Part One
My name is Peter Francis. When I was a high school student in the late 1970s, I had a zealous French teacher. His name was Mr. Whitman. He would often go well beyond the curriculum’s minimum standards to ensure that we all had a working grasp of Canada’s two official languages. He wanted us to be able to converse in French so that when we inevitably encountered a Francophone, we could partake in a basic conversation. In my hometown, however, one was far more likely to encounter someone who spoke Portuguese, Italian, German or Arabic than French. I only knew a single person, a neighbor named Mrs. Belanger, whose first language was French. Therefore, Mr. Whitman was fighting an uphill battle to show us that learning to speak French would be relevant to our lives. Still, I admired his endless enthusiasm for his job.
Mr. Whitman also treated us like adults. He expected that we would do our assignments without being constantly reminded about them. At the start of the 1977-78 school year when I was in the twelfth grade, Mr. Whitman gave us a list of small and major French projects to be completed by certain dates. One such assignment that was worth 40 percent of the course’s overall mark was to create a photo essay on some topic. You could choose any subject at all. You had to clip out a minimum of 25 photos from newspapers or magazines that pertained to it. (If you were artistically inclined, drawing the pictures was an option, too.) Next, you had to write captions underneath each one (in French, of course), describing each image, and put the whole thing into a binder or something similar complete with a title page and a table of contents. It was due two weeks before summer vacation began at the end of June.
I broadly chose sports as my topic. I had my project completed sometime around Christmas. The internet was decades away, so I needed to use an English-French dictionary to make sure I correctly wrote what I meant to say. When I completed my first draft, I showed my work to my Francophone neighbor who corrected numerous errors that I was unaware I had made. “Now it’s perfect!” Mrs. Belanger told me. “I guarantee there are no spelling or grammar errors in it now.” I thanked her.
She was correct! I got a perfect mark and plenty of praise from Mr. Whitman. Without mentioning me specifically, he told my class that he had received one photo-caption project well ahead of the deadline and “it was excellent in every aspect.” I could tell by the blank stares on my peers’ faces that most of the class had already forgotten about the assignment. Most of them remained that way until well into springtime when Mr. Whitman said he had only received one photo-caption project so far. This time he did mention me by name. That hint sparked maybe half the class to get moving on them. Others chose to ignore it.
June arrived. With a week remaining before the major project was due, Mr. Whitman stated with a bit of anger in his voice, "Either most of you are sluggards and are waiting until the last possible moment to submit your photo-caption projects, or you've completely forgotten about them. I like to treat my students like they are miniature adults instead of children who constantly need to be guided every step of the way, but I think most of you would have forgotten this assignment entirely. This is the last reminder you'll get. You must turn in your projects a week from today so I can grade them and include them in your final mark. It is worth 40 percent of it. That means if you don't submit one, it will be quite unlikely that you'll pass this course."
That blunt revelation prompted some smiling, carefree faces among my classmates to suddenly become very serious. One of those faces belonged to Leslie Neufeld. She had been a classmate of mine beginning in the sixth grade. Like me, she was 18, but Leslie was small, thin and had no womanly figure whatsoever for a girl about to graduate high school in three months. Nevertheless, she was cute. She was a typical average student, getting mostly Bs and Cs on her report cards. In the seven years I had known her, I don't think I had ever had a conversation with her unless we had some sort of group activity in class. I had no idea that her mother knew mine until that night.
During dinnertime the phone rang. My mother picked it up. "Hi, Joyce!" she exclaimed. Then she was quiet for about a minute. Finally, she said, "Joyce, we're in the middle of our meal right now. I'll ask him then I call you back."
I figured it was my father that Mom wanted to talk to, but I was mistaken. She wanted to ask me something. "Is there a girl named Leslie Neufeld in your class, Peter?"
I confirmed there was.
"Her mother plays in the same bridge league I do," Mom explained. "Leslie needs your help desperately. Apparently, she is way behind in turning in her French assignments. You are a good French student, Peter, so her mom would like you to help Leslie."
I was actually annoyed by the whole situation. "Mom," I said, "I had all my assignments from my French class completed a long time ago. The most important project of the year—one that Leslie probably hasn't done—was assigned to us on the first day of school. I submitted mine to Mr. Whitman shortly before the Christmas break. I don't have a lot of sympathy for all the lazy students in my class who keep putting things off or forget about assignments altogether. Mr. Whitman calls them sluggards for good reason."
"You never change, Peter," my mother insisted. "You are 18 going on 35."
"I'll take that as a compliment—even though you probably didn't mean it that way," I told her in response.
