It was Clive and Nancy Rutherford’s first wedding anniversary, and they had chosen to spend it in Paris. For much of the day they had rushed around the most famous sights, taking photos of themselves standing under the Arc de Triomphe and hanging on to the railings high up in the Eiffel Tower as a sharp wind buffeted them. By six o’clock they were both worn out, and looking forward to having dinner at the Chez François restaurant on the Rue de Paradis. Nancy was wearing an outfit she had bought the day before – a red cotton mini-dress with a low neckline, and matching shoes with two-inch heels. Clive was looking dapper in a pale yellow shirt and a navy blue tie that matched his neatly-pressed trousers.
Of the two of them, Clive was looking forward to this meal the least. He was not keen on French food. Nor, for that matter, was he keen on Italian food, or Chinese, or Thai, or indeed anything that was not good old-fashioned English fare like his mother used to make. Except for curry, of course – but that was something his mother also used to make. He harboured an especial antipathy towards French food, although this was more a result of a general dislike of the French people than a distaste for the food itself. This trip, needless to say, had been Nancy’s idea – she had for years wanted to visit France and, in particular, Paris.
Nevertheless he was putting his best food forward as he followed his wife through the door into the restaurant. He smiled, albeit a little curtly, at the waiter who led them to their table, and thanked him as he was handed a menu. As he looked through the list of starters and main courses, he grimaced at the unpronounceable names.
“Would you like some wine, Monsieur?” asked the waiter.
Wine! Now that was something the French did well. “Yes please,” said Clive. “Could we have a bottle of Merlot?”
“Certainly Monsieur,” said the waiter. He turned and walked away.
“See anything you fancy?” Clive asked his wife.
Nancy nodded. “I rather think I’ll have the Gratin de Moules to start with.”
“And that would be…?”
“Mussels,” she said with a smile.
“Ugh,” said Clive, shuddering. “Nasty slimy things – can’t understand why you’d want to eat them.” He sighed. “I can’t read this foreign rubbish – is there anything on here that you think I’ll like?”
“As a starter?” she said. “Um, let’s see – how about a salad? It’ll have tomatoes, of course, but you can always take them out.”
“Should be all right,” Clive agreed. “How about a main course?”
“There’s a dish with chicken in a white wine sauce with mushrooms and asparagus,” said Nancy. “How about that?”
“Not bad apart from the asparagus,” said Clive. “I suppose I can work around them. I don’t suppose it says what else is in the sauce apart from wine, does it? What’s wrong with plain old gravy, I’d like to know?”
“It’s boring!” said Nancy, smiling at her husband’s boorishness. “I’m sure the sauce will be lovely.”
“Oh very well – I’ll go for that then. Do you think they’d be willing to serve it with peas instead of asparagus?”
Nancy chuckled. “I don’t know – you can always ask.”
“And will it come with potatoes?” Clive asked.
“Probably!” said Nancy. She smiled. “I do love you.”
Clive smiled back at her. “I love you too, Nancy.”
Nancy shivered – she loved the way he said her name.
The waiter returned with the wine, which he deftly poured into Clive’s glass. When he started pouring it into Nancy’s, however, the bottle slipped slightly in his grasp, and the wine inside sloshed down against the bottom, then rushed into the neck, so that a small amount was ejected at a high velocity towards Nancy. She squealed as the wine hit the left side of her chest, and then trickled down the inside of her breast into her cleavage.
“Oh Madame, je suis désolé,” said the waiter, instantly grabbing a napkin and pressing it against the inside of Nancy’s left breast. “I am very sorry.”
“No problem!” Nancy gasped as he wiped the wine off her chest. Some had already run down her belly inside her dress, but fortunately he did not attempt to go after it.
After he had filled her glass, with no further mishaps, he took their orders and headed back to the kitchen. Nancy was feeling quite flustered.
“Well, he certainly took a bit of a liberty there!” she said.
“Yes,” agreed Clive, frowning. “These French folk have no sense of propriety.”
He said this a little louder than Nancy was comfortable with, and she looked around nervously. Several people at nearby tables quickly looked away – she was convinced they had heard what Clive had said.
A little later, the waiter returned with their starters. Nancy watched him a little nervously as he approached. He was carrying a lot of dishes – no doubt saving himself a trip by bringing out food for more than one table – and a shallow bowl, balancing on top, was looking awfully precarious.
Her fears were realised as the dish started to slip. “Ah merde!” muttered the waiter as he tipped the pile of dishes this way and that in an attempt to regain control. But the bowl continued to slip, and eventually he was obliged to dump the rest of the dishes hastily on to the table while he lunged for the falling bowl.
A dish skidding to a halt at the edge of the table splashed soup on to Nancy’s thighs, but she barely noticed. Instead she watched with horror as the flying bowl came sailing towards her. The waiter’s fingers caught the edge of it, tipping it over, and she caught a glimpse of her Gratin de Moules sloshing over the rim, just before the whole thing emptied all over her chest. She yelped in alarm – the sauce was quite hot.
