Whores Make Great Wives Pt. 01

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FRENCH WHORES MAKE GREAT WIVES

(An interview with Gaspardo Del Tornet)

{The teller of this tale, Gaspardo Del Tornet, talks of his life experience. Gaspardo is a French citizen born in Aix-en-Provence of a father who was very strict, being a Sergeant in the French military, and born of a French Moroccan mother, who was a baker, specializing in chocolate filled beignets. Gaspardo is now 93 years old and has recounted his life’s adventures as herein dictated to the writer known as Erectus. The interview starts with Gaspard speaking.}

My first wife Jean, God rest her soul, was, I’m not ashamed to say it, she was a French street whore. At the worst she may have been the most common of a common street whore who plied her trade among common men. For every man who has a cock, there comes a time he has need to find a willing chamber in which he can vent those poisons that the almighty has insinuated in the very spleen of mankind. Above all, my dear wife, Jean De Tormet was a fine person who was not only honest but treated people in the most Christian manner, and God knows, she alleviated the poisons in many a man’s spleen.

Jean used to work the streets back in the 1960’s, that surround the huge Flea Market in Paris, which is still found there on the Rue des Rosiers. Famous the world over for its fine antiques and unique offerings, many of the peddlers and antique dealers who displayed there were her regular customers, and many tourists found her beauty, charms and professional skills most irresistible.

In her day she was one of the most beautiful whores to work the streets. She no doubt would have earned more in a bordello but she didn’t want to be under a pimp or boss, she loved her freedom and always remained independent. Of course, she always dyed her brown hair to a honey blonde, she had big natural breasts with full perky nipples, probably bigger than the ever popular Bardot but with a narrow waist just like Brigitte who she resembled. In the evening she was often mistaken for the starlet, which is ridiculous, what would Bardot be doing whoring on the street under a night lamp? But men live in a fantasy world and Jean had every right to take advantage of their sexual stupidity. But the truth was she was a near look alike, it was uncanny, I must say that whenever we went places together, people would point and often come up to us to ask for her autograph.

Jean was extremely intelligent, spoke pieces of several languages. When approached by foreigners she could get by in sex banter with the Chinese in Mandarin, with Indians in Urdu and with the blackest of Africans in Swahili, she could even trade Brooklyn slang with the Yanks and if she could not communicate with words, she would use sign language. And for those clients who prefer quiet, her face could communicate all the necessary emotions while her mouth did all the work or the preparation for what comes next.

Why would I marry street whore? Well for the very simple reason that I am a romantic. I fell in love with her. Above all, you don’t’ try to reform a street whore. You accept the reality of their profession as if they were a missionary who promotes sexual wellness. And above all, you must never be jealous of her clients. Her regulars all fell in love with her and most of them loved me as I was her husband, and they were thankful I was there to keep her well and protected. As long as you do not interfere with your wife’s satisfying their needs, her clients will consider you a brother. I counted her best customers among my closest friends and through this long life they have often come to both our aid, like Dr. Monet, but that is a story for another time.

Of course, Jean was an expert at sex, more expert in fact than any woman I had ever met, and I’d bedded many before, during and after the wedding. She was an expert at fellatio, she could swallow a 12 inch penis as easily as a peppermint stick, she could jerk off a man as easily as milking a goat for cheese, her vulva was as fuckable and redeeming as a priest’s benediction after a confession and her clitorous seemed to have a hidden trigger that could elicit a flood of cum from the most recalcitrant customer.

As you might expect it was an open marriage, I like to say we were both open to anything, but in the end we were always together. We were married for over 40 years, of course she retired from her chosen profession five years after we married. That had been her plan from the start.

How did I get to know her? Well, as Maurice Chevalier would say in Gigi, “I remember it well.”

It was a warm summer night. The air in the city was thick with food smells, garlic and onion, fish stew, Moroccan dishes and the rising scent of fresh baked bread from the Arab kitchens in the ghetto area. At that time I was a student at the Sorbonne. My speciality was the translation of French into English, if you have read Francois Rabelais or Arthur Rimbaud it was probably one of my translations. Translation is a difficult chore when demetevler escort it comes to conveying not only the meaning but also the subtleties and that special “color” that French writers seem to have a monopoly on. Translating Kafka’s into English, or Thomas Mann, -that’s easy, but try translating Guy de Maupassant into English—forget it.