"Anyway, Peter," Mom continued with her sales pitch, "I think you ought to help Leslie because Joyce Neufeld is a bridge buddy of mine."
"I don’t see why that has any bearing on this,” I insisted. “If Charles Manson was a bridge buddy of yours, would you ask me to assist his daughter, too?"
"What a crazy analogy!" my mother stated angrily. "Okay, Peter...just forget about it. I'll call Joyce back and tell her you refused."
I quickly interjected, "Wait a minute, Mom, I didn't say no to the idea. If you truly want me to help Leslie, I will—but only for your sake." I then realized that Mom had mentioned nothing about this being a paying job for me. I assumed I would not benefit at all by this experience. It turned out I was extremely wrong about that!
Mom quickly telephoned Joyce Neufeld. It was arranged that I would meet Leslie at the main branch of our city’s public library system when it opened at 9:30 a.m. on Saturday.
Part Two
Saturday morning arrived. Mom sort of felt guilty about coercing me into agreeing to be an amateur tutor for a girl I knew would have trouble with this major French assignment. To make amends, Mom drove me personally to the library and gave me an excessive amount of money to buy lunch at a nearby diner. I was to phone her to pick me up when we were done. “That might be sometime on Thursday,” I said sarcastically, “given how swiftly Leslie attacks her French assignments.”
Mom and I arrived about two minutes before Joyce and Leslie did. I left my car to politely say hello to both of them. Our two mothers were talking merrily in the parking lot as Leslie and I entered the library. I could tell Leslie was not a frequent visitor here. I led her to a distant corner where the special tables were that permitted people to talk openly. Libraries were still mostly quiet places in 1978. I noticed Leslie had her arms full of school supplies and reams of paper. At least she seemed ready to work.
“Peter, I’m terrible at French,” she confessed. “I can’t understand a word of it. If someone on the street tried to converse with me in that language, I could only shrug my shoulders.”
Of course, I replied to that comment in French. I said, “Leslie, tu es un élève faible en français!”
True to her word, Leslie shrugged her shoulders and uttered, “Peter, I have no clue what you just said to me. None whatsoever.”
“I said, ‘Leslie, you are a weak student in French!’”
“There’s no doubting that!” she said. “But let’s get to work, anyway.”
I complimented her on her good intentions. My upbeat mood did not last long. I realized that she had done very little preparation. I had expected her to have at least made her choice of topic for the major project and to have brought along all the pictures she needed. She hadn’t done either. To my dismay, we were at Square One.
I decided that I would take charge of things completely. I chose Leslie’s topic for her—amusing photos. This choice was solely based on the pictures we could find in week-old newspapers that no one would mind us removing with the small pair of scissors I had smartly brought in my knapsack. With about a dozen daily newspapers at our disposal we found the 25 images that we required. We each contributed equally to that part of the project. However, that was where Leslie’s usefulness ended.
I asked her what she wanted to write under each photo. She gave me short answers that were incomplete sentences. She did not understand what a typical newspaper caption did.
“Don’t you read the daily newspaper or any good magazines?” I asked Leslie, already suspecting what her answer would be.
“I never look at newspapers, Peter. I do sometimes look at fashion magazines in the waiting area when I go to the salon to get my hair cut or when I visit my dentist.”
I gave Leslie a bit of a stern look. “Okay, let’s try it this way, ” I started. “If an alien from Mars came into this library, looked at this picture, and asked you for an explanation of what it shows, what would you say to him?” I had pointed to a photo of a performing seal with a beach ball balanced on its nose.
Leslie paused for a moment and simplistically said, “This is a picture of a seal.”
“You have to be more elaborate than that,” I told her. “Each caption has to be at least two sentences long, according to Mr. Whitman’s requirements. You could write, ‘This performing seal is named Buddy. He has perfected balancing a beach ball on his nose. Buddy has been an attraction at Sea World for nearly six years.’”
Leslie replied, “I have no idea how to say that in French!”
“That’s exactly why English-French dictionaries were created, ” I noted, and pulled one out of my knapsack. “You have to look up each word and translate it from French to English. It’s actually kind of fun.”
“You have an odd idea of what fun is, Peter!” Leslie declared.
“Perhaps, but I had this assignment done six months ago and I got a perfect mark on it, while you...” I chose not to finish the sentence.
Leslie scowled noticeably, but I showed her how to use the reference book. “The whole idea of this major assignment was to get us to try to write complex French sentences with the aid of this type of handy book.” I showed her how to look up the words for a simple sentence: “The sky is cloudy today.” In French it is, “Le ciel est nuageux aujourd’hui.” Leslie tried to write a similarly basic sentence, but was stumped by French verb tenses.