About twenty shell-less mussels, along with a considerable quantity of pale, creamy sauce, cascaded down between her breasts into her cleavage. The rest of the sauce poured down over her breasts on the outside of her dress. The bowl thudded against her collarbone and was immediately retrieved by the waiter.
Nancy, horrified, jumped to her feet, pushing her chair back so suddenly that it fell over. As the mass of sauce and mussels slid down her torso, the waiter reached forward and grasped the front of her dress, pulling it away from her belly. Unfortunately he had reached low, and actually grasped not only her dress but also the waistband of her panties, so that as he pulled back, her panties were pulled open at the front. The elastic snapped back after a second or so, but not before six or seven mussels, as well as a little sauce, had slid down into her panties. Nancy shuddered as she felt them against her pussy, slowly oozing downwards and backwards between her legs.
“Oh Madame, once again I am very sorry,” said the waiter, producing a napkin and starting to wipe Nancy’s chest.
“Now look here,” said Clive angrily. “This is the second time you’ve spilled something on my wife. I demand to see the manager!”
The waiter had just started wiping Nancy’s right breast, cupping it through the napkin and rubbing in a circular motion. He stopped and turned to Clive. “Of course, Monsieur – I will fetch him immediately.” He hurried off towards the back of the restaurant.
“I think perhaps I should go and clean up,” said Nancy.
“Not just yet, darling,” said Clive. “I want the manager to see what that waiter did to you.”
“All right,” said Nancy with a sigh. She picked up her chair and sat back down, wincing as the mussels squished against her labia and vaginal opening. “Just please don’t make a scene!” She hated being the centre of attention in public places, and she especially hated it when Clive made a fuss in restaurants. Usually it was about some trivial complaint about the food. This time, however, she had to admit he had cause for complaint.
The manager arrived at their table, with the waiter at his side. He looked down at Nancy’s chest, then said, “I do apologise, Monsieur and especially Madame, for this appalling accident. Naturally, your meal tonight will be on the house.”
“Too right it will be!” said Clive, somewhat mollified. “I hope you’ll be disciplining your waiter, too. Dock him a week’s pay, or something.”
“I assure you he will be disciplined,” said the manager. He turned to the waiter. “Gaston! Nettoie ce désordre immédiatement!”
The waiter, whose name was apparently Gaston, quickly started to pick up the dishes he had dumped on to the table. One of them was Clive’s salad, which he placed in front of Clive.
The manager turned to Nancy. “I will have the kitchen prepare another Gratin de Moules immediately. Once again, my deepest apologies for this incident.”
Nancy thanked him. When both he and Gaston had left the table, she mouthed to her husband, “He groped my breast!”
“Hmm?” said Clive, his brow furrowing.
Nancy tried again. “He groped my breast!” she mouthed silently.
“Ego pat map red?” said Clive.
Nancy rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “I’m off to the bathroom to clean up.” She got to her feet and headed for the back of the restaurant.
She found a door with the letters “W.C.” inscribed on the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked. She folded her arms and waited. After a couple of minutes, she heard the sound of a flush, and a minute after that, the door opened and a short but rotund man came out. He walked past her, wafting with him a cloud of foul-smelling vapour.
Nancy returned to her table. “Bad timing,” she said. “There’s only one toilet, and it totally stinks in there right now.”
Gaston now arrived with a bucket full of water and a large sponge. “May I clean ze floor?” he said to Nancy.
Nancy pulled back her chair and waited while he knelt down and wiped up the rest of the mussels and sauce from the floor. At one point he glanced up at her knees, and she realised nervously that he could probably see up her dress. She self-consciously crossed her legs, causing one of the mussels in her panties to actually slip between her labia.
Clive finished his salad and put down his fork. “Well,” he said, “smelly or not, I’m going to brave the bathroom. Back in a mo.” He got up and went off towards the toilet.
Once he had cleaned the floor and rung out the sponge, Gaston said, “Madame, your legs have some sauce on I think.” To Nancy’s embarrassment, he started rubbing his sponge up and down her left thigh.
“Er, yes, thank you,” said Nancy. “I think I’ll just clean myself up, though.”
Gaston shrugged. “Ze manager says I ‘ave to clean up ze mess, so I clean up ze mess.” He wet his sponge again and started sponging her right thigh. This time he pushed her dress almost all the way up to her panties.
“That’s quite clean enough, thanks!” Nancy gasped, pulling her dress back down.
Gaston wet his sponge again, and then slapped it against Nancy’s chest. “Je m’excuse,” he said, “mais zere is sauce all over your chest.” He started squishing the sponge against her skin and rubbing it around. Water poured into her cleavage, and she gasped.
