistic in nature, these two babes made men donate a lot of money to charities they believed in. It became a sport. Men really got off easy.

So many other models loved being chauffeured in Bentley’s ‘n Rolls Royce’s, eagerly accepting lavish gifts and toys, all paid for by “some old geezer” who, as they confided, “couldn’t even lift their shrivled pecker.”

With that in mind, taking a quick but profound look at this German bombshell brunette the guys described as a bigger boobe’d Raquel Welch, was certainly expecting me to put my pecker to good use. I got the message. I didn’t have a stable of road-toys in my garage, nor known to hand out keys to condo’s on the French Riviera.

And it was becoming finally all too clear to me that it wasn’t my empty garage or wallet, but my throbbing bulging pants mature beautiful confident ladies were interested in. That part of the dance didn’t take long to figure out.

Harder to grasp, however, was how to please them in ways that satisfied their lust for Dutch boy juice, without having to run around with cramped balls, trying to stay on a diet of two pineapples a day.

Vivianne had no idea what went on in my teenage mind and I had only a suggestive impression of what motivated her to speak to me. She turned around, looked at my crew members thirty yards away and asked “Are these men your friends? Are you a sailor?” “How do you know we are sailors?” I asked.

“You all look windblown, very different than the tourists I see.”

“Yes, we just arrived from Casablanca, by way of France, Portugal and Spain. We hit bad weather. We’re here to fix the sails” I explained.

She then hooked her arm under mine and headed for the beach, stopping at the table to say “hi” to the men that suddenly became sheepish, nervously smiling and sticking out their hands to shake her’s as she politely introduced herself.

Vivianne was very, very confident and instinctively turned toward captain Jean and asked “Good evening sir, I hope you don’t mind that I take your young Dutchmen for a walk, do you.”

Jean looked at her, then at me and said with a mock British accent “well, let me think….he’s my best helmsman and because we all encourage him to speak to you, a task he failed to perform flawlessly, he’ll have to be back on board by midnight. Is that OK with you my lady.”

Vivianne burst out laughing and asked, “Is that so, did he actually failed?” She then turned to me, looked me up and down and said; “Yes, I guess he did as I remember it was me who initiated actual conversation. But we have to give him credit for getting out of that chair…something none of you guys did and for that I’ll have to reward him.”

Her right index finger gestured “come down.” I smiled and lowered my head and before I knew she kissed me right on the cheek and said “Let that be a lesson to you and all the boys here, you got to take action, if you ever want to get some.”

Jean interupted; “Midnight, I need to see you by midnight, no matter what she does to you.” as Vivianne guided me toward the beach, continued “He’s a virgin, take it easy on him.”

Ignoring the reference regarding my supposed virginity, “What if I kidnap him, will you spank my bottom?” she answered over her shoulder pulling me forward, then setting off for a mad dash toward the beach, ignoring Jean’s “Absolutely, anything at all to touch that tush of your’s.”

At 1.82 m. (about six feet) she was not quite as tall as Isabella but equally forward and certainly more frisky. She first led me to a bench, climb on top of it and pulled in to her bosom.

I felt her body as I put my arms around her. It was muscular and firm. She too wrapped her arms around me then grabbed my head with both hands and kissed me right on the mouth. Her tongue went wild, something I had never felt before.

She pushed me away, hard, with a crazed look in her eyes, then threw me on the sand and jumped on top of me. She didn’t stop kissing me for at least ten minutes, letting her hands roam all over my body.

There was nothing gentle about her. Unbridled passion and power seeped from not only her pores but her boobs and vagina too. On my topical discovery of her German-Babe-body I felt that she was not just soaking wet between her legs but her chest was dripping with what I assumed was sweat.

Sure, it was a warm evening on a Los Christianos Beach but this was more than I expected. She was nothing like Veronique and Isabella, who were passionate and wild but didn’t push me around, they didn’t try to control me and they didn’t turn in to Sponge Bob’s girlfriend just kissing a guy.

Ten minutes in to kissing she raised her upper body while straddling me between her legs, looked at me and smiled, naughtily lowering the zipper-clip half way down, releasing her enormous round breasts as soon the zipper passed internet casino her erect nipples.