Anyway, how did I meet Jean? I had spent the evening in the with Roberto, an exiled Cuban poet, who worked for a politically sensitive Spanish newspaper, Pasquale, a want to be Italian revolutionary and political science major and also a fervid communist and dear Pierre, a fine artist and illustrator of those bucolic court scenes you have no doubt seen hanging in lawyers offices around the world, at that time he was enrolled in the university medical program but seemed dissatisfied with becoming a doctor and taking over his father’s thriving practice in the province.

We all were seated at a small table in the Bar de Champs, the four of us.

Pasquale back then fancied himself as a revolutionary, a Che Guevara, but today he is a fat bouswa who has inherited his father’s vineyards in Italy and is more adept at exploiting the peasants in the neighborhood than improving their lot, I’m sure it was Pasquale who said,

“Shall we all not all go whoring tonight?”

And being young students with little money we argued amongst ourselves as to how we might afford the treasure of one of the madonnas of the night. We were all too poor to have liaisons with girls our age and although masturbation is a young man’s vice, it never held the fascination of a ripe vagina. But how might we afford one? Pierre brought the discussion to an end when he generously offered,

“I sold a painting yesterday, there should be enough for a four-fuck but it would be nice if each of you could contribute what you can.”

So we all three dug into our pockets and threw our coins and any small paper francs and pocket lint onto the table. Pierre collected the money and counted it out and then added a number of larger notes to top it off. With our new found financial strength we figured we could manage. Of course Pasquale, the big talker, nominated himself to negotiate for us,

“If we all make love to the same girl she would charge less for four fast fucks then if we were to choose four separate whores,”

We seemed to be in agreement on that point, besides, it was in the spirit of comradery to share and share alike.

“We are the four mouse-keteers,” joked Roberto.

Needless to say, this all took place back when the pill had become standard ammunition for prostitutes and HIV had not raised its ugly head, when pleasure fucking was not something that put your life in danger.

Pierre led us to the alley where his old Citroen Ami was parked. We piled into Pierre’s car which was a sort of small SUV/ station wagon that was popular and cheap in those days. The battery failed to start the car, it gave up after two weak tries. We got out and rolled the car back and forth a bit until we could get it’s wheels fully onto the cobblestone roadway. From there we push started it. That seemed to do the trick, the car sped forwards about thirty meters and we all ran forward where Pierre awaited us, smoking a Gauloise.

He drove us to the San Cloud suburb as two of my friends mooched his cigarettes as the car quickly filled with smoke.

“Open the windows, I can hardly see,” said Pierre.

San Cloud was obviously an area where Pierre seemed to know every alley as well as every whore on the streets. Of course we vetoed a number of fat whores standing under the lampposts who were excessively vulgar. One even lifted up her skirt to show off her vagina when we passed by, quickly picking up speed. When we didn’t stop, she shouted after us,

“You are all fags.”

When we happened upon a whore worthy of our attention, one who we all thought was attractive, the car slowed and Pasquale jumped out and started to negotiate, laying out the economic advantage of a foursome but soon he was overcome by her bad smell. He jumped back into the car saying,

“Boys, she must have syphilis, she smells like a sour herring.”

Finally it was getting late, around 1:30am, we happened up a petite but delectible treat, there in the morning fog she appeared, like a savoir out of a mirage. This was the first time I ever saw Jean, a 5’4 inch blond who had a striking resemblance to a famous starlet of the day. Once we spied her everyone was in quick agreement, but could we afford her? Being good looking she was sure to cost more money than we had.

Pasquale again exited the smoke filled vehicle to negotiate, he tried to explain why it was to her advantage to fuck all of us at a discount as she stood there looking bored. He then veered into a political argument asking her if she would support his favorite leftist candidates in the upcoming election. He assumed she was a perfect voter to support his party. She listened dikmen escort but at a certain point she interrupted him,

“Listen you stupid ass, I am a capitalist, I sell my twat for real money, I don’t pay taxes and I don’t vote leftist. As for the government, they can lick my ass and as for the four of you, if you don’t waste my time and afterwards drive me to Rue de Carnot—- I will charge you only for three fucks but I’ll accommodate all four of you.”