“This really isn’t necessary!” she said. She glanced desperately across at the next table, but the middle-aged couple seated there were simply watching her in amusement.
Gaston went back for more water, and this time he planted his sodden sponge squarely on to Nancy’s left breast, the material of her dress becoming instantly soaked, along with her flimsy bra beneath. He wiped and rubbed with the sponge, though with his large hand enclosing her entire breast, it felt more like an erotic massage than an attempt to clean her. He did not linger long, however, and was soon soaking the front of her dress, with repeated visits to his bucket of water, all the way down to her panties.
She thought he was done at this point, but then she gasped with shock as he soaked his sponge yet again and thrust it down into her cleavage. “Really!” she protested as he wiped her belly directly with his forearm now completely inside her dress. “This is most improper!”
He withdrew his arm. “I ‘ave finished now,” he said with a shrug. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
When Clive returned to the table, he was astonished to see the state of Nancy’s dress. “You’re soaked through!” he exclaimed.
“Hush!” she said. “Our waiter decided to take his manager’s instructions literally, and cleaned me as well as the floor and table.”
“My God!” said Clive. “Wait until I tell the manager about this!”
“Don’t,” Nancy pleaded. “Just let it go. I don’t want to make any more of a fuss about this.”
Clive scowled. “But he molested you!”
“Shh! Please! I’m not sure I would quite call it that,” she said. “Let’s just try to enjoy the rest of our meal.”
Clive frowned, but nodded.
When Gaston returned with a fresh bowl of mussels for Nancy, he set it down in front of her without incident. Clive, however, was not about to sit idly by.
“Isn’t there another waiter here?” he demanded. “I want another waiter.”
“Not at ze moment,” said Gaston. “Zere is supposed to be Marie, but she is not well zis evening.”
“Hmmph,” said Clive.
As Nancy ate her mussels, she said, “Mmm, this sauce is amazing.”
“Good,” said Clive. “At least this meal isn’t a total disaster, then.”
“How was your salad?”
“Didn’t like the dressing,” said Clive. “Otherwise it was all right, I suppose.”
Sensing that he was still brooding about Gaston’s behaviour, Nancy changed the subject. “Remember when we went to London?” she said. “And you had that omelette?”
Clive laughed. “Oh, don’t remind me!” he said. “All those people in that lift – I felt so bad for them, but it was pretty funny.”
“I’m convinced they all thought it was the guy in the raincoat – you know, the one who looked like he was homeless or something.”
“Well he did incriminate himself somewhat by getting off at the next floor,” said Clive.
“He was probably desperate to get away from the smell!”
Clive chuckled. “Well yes, I’m sure he was. I’m surprised more people didn’t get out, actually – God that was pungent.”
Nancy giggled. “Okay,” she said. “This time I’m definitely going to the bathroom.”
Clive’s smile faded. “Didn’t Gaston already clean you?” he said sardonically.
Nancy sighed. “Yes, but I just need to empty…” Then she stopped, not wanting to admit that she had mussels in her panties. “…my bladder,” she finished.
Clive nodded, and Nancy got to her feet. Hurrying to the toilet, she groaned in frustration as she found the door locked again. She went back to the table and sat down, squishing several mussels against her pussy. “Occupied,” she said.
Gaston returned to collect Nancy’s bowl, and soon afterwards he brought out their main courses. Once again he was performing a delicate balancing act, only this time the food was all theirs. In addition to the plate bearing Clive’s chicken, and the plate with Nancy’s Matelote, there were also dishes of vegetables and potatoes for them both.
Wisely, Gaston went to Clive’s side of the table first, and his pile of dishes wobbled precariously as he attempted to let go of it with one hand in order to grab Clive’s chicken plate with the other. As the dish on top of the pile slipped, he grabbed at it and lowered the pile towards the table. In doing so, he bumped into Clive’s glass of wine, knocking it over.
“Jesus Christ!” yelled Clive as wine poured off the table and on to his crotch. He leaped up and hurried to the bathroom, covering his groin with his hands.
“I am very sorry,” said Gaston, looking not remotely remorseful. He put Clive’s food down, then carried Nancy’s dishes over to her side of the table. Then the plate in his right hand slipped, and tipped towards Nancy, and its contents surged towards the lower end. Gaston quickly tried to recover, making a scooping motion with the plate in order to keep its contents inside … but the manoeuvre did not work and he merely ended up catapulting a third of its contents into a trajectory that seemed terribly familiar to Nancy.
The dish she had ordered, Matelote d’Alsace, was in fact simply a traditional French fish stew. Fortunately it was not burning hot, but it was hot enough to elicit a shriek from Nancy as it splattered across her chest and the front of her dress, and a large piece of fish dropped into her cleavage.
“Ah merde!” said Gaston, leaping forward with a napkin as Nancy jumped to her feet. He started wiping her chest, then he looked sorrowfully at her dress. “Ah, it is covered,” he said, shaking his head. “I must wash it.”