I sensed this was going to be a long morning and afternoon at the library for the two of us. Leslie sensed it too. After about ten minutes of fruitless trying, Leslie reached an obvious conclusion. “I’m hopeless at this, Peter. If you’ll do all the important work, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You mean pay me?” I asked. “My mother told me I should help you with this project out of the goodness of my heart.”
“No, I don’t mean pay you—I mean fuck you, ” she stated. “There isn’t an 18-year-old boy at our school who isn’t horny all day. I don’t have much of a body, but I know how to use what I’ve got. So here’s my offer: You do all the work on this project, and then we can go somewhere for a fuck, okay? I think you’ll enjoy it, Peter.”
I was absolutely startled by Leslie’s salacious proposition, but I wasn’t going to say no to it. It was too enticing to reject.
“Only If I get to shoot my cum all over your tiny titties, Leslie. That has to be part of the deal,” I stated in a whisper.
Leslie looked at me as if I were crazy. Maybe I was!
I explained, “Leslie, I fantasize about screwing every girl in our class—without exception. Whenever I think of Kay Morgan, I want to come all over her big, succulent boobs. I want Natalie Bevens to give me a blowjob so I can launch a big load of cum into her sexy mouth and down her throat. With you, Leslie, it’s your small but sexy titties. They really turn me on! I fantasize about shooting a geyser of sperm on them!”
Leslie was dumbfounded for a moment. Then she replied, “You must be the only twelefth-grade boy who thinks that way, Peter, I assume. Not one of them even gives me the time of day. My cousin Myrtle, who is in the fifth grade, has more of a figure than I do. I’m not kidding. I have to settle for boys who are younger than I am when I want to have sex. I really like having sex, too. It’s fun.”
I had a hard time imagining petite and underdeveloped Leslie Neufeld as a girl who routinely slept around, but if she said so—and she did—I readily accepted it as a fact.
For the next 120 minutes, I worked steadily on writing 25 lengthy photo captions, starting each one with the English version and then translating it to French. I figured I naturally made enough slight errors to satisfy Mr. Whitman that Leslie had done the project entirely by herself. Leslie kept herself busy by drawing amusing pictures. She was quite a good artist! (I was not.) As it was allowed by Mr. Whitman’s rules, we used seven of them in place of actual photographic images. The two hours sailed by, but when the library’s clock showed 11:55 a.m., we had completed a passable French project. When the final acute accents had been added, I turned to Leslie and calmly stated, “J’ai envie d’enfoncer mon penis dans ton vagin!”
Leslie predictably gave me a blank look. “That means, ‘I want to shove my penis into your vagina!’” I promptly informed her.
She laughed loudly and said, “That’s really funny, Peter! Okay, where can we do the dirty deed?”
I got an idea and told it to Leslie. “If we go to the second floor, there are conference rooms that people can use for groups of about ten. I’ve been in them once or twice. They have couches and reclining chairs—and no windows. If one of them is unlocked, we can go in there and fuck. We only need maybe five minutes. I’ll likely lose control of myself very quickly when I start to play with those sexy little attractions you possess on your small torso!”
Part Three
We quickly gathered up our belongings and headed up a seldom-used flight of stairs to the library’s second floor, making absolutely sure no staff member was eying us. We successfully escaped detection. There were three identical conference rooms to choose from. The first doorknob I tried was unlocked. I flicked on the light switch. We hurried inside and locked the door after we shut it.
The room was exactly as I had remembered it was. This one had an old couch we could employ for our sexual romp. I began to get undressed and told Leslie to do the same. “Apart from you drawing a few pictures, I did all the work on the French project, so I’m going to call the shots,” I informed her. I was trying to present an air of both experience and authority, because I didn’t want my partner to know that I had never had the pleasure of having sex with a girl in my entire 18-year life.
I got undressed first. I began tugging on my rod, making sure it was stiff for my upcoming sexual debut with a classmate whom I didn’t particularly like—except for her pair of sexy, burgeoning breasts which oddly turned me on beyond all logic.
I watched Leslie remove her plain red top. She wore no brassiere; she had no reason to wear one. I finally got to eye her tiniest of tits. I swear my erection grew an inch in a fraction of a second.
“That’s what I wanted to see!” I declared. Moments later, she removed her white shorts and mauve panties to show me her bald pussy. That was a nice attraction, too. But Leslie’s little treasure chest was what I focused on almost entirely.