A brief accounting took place, then agreement. We opened he door and squeezed together to make room for her, she smelled like expensive french perfume and her hair was stiff with hairspray, her tits were overflowing her tight bodice.

“Drive to the Park Dumont,” she commanded as she was the queen.

“Yes my Lady,” said Pierre and we were off.

We arrived at the Park Dumont, one of the few parks that were not shuttered or barred after midnight. There was an old wooden band shell erected for the music festival that was set for the weekend.

“Shush,” she said, and we followed her into the back of band shell where someone had left an old mattress. Pierre had carried a blanket from the car, I guessed he must have know of this place, he spread the blanket over the narrow mattress.

Before performing, as any whore will do, she put out her hand and Pierre paid her the sum they had agreed on.

“Who goes first?” said Jean.

Pierre, who had shouted, “I’m first,”I’m first,” unzipped his pants and dropped them onto the wooden floor with a clink, he must have left his car keys in the pocket. Jean got on her knees on the blanket covered mattress, reached out and in one quick jerk lowered his underwear, a sorry pair of shorts with several rips that sadly revealed our real economic status. Reaching out she firmly grabbed his flaccid cock. She watched his expression to see if her squeezing was causing him any pain.He obviously passed the test because seconds later she just about swallowed his cock whole.

When he started thrusting she released his cock from her ruby lips, his cock was now robustly erect. She leaned back, reclining and pulled up her mini skirt, of course she had no panties on. Pierre arranged himself over her and in less than half a minute he had his release. As soon as he finished she pushed him off, “God, you smell like a pig, don’t you ever wash.” He sheepishly retired to the darkness.

Pasqualli, being an Italian from Emilia Romagna favored a blow job which he referred to as a “boccino” (a little mouth). Jean got on her knees and began servicing him as soon as she’d examined his cock. He took a long time to cum, probably on purpose, he’d been playing with his cock in the car and had probably already cum. This was his idea of getting his money’s worth. After four or five minutes she tired and stopped sucking and started jerking him off, this seemed to work and about thirty seconds later he reached out and cupping her head pulled her close to suck his cock again and almost immediately he shot her a full mouthful of cum. She choked and pulled away, spitting his load onto the grass.

“What you don’t swallow?”

“Do I look like I need more protein,” she commented.

Next in line was Roberto, I had volunteered to go last.

“I want to fuck you in the ass,” he said and he spun her, “turn around bitch.”

“You can fuck your mother in the ass, not me,” and she turned back to face him.

“OK, but when you see the size of my cock you are going to wish you took it in the ass.”

He leaned her up against the car hood, lifted her skirt and in one quick motion forced his swollen cock right into her honey spot. She winced as he forced his way into her vagina.

I imagined that Roberto, watching our friend Pasquale get off, had become excited. He came almost immediately holding her ass with both hands, her legs wrapped around him as he squirted cum shot after cum shot into her.

“You fucking whore,” he swore in Cuban Spanish, “I fuck you and your mother. You made me cum too soon.”

Jean turned to me, “Does he always act like this?” and turning to Roberto, “you have a nice cock, you should learn how to use it, you give a woman no pleasure at all.”

Roberto swore and tucked his wet dripping cock back into his pants.

I knew I was up next and I figured I would have earned one cum soaked pussy, well lubed by my two best friends cocks, but at that moment I spotted a police guard approaching, he was shouting,

“Messieurs, what are you doing here. Didn’t you see the sign, this area is off bounds after 10pm.”

Not wanting to have a confrontation with the cop, French cops can be very nasty, my friends scattered, jumping into the car and taking of leaving us behind. Jean and I moved to the clearing behind us and we hid behind a large Oak tree. Eventually the policeman found us,

“Ah so it is you Jean. I should have guessed.” He looked jealously at me.

“Well get the fuck out of here or I’ll have to arrest ankara escort the both of you.”

Looking at Jean, “Remember, you owe me one.”

“Of course Henry, of course, more than one if you like.”

We scampered towards the street.

“Do you know that cop.”

“Henry, ah yes, his cock is the smallest on the police force.”

We both laughed. When we arrived at the street, I said,

“I must apologize for the bad manners of my friend. To show you my regrets I will forego my turn to make love to you.”