His accent was a little hard to understand, and he was already unzipping the back of her dress before Nancy figured it out. “You can’t take my dress off!” she said in great alarm.
“But it is covered in ‘ot Matelote,” said Gaston. “It will burn you.” He pulled her dress off her shoulders and tugged it swiftly down to her ankles. “Lift your feet.”
Nancy awkwardly covered her bra and panties with her hands as she sat back down, mortified, in her chair. She was acutely aware of the looks the other diners were giving her, and her cheeks were blushing furiously in embarrassment.
“I will return zis, immediatement,” said Gaston.
He hurried away, and when he returned a moment later, he did not have the dress. What he did have, however, was his bucket full of soapy water, and his sponge. Without warning or waiting for permission, he soaked his sponge and started washing Nancy’s chest and bra, which was made of lace and quickly turned rather transparent. Soapy water ran in rivulets down her belly and started soaking her panties.
Gaston stopped scrubbing, and picked up her plate in his left hand. “I will go and get you some more of this,” he said.
“Oh there’s no need, there’s plenty left,” said Nancy, folding her arms across her chest and feeling very uncomfortable. She wished Clive would come back.
As her panties became wetter and wetter, they became more and more transparent. Gaston, glancing down, furrowed his brow as a single, lonely mussel started to show through the thin material. “Excuse-moi,” he said, “but I think you ‘ave a mussel in your underwear.”
“I know!” groaned Nancy, turning crimson and putting her face in her hands. “Just – please go!”
“I will fetch it for you,” said Gaston. He bent down and pulled open the front of her panties with his right hand. Unfortunately he was not paying attention to what his left hand was doing, and the dish he held started to tip. Stew began to gather at the end nearest Nancy. As Gaston tugged Nancy’s waistband further away from her skin, the lone mussel started dropping further downwards.
“No – leave it!” said Nancy, gasping as she took her hands away from her face.
But Gaston was intrigued by Nancy’s shaved pussy, and also how the mussel seemed to be running away from him as he pulled Nancy’s panties more open. As it dropped between her thighs, the plate in his left hand tipped even further, and started to dump its contents … directly into Nancy’s open panties. Three large chunks of fish, along with plenty of sauce and noodles, thudded against her pussy. Gaston immediately let go of her waistband, which snapped back against her skin, trapping the fish chunks, the mussels, and everything else. Sauce from the plate continued to pour on to the outside of Nancy’s panties until he had the presence of mind to tip it back to the horizontal again.
This had all happened in the space of a couple of seconds, after which Nancy gasped with indignation. “Just … go!” she said.
But Gaston was soaking his sponge. “I will just clean your underwear,” he said, squeezing the sponge against the front of Nancy’s panties. As he rubbed it around, a couple of the fish chunks inside became crushed up into smaller pieces, which were then mashed against Nancy’s pussy. Nancy tolerated this for only a moment before she pushed his hand away.
“Forget it!” she said. “Just go and get the manager, please.”
“Oh Madame, do you want me to lose zis job?” said Gaston mournfully.
“You should have thought about that before you started dumping my food all over me!” hissed Nancy with uncharacteristic fierceness.
“But I have three children – how will I feed zem?” he said desperately.
Nancy sighed. “All right all right – just go and get me some more food.” The dish of stew was practically empty.
Gaston nodded and headed off back to the kitchen, just as Clive was returning from the bathroom with a large wet patch on the front of his trousers. He stared at Nancy in amazement. “What the hell?” he said.
“He spilled on me again,” groaned Nancy. “And this time he took my dress off so he could clean it.”
Clive stared at her bra, through which her nipples were showing fairly clearly. At this point he was conflicted: on the one hand he was outraged that their incompetent waiter had taken such a liberty with his wife … but on the other, he found it quite arousing that Nancy was sitting here in the middle of a crowded restaurant in just her underwear. He shook himself.
“I’ll complain to the manager again,” he said. “This is intolerable. Do you want to go and hide in the bathroom until we get your dress back?”
Nancy shook her head. “I can’t get up,” she whispered hoarsely.
Clive looked surprised. “Why not?” he inquired.
Nancy looked around uneasily, then she beckoned to him. Clive got to his feet and came around the table. “What?” he said.
“My panties are full of fish and mussels!” she whispered in his ear.
Clive’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he demanded. “How?”
She shuddered. “Don’t ask,” she muttered. “Suffice to say that I’m not about to get up and walk to the bathroom with bulging panties. Who knows what people will think?”
“All right,” said Clive, nodding. “I’ll get the manager, and ask him to make sure we get your dress back as soon as humanly possible. In the meantime, are you sure you’re all right sitting there in just your bra and panties? I’d offer you my shirt, but I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
“It’s all right,” said Nancy unconvincingly. “It’s warm.”
