Hot day

We stayed in Toulon in 1976/77, our place of residence. One beautiful summer day, we decided on a getaway to Porquerolles. The boat ride from Toulon took about 1 hour and a half.

I was in swim shorts and a t-shirt, for my part. Sylvie, she was magnificent: 1.73m, 50 kg, long legs and a small chest (85 b). On the bottom of her jersey, a light white cotton dress with thin straps, revealing the shoulders and