I had not only never seen breasts pop right out of a white overall, but certainly not expect milk to ooze out of nipples inches away from my mouth, dripping down all over her dark tan belly on to my shirt. She felt for my erection and said in German “Bitte sauge meine Nippel, komm schon, trink meine Milch.” (“Please suck my nipple. Come on, drink my milk”).

She then explained “I have what’s called galactorrhea, in my case a self induced condition…I love to have my nipples stimulated….do you mind?”

As she said that, not waiting for an answer, she pressed her left boob in to my face and guided her nipple in to my mouth. Small pulsating streams of sweet milk flooded my tongue.

At first I spat it out in to the sand, only to be scolded by her, “Why don’t you drink it?! It is good for you…drink it, suck me…please.” And she pushed my face back in position, then gently stroking my hair, until she pulled out her nipple to kiss me and then switched breasts.

A few minutes and a bunch of small gulps later I realized that it actually tasted great and turned me on enormously. It may have helped that she started to rub my balls and cock through the fabric of my slacks.

It didn’t take long for her to open up my fly, pulled my cock out in to the open, spat in her hand and started to jerk me off in slow, long twisting motion…ever so professionally. At least the thought of it went through my head, –that prostitutes back in Amsterdam would do something like that.

I sat across a few pretty women in trains who, in one instance not only didn’t wear undies, and told me they were “working” girls and if I gave them a short ride to the Red-light district on my motor bike they’d would show me what that meant.

Happy to drop them off, which was quite a ride, but far too afraid to do anything, I kissed them goodbye and never saw them again. But this ‘thing’ Vivianne did is what I expected them to have done to me, just for starters.

It may have been about fifteen minutes before her breast where no longer producing milk and she got up, took off her outfit and planted her juicy bald pussy straight on my mouth reversed cow-girl style.

And without hesitation took my hard cock in her mouth while gently moving her hips, tilting her pelvis as to rub her clit over my tongue and nose. Her pussy tasted like honey water. Isabella and Veronique always tasted wonderful, clean and watery, but Vivianne’s had this strong sweet taste, just amazing.

Thinking of the pineapples I was told to eat to enhance the flavor of my boy-juice I was about to ask what Vivianne did to make her juices taste that way…suspecting, if there was ever a way to do it she’d know.

But asking questions about the science of pussy flavors while she straddled me, rubbing her passport to heaven over the very same mouth that was supposed to verbalize these questions seemed to be a frivolous. Perhaps a good question for later, once I got to know her better, after I had already licked, fucked and suckled her amazing body.

This was a crazy but very welcome reversal of common sense!

I felt Vivianne’s lips move up and down my cock. She moaned “cum in my mouth, let go, let go.” It was just then I saw five human figures stand about ten yards away, staring at us, quietly, wide eyed and fixated on Vivianne’s boobs.

But then again it could have been the convincing and very promising sight of my cock in her mouth. I turned back to licking her labia, making sure I put the important Parisian lessons to practice, sucking and circling her clitorus as well as I could, given that her whole ass covered most of my face.

When I managed to mumble about there being an audience Vivianne perked up for a moment, looked over at the moon-lit unrecognizable silhouettes, smiled and went straight back where she left off. People looking at me while “eating out” a big boob’ed lady, blowing my cock within 30 minutes of meeting, were all new highlights at the onset of my forage of sexual discovery.

That wasn’t all I was about to explore. Suddenly Vivianne raised her ass from my face and climaxed, squeezing her legs so tight that I had a hard time breathing. She even stopped sucking my sloppy cock and balls, dripping from her saliva.

“Now you have to give it to me,” she mumbled as she went back down to finish off what she so eagerly started while these mysterious eagle-eye’d locals or tourists were still quietly enjoying the show.

At that point I was used to being sucked to orgasm. Veronique and Isabella had not wasted any time making sure to drain me as soon my balls had barely replenished the previous load, often only harvesting a few drops, so the extra eyeballs trained on my cramping sack was no longer going to suppress any of the pleasure.

It surprised me how little it mattered to me, even encouraged me to make sure I didn’t skip a beat, thrusting my cock deeper in to her pretty mouth. And, as with all things, including fear of judgement and pain, all wonderful things too come to an end and when my back arched and leg muscles started to cramp up I knew that my dutifully restored supply of “boy milk” was about to change ownership.

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