“The French are much more relaxed about public nudity than the English are,” offered Clive by way of encouragement.
Nancy responded with a withering look.
When Gaston returned with Nancy’s Matelote, Clive said, “I’d like to speak with the manager again please.”
Gaston glanced at Nancy, then replied, “Ah, he is on ze telephone at the moment. I will ask him to come and see you after he is finished.”
“Very well,” said Clive.
He and Nancy ate their meals mostly in silence. Clive occasionally stole glances at Nancy’s nipples, and found himself becoming quite hard as a result. The fact that he knew her panties were full of fish and seafood was also, curiously, somehow erotic.
He finished his chicken dish. “Actually that was rather good,” he said.
Nancy looked at him in surprise. “Wow,” she said. “You actually enjoyed a foreign dish?”
He chuckled. “Yes, I actually did,” he said. “Yours all right?”
She nodded. “Yes, I certainly can’t fault the food here. It’s the service…”
“Indeed,” agreed Clive. “Where the hell is that manager?”
Gaston returned to collect their plates, and Clive fixed him with a stern look.
“Gaston, where’s the manager?”
“Ah,” said Gaston, “he is … on ze telephone again. He was on so long before zat I forget to tell him to come and see you. I will not forget again. Would you like some dessert?”
“No thank you,” said Clive firmly. “We’ll just see the manager, collect my wife’s dress, and get out of here.”
“Ah but ze dress is still in the washing machine,” said Gaston. “It is almost done, but then I will ‘ave to dry it. You might as well ‘ave some dessert in ze meantime – it is on the ‘ouse after all.”
“True,” said Clive. “All right, what have you got?”
Gaston reeled off eight or nine desserts, of which one sounded comfortingly familiar to Clive. “Ooh, chocolate mousse,” he said. “I’d like one of those.”
“Crème caramel for me, please,” said Nancy.
Gaston disappeared back into the kitchen, and Clive drummed his fingers on the table. “You know,” he said, “I don’t believe we’ll see that manager again if Gaston has anything to do with it. He’s probably worried about his job.”
“He is,” said Nancy. “He told me he has three children to feed.”
“Well I don’t care,” said Clive irritably. “It’s his own fault if he gets fired. I’m going to go and find the manager myself.”
“What, you’re going to leave me here, dressed like this?” said Nancy nervously.
“Well – do you want to come with me?” asked Clive.
“No!” said Nancy. “I told you I can’t get up.”
“I won’t be long,” Clive promised her. He turned and headed after Gaston. Entering the kitchen, he saw Gaston on the far side of the room, talking to a man in white who was probably the chef. There was no sign of the manager, so he slipped through a door on the left-hand side of the room, and found himself in a carpeted hallway. Not far away was the manager, and he was indeed talking on the telephone. He noticed Clive and held up a finger, as if to ask to Clive to wait a moment. Clive waited.
Out in the restaurant, Gaston brought the two desserts to Clive and Nancy’s table. He was also carrying a jug of chocolate sauce which was destined for another table. He managed to put down Clive’s mousse, but as he moved around the table, a man at a nearby table called over, “Gaston! Quelle heure est-il?”
Gaston turned over his wrist to look at his watch, and a torrent of chocolate sauce surged out of the jug he was holding in his left hand. It hit Nancy squarely on her left breast, and poured down over the front of her bra. She squealed in a mixture of exasperation and alarm.
“For heaven’s sake, Gaston!” she said.
Gaston instantly righted the jug, and apologised profusely. “Il est huit heures et quart!” he reported to the man who had asked the time and was now laughing heartily. “Oh, I am sorry again,” he muttered to Nancy as he dropped the jug on the table and picked up a napkin. He wiped her breast with it, but merely succeeded in smearing chocolate over the parts of her bra that had hitherto remained clean. Then he followed the still-flowing chocolate sauce down her belly, wiping as he went, and when he got to her panties, he pulled them out so as to clean them better.
He was not, however, paying attention to the crème caramel he was holding in his right hand. Too late Nancy saw it tip, and the whole custardy mass slide off and descend towards her pussy. Gaston gasped as he saw it land on top of the mashed fish in Nancy’s panties, whereupon he released the waistband and let it close over the top of the squishy dessert. At least, it almost closed – the crème caramel was too bulky to permit the elastic to meet Nancy’s skin properly, however.
“Madame,” he said, reaching around behind her and unfastening her bra. “Chocolate is very ‘ard to get out. I should wash this immediatement.” He pulled it off her shoulders and tugged it down to her elbows.
Nancy gasped and cupped her hands to her breasts, holding her bra cups in place. “You can’t take my bra!” she said. “Everyone will see my…”
“Not if you cover zem,” he said, working her bra down over her wrists and whisking it out from between her hands and her breasts. “I shall return zis … immediatement.”