“I like you, you are a gentleman, what is your name?” said Jean,.

“Gaspardo, but you can call me Tome, all my friends do.”

“Well Tome, I don’t want you to lose your turn, a bargain is a bargain. There is a Metro station near by. Come, I’ll take you home with me.”

So off we walked into the cool night, the slender sliver of moon lay sideways, like a thin boat,as it lit our way. Most of the store lights by now were dimmed along the streets. We found the stairs to the Metro under a luminous yellow street lamp, bought our tickets and rode the subway train on its big rubber tire for about 10 minutes until we arrived at Rue de Carnot, where the small Italian cafe bar was still open.

“Come with me, we’ll get a coffee.”

She ordered two coffee espressos, and two glasses of cognac, “this will warm you up,” she said. She could see I was chilled, although I hadn’t mentioned it, I had left my jacket in the car.

Whe the grey haired barman stood before us, whom I’d judged to be Italian, if only for his distinctive large nose, and smiled at both of us, It was no surprise that he knew her,

“Merci Piero, Put it on my account please.”

“Wee, madam. And Buona Notte (a good night) to both of you.”

After we finished our drinks, Jean took me by the hand and led me out into the street, then around the corner to a grey building covered with peeling paint where there was a small entry way,

“Here, come with me .”

We entered the dim lit hall, a bare yellow light came from a single small bulb which allowed me to see the stairs at the end of the corridor. I followed her up two flights of stairs, admiring her tight little ass as the mini skirt rode up a bit with each step she climbed. At the top of the stairs she paused in front of a worn discolored door and she withdrew a key from her small purse.

“We are here, come inside.”

She switched on the light and I entered the small room.

The room was tiny, a small bed, a bureau and a sink. The bathroom must have been down the hall in common with the other tenants.

“Have a seat,” she said motioning me toward a bent cane chair next to the small bed.

Oh my God, my pussy is sore from your friends, that last one’s cock was so wide that he almost split me in half.”

“You won’t have that problem with me,” I said sheepishly. We all knew Roberto had an enormous cock.

“If I’d know how big your friend’s cock was I would have let him fuck me in the ass, but that takes some preparation.”

“I’m sorry for you, I apologize.”

She leaned closer and kissed me on the cheek, “you are the sweet one.”

I must have blushed there in the dim light. She opened a small refrigerator half hidden behind the door and took out a white tube of what looked like an antibiotic cream, squeezed some onto her finger and rubbed it on between her legs. She turned to me, her mini dress still raised up in the air. I was able to make out her dark curly pubic hair that was shaved enough to show her vaginal lips.

“See how red I am,” she said.

“This is no way to make a living., I added”

I apologized again for my friend but she paid no attention,

“Do you know I’d rather shave my pussy but some men get upset if you have no hair.”

“No hair is nice, it’s like a showgirl.”

She laughed, “ah yes I’m a show girl, I show my cunt to who ever pays to see it.”

She laughed again. “Your friend with the big cock, he wanted my ass but instead it is going to be yours tonight, I can’t take another cock in my vagina tonight, oh no.”

“How many times did you make love tonight? Oh I’m sorry,” I said, “that question is indiscreet.”

“It’s alright, do you really want to know?”

I nodded.

“With your two friends, a blow job doesn’t count, I had 11 cocks in my pussy tonight, but if only your friends cock were not so big I’d be alright. Some nights I’ve had as many as 20 and God knows how many blowjobs, the sucks, they are easy, except for a sore neck in the morning I don’t pay attention to how many of those I do in a night.”

“You must be earning well,” I said. “Another indiscreet statement. I’m sorry.”

“What are you plans for the future,” I asked, “you can’t keep this up forever.”

She smiled slyly, “I’ll tell you. I’m saving up to buy a wine store my cousin in Nice wants to sell, he wants to retire in a few years, by then I’ll have saved enough and it it will be mine.”

“Oh how wonderful, I’m sorry you have to work so hard.”

“Why are you always apologizing, be a man. Give me a few minutes to get myself ready and my ass is yours, that is if you still want it?”

“Oh yes, I do madam, take your time there is no rush.”

“Here, take off your cloths and rest here on the bed.”

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