Leslie climbed onto the couch, spread her legs slightly, and started to finger her vagina. I stood captivated for a few seconds, then I joined her.
“Before you ravish me, Peter, I do have one request: While you’re doing whatever you’re going to do to me, talk dirty to me in French, please!”
I chuckled and said, “You won’t understand a single word of it. What’s the point?”
“French just sounds sexier than English to me, Peter. That will turn me on. At least give it a try.”
I did my best to oblige, but I honestly didn’t know too many dirty French phrases off the top of my head. However, since Leslie was basically illiterate in that language, I just made random, nonsensical statements with French words that I knew. Leslie cooed sexily when I told her she was a small refrigerator. She practically came to an orgasm when I announced, “The glass jar is full of green marbles.”
All the while, I was indulging in my favorite sexual fantasy—using Leslie Neufeld’s little goodies in every possible way to satisfy my lust. I sucked on them. I licked them. I laid my face between them. I gently twisted them. I rubbed my erection against them. I thumbed her nipples until they were rock hard.
When I finally ran out of ideas, I told Leslie in English that the time had come for me to thoroughly fuck her pussy.
“Peter...speak in French to me, please!” Leslie reminded me.
“Oh, yeah. Right!” I said. Then, sounding a bit like Charles Boyer, I told her, “Five zebras had drowned in Morocco last Tuesday morning.” She honestly thought it was the sexiest thing she had ever heard anyone say. If only she knew...
I shoved my penis into her vagina as I told her I would before we ascended the staircase. I wasn’t especially gentle or loving. In a way, this was an anger fuck. I figured I had been summoned by fate. She was being sexually punished by me for putting off her major French project for nine months. I enjoyed giving her solid thrusts. Seconds after Leslie reached an orgasm, I pulled out of her and my dream came true. I fired several thick ropes of warm, white semen across her beautiful boobies. Leslie got into the spirit of my fantasy by smearing my jism across them. She had a wicked smile on her face as she did it.
“That was the best fucking I’ve ever had! Thanks, Peter!” she happily exclaimed. I was naively willing to believe her.
Part Four
Only after my prodigious cum shot hit its lovely target did we hug and kiss one another. We were not a romantic duo at all. We embraced each other for just a few minutes, kissed without much passion, tidied up the mess as best we could with a dusty box of tissues we discovered on a shelf, then got dressed and tried to sneak back downstairs unnoticed. We failed at that task.
A humorless female librarian scolded us for going up to the second floor without official permission. We both feigned innocence. I explained that I had used the conference rooms two or three times in the past and that Leslie was simply curious about how they looked. We didn’t realize that they were off limits to us. (That part of my story was entirely truthful.)
That seemed to be a magic answer. “Next time ask before you go up there,” she gently instructed us. “It’s the official policy here.”
Relishing in my first sexual conquest, I decided to be a generous gentleman. I offered to treat Leslie to lunch with all the cash my mother had handed me. To my surprise, Leslie declined.
“We still have more of my French projects to do!” she told me. “We got through the important major project, but I’ve handed in none of the three minor ones. They shouldn’t take very long to complete as long as we have your marvelous dictionary at our disposal, Peter.”
I said, “Okay, but I get at least one more fuck out of doing these other assignments for you. I’ll take it as a credit for future use.”
“Sure,” Leslie agreed. “I see that this library is open on Sunday afternoons. We can come tomorrow and sneak up to the second floor again and fuck on the couch. I liked it.”
“Let’s be completely brazen and ask outright for official permission to use a conference room!” I suggested. “If we are lying sneaks, the whole experience will be sexier.”
About 2½ hours later, we had finished all of Leslie’s projects to a satisfactory degree. “You can submit these to Mr. Whitman on Monday. You’ll get a decent mark, I’m sure, ” I anticipated.
Mrs. Neufeld arrived about 15 minutes after Leslie called her using the library’s public telephone. To my surprise, Mrs. Neufeld handed me a $50 bill—a huge sum of money for a teenager to have earned in a few hours’ work in 1978. I had expected no pay whatsoever. “You deserve every penny, Peter, ” she declared. “Leslie hates French. She would have turned in nothing to her teacher without your help today.”
I thanked her sincerely. Then she asked for directions to the washroom before departing. Leslie lingered with me long enough to hear one more of my French statements. This one was both accurate and timely. I told her, “Maintenant, je sais ce que ça fait d'être un gigolo!”
That sentence translates to “Now I know what it feels like to be a gigolo!”