As Nancy watched him go, she reflected anxiously that the man’s definition of “immediately” clearly differed from her own. She stared down at the table, not wishing to meet the eyes of anyone around her. She was sure they were all staring at her. Did they know that her panties were full of mussels, fish, noodles, a couple of different kinds of sauce, and a huge squishy lump of crème caramel? Of course not – how could they? Unless they were really paying attention… Where on Earth was Clive?
***********************
In fact Clive was tapping his foot impatiently while the manager finished up his phone call. Eventually the little Frenchman hung up. “I do apologise, Monsieur,” he said. “Is something else the matter?”
“Quite frankly, yes,” said Clive. “Your waiter keeps spilling stuff all over my wife, and now he’s taken her dress God knows where in order to clean it…”
“Pardon,” said the manager, looking puzzled. “He took off your wife’s dress?”
“Yes! After he’d spilled fish stew on it! He took it away and said he would clean it and return it immediately. But my poor wife is sitting out there in just her underwear, feeling very embarrassed poor thing, and I would like to complain in the strongest possible terms…”
The manager held up his hand. “Monsieur,” he said. “It is completely unacceptable that Gaston has taken off your wife’s dress. I can only apologise again and immediately retrieve the dress so that your wife can put it on again.”
“Good!” said Clive.
“If you would return to your table, Monsieur, I shall bring the dress to you in a few moments.”
“Well, I’m sure you will,” said Clive levelly. “But forgive me if I am a little sceptical of assurances made in this restaurant. I’d like to come with you and see the job through myself.”
“As you wish,” said the manager, nodding. “Please, follow me. I suspect Gaston has taken the dress to the laundrette next door. I would hope that he has paid for it out of his own pocket rather than using our petty cash box.”
“However he paid for it,” said Clive, “let’s get it back.”
“Of course, of course,” said the manager. “Follow me.”
Clive followed him.
***********************
Gaston returned to Nancy’s table carrying her replacement Crème Caramel. He set it in front of her. “Bon appétit,” he said.
Contriving to cover both of her breasts with one arm, Nancy tucked into her dessert. It was delicious. Then, after she had finished it, she sat and fidgeted while she waited for Clive to get back.
***********************
The manager peered into the dark front window of the laundrette. “I was forgetting,” he said. “It closes at eight o’clock. It will be morning before we can get your wife’s dress back.”
“That’s unacceptable!” said Clive. “I can’t take my wife back to the hotel in her underwear!”
The manager nodded. “I happen to know the owner,” he said. “Let me see if he is willing to help us. Perhaps I could offer him a free meal at the restaurant.” He pulled out a mobile phone and dialled. After listening for a minute, he said, “No answer. But he lives quite close to here – I could jump in the car and fetch him.”
Clive ground his teeth in annoyance. “I’ll come with you,” he said.
***********************
Gaston returned with his bucket and sponge. “Madame,” he said, soaking his sponge, “allow me to clean ze chocolate sauce from your chest.”
“Where’s my husband?” Nancy asked, keeping her arm in position across her chest while Gaston slapped soapy water all around it.
“I ‘ave no idea,” said Gaston. He took her hand and pulled it away from her chest so that he could clean her left breast directly. He enclosed it with the sponge and started to knead and squeeze it.
“He went to find the manager. Perhaps you could go and see what happened to them?” said Nancy desperately.
“Once I ‘ave cleaned you up, of course I will do so,” said Gaston.
Nancy sighed. “Then hurry up and get it over with,” she said.
He pulled her arm away from her right breast and started soaping that one, too … even though it had been untouched by the chocolate. Then he went back to soak the sponge again, and this time started washing off the streaks of chocolate leading down the left-hand side of her torso. Nancy went back to using her hands to cover her breasts, and waited in stony silence while he washed her with copious amounts of water.
Then he started washing the front of her panties, which resulted in the crème caramel being squished and oozing out over the top of the waistband. Soon the sponge was coated in it, and Gaston found himself smearing creamy gloop over Nancy’s abdomen. He frowned. “Your panties are so full of messy stuff,” he said.
“I know!” she hissed. “I wonder whose fault that is?”
“Lift yourself off the seat,” he said. “Juste un peu.”
Nancy sighed, and put one hand down to brace herself as she raised her bottom off the seat. She figured he was going to clean beneath her or something, and was startled when he deftly tugged her panties down underneath her buttocks and then forward along her thighs to her knees. She quickly sat back down again and reached for her panties with one hand, exposing her right breast to the entire room … but they were already around her ankles.
Gaston grimaced as he pulled them off her feet and emptied them out on to the floor. “Very messy,” he said. “Please excuse me while I go and put this in the washing machine. I will wash it very quickly … and return it, immediatement.”
Then he strolled off back towards the kitchen, leaving Nancy naked apart from her shoes. Part of her wanted to protest loudly, but the other, more dominant part wanted to shrivel up and disappear, and could find no voice for protest. She wanted to get up, run to the bathroom, and hide until Clive got back … but as yet nobody but Gaston had seen her pussy, and nobody had yet seen her bottom, and she rather wanted to keep it that way. Currently people were whispering about her, she could tell … but if she got up and ran to the bathroom naked, she would seem a comical figure indeed, and she could imagine the laughter that would follow her. No, it was best to remain here for now, with the chair protecting her to a certain extent, and her hands on her breasts doing the rest.
***********************
Clive and the restaurant manager, whom Clive now knew as Pierre, pulled up outside a small block of flats, and together they climbed a flight of wooden steps. Pierre knocked on a door with the number 7, and waited.
A stocky man with a cigarette in his mouth opened the door and looked suspiciously at Clive. Then he nodded at Pierre. “Oui?” he said.
“Je m’excuse, Yves, mais cet homme a perdu la robe de son épouse…”
As he explained the situation, Yves looked unimpressed. But eventually he nodded. “Pour un repas libre, oui,” he said.
Pierre smiled at Clive. “He will reopen his laundrette for us,” he said.
“Thank goodness!” said Clive. “Please thank him for me.”
***********************
Gaston returned. “While we await your clean clothing,” he said, “I will finish cleaning you.”
“That’s really not necessary,” began Nancy, but already Gaston was shoving a wet sponge between her legs. After a couple of minutes of rubbing her pussy with it, however, he grunted. “Your seat is very messy,” he said. “You will need to stand up for this.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” said Nancy quickly.
Gaston looked around, then eyed the table thoughtfully. Quickly, and showing none of his earlier clumsiness, he removed everything from it but the tablecloth, transferring the cutlery, candle, napkins and bread basket to the nearest empty table. Then he patted the tablecloth. “Lie down ‘ere,” he said. “And I will clean first you, then the chair. Then I will bring your clothes.”
Nancy stared at the table. “I think I’ll just sit here and wait for Clive,” she said.
Gaston shrugged. “Would you not like to be dressed and ready to go when ‘e returns?”
“Well yes,” said Nancy. Actually that sounded like a wonderful idea. Being dressed…
“Ze sooner I get you clean, ze sooner you’ll be dressed,” said Gaston simply. He took hold of her left arm and lifted.
Partly to prevent him from pulling her hand away from her breast, Nancy rose to her feet, then slapped her right hand over her pussy while her left arm did its best to cover both breasts. Gaston turned her around, and then gently pushed her back so that her bottom was resting on the edge of the table.
Nancy caught a glimpse of the other restaurant patrons, all staring at her with eyes wide and mouths hanging open. “Look this isn’t really necessary,” she said, but then she toppled backwards as Gaston stooped and lifted her feet off the floor. Lying on her back with her bottom half off the table, she whimpered uneasily as Gaston swung her feet up until her legs were almost vertical, and then continued pushing back and downwards so that her knees bent and came into contact with her shoulders. Her thighs pressed against her breasts, and her arm extended down between them, covering her pussy with her hand. Acutely aware that in this position Gaston would also be able to see her anus, she reached further down to cover that, too.
But Gaston was having none of it. Once he had soaked his sponge again, he lifted her hand away from her nether regions and started to liberally lather up her pussy and surrounding areas. Unable to cover her pussy any longer, Nancy raised both hands and covered her eyes, a useless but instinctively comforting measure. At least this way she would not see the stares and grins of the people watching her.
Gaston washed Nancy’s pussy very thoroughly with the sponge, but gradually he began to use his hand instead. The hot, soapy water had made Nancy’s pussy and buttocks quite slippery, and he took his time about slowly stroking his splayed fingers up over her pussy lips and then back again, his middle finger sliding smoothly into the groove between her labia. He pushed her feet out to the sides, wider and wider, until her knees moved out either side of her torso and only her forearms covered her breasts any more. Her pussy was spread wider and wider, her vaginal opening becoming more and more prominent…
And then Gaston stopped and peered more closely. To his astonishment, he saw the tip of a mussel peeping out of Nancy’s vagina. “You ‘ave a mussel inside you!” he exclaimed.
Nancy, beyond mortified, gave no reply. She thought she had felt a mussel slipping into her vagina, as she shifted about uncomfortably on her chair with all that food in her panties. She just hoped that Gaston would get it out quickly and not dwell on the subject.
Gaston pushed against the mussel with the tip of his finger. “Oh, I accidentally push it further inside you,” he said. “I will try to get it out.” He slid his entire middle finger inside her, pushing the mussel still deeper. “It is difficile to get ‘old of,” he said. “I need another finger I think.” He inserted his index finger alongside his middle finger, then, as Nancy’s only response was an unhappy whimper, he inserted yet another. Sliding all three fingers slowly in and out of Nancy’s vagina, he used his other hand to unzip his trousers. Taking out his erect penis, he dribbled on to it water from the sponge. He thrust his fingers deep into Nancy, then took them out. Thrust them back in, then took them out. Then he thrust his penis into Nancy’s vagina.
She noticed that it felt different, but did not realise why until a minute later, when he was fucking her in earnest. Even then she hoped she was wrong – surely she was wrong! Surely he was still using his fingers, trying to get at the mussel inside her. She knew she should probably take her hands away from her eyes to check to see what he was doing, but it was easier to tell herself that he was not fucking her, that he was simply using his fingers.
This became harder to do as she felt both her ankles being gripped and pushed out even further to the sides. But perhaps he was … no, who was she fooling? He was fucking her, no doubt about it. But having waited this long, how could she now claim to have only just noticed?
Gaston groaned as he ejaculated inside her. “Mon dieu!” he gasped. “C'était fantastique!” He panted as he withdrew his penis from her vagina. “Je m’excuse,” he said. “I could not ‘elp myself.” He slid a couple of fingers inside her, and started stroking her g-spot. “I cannot feel ze mussel any more. It must be too deep. I need a spoon, or pinces … how do you call zem … tongs.”
Nancy shivered as Gaston stroked her most sensitive spot. Then he pulled his finger out, and, a moment later, something else started to enter her. She could not tell what it was, but it felt like neither a spoon nor tongs.
In fact it was a large piece of fish that Gaston had picked up off the floor. He slowly pushed it into Nancy’s vagina, sliding it in until it disappeared. Then he said, “I will go and see if your dress is dry. Wait here – I still have a little cleaning to do.”
***********************
Pierre and Clive had looked in all of the washing machines in Yves’s laundrette. Nancy’s dress was in none of them. Pierre was very puzzled. “If he did not bring the dress here, I cannot imagine what he did with it.”
“Probably,” said Clive in growing annoyance, “he had no intention of cleaning it at all!”
“If that is the case,” said Pierre, “then he has some explaining to do! Let us go and see what he has to say. Many apologies, Yves.”
Yves grunted and shrugged.
Returning to the restaurant, Pierre and Clive could not find Gaston in the kitchen, so they went out into the main part of the restaurant. Clive gasped as he saw his wife, naked, lying on a table with her legs spread, her pussy exposed, and her hands over her eyes. A man, not Gaston but probably one of the customers, was sliding two fingers in and out of her vagina. As Clive watched in horror, the man pulled his erect penis out of his trousers, and slid it into her. There were still several other men in the restaurant, and a couple of women, and all were looking on with amusement or lust.
“What … the … HELL IS GOING ON?” Clive shouted.
Instantly Nancy uncovered her eyes and stared wildly at Clive. “Clive!” she exclaimed. “Help!”
“I am not forcing ‘er,” said the man who was fucking Nancy, shrugging his shoulders and holding up his hands. He continued to thrust inside her, almost casually, as Clive stormed up to him.
“Get the fuck out of my wife!” yelled Clive.
“Moment, s’il vous plait,” said the man, holding up a finger towards Clive. Then he groaned with pleasure, and his thrusting subsided.
“Oh my God!” cried Clive. He shoved the man away from Nancy – the man’s wilting penis popped out of her, dripping semen.
Nancy burst into tears. “I duh … didn’t want to make a fuss!” she wailed.
Clive helped her off the table. “Where’s Gaston?” he demanded angrily.
“He went ‘ome,” said one of the customers.
Clive growled in disgust. “Looks like your clothes are gone, darling,” he said. He noted that even her shoes were missing. “Come on – let’s get out of here.”
He led her to the door, and out on to the street. Unfortunately they had walked here from the hotel, which was several blocks away. Laughter and wolf-whistles accompanied them as they hurried along the pavement, Nancy covering herself with only one hand, since Clive was holding her by the other. She chose to cover her pussy rather than her breasts, which bounced freely as she trotted alongside, but a little behind, her husband.
Finally they made it back to the hotel, where they took the lift up to their floor, and shut themselves in the safety of their room. As Nancy started putting on some underwear, Clive turned to her.
“Why did you let them have sex with you?” he demanded.
“Why did you run off and leave me!” she shot back. “You know how I get when I’m flustered.”
Clive threw up his hands in despair. “I was looking for your dress!” he said.
They argued for a while; she cried; he cuddled her. Then she took a bath, and managed to force out the fish and the mussel into the bathwater. Afterwards, they jumped into bed together and had unbridled, intense and energetic sex. And, strangely enough, as he pounded his erection deep into Nancy’s vagina, Clive found himself fantasising about his wife lying on that table in the restaurant, helpless while Gaston molested and fucked her.
Even more strangely, as she felt Clive’s erection sliding smoothly back and forth within her, Nancy found herself fantasising about the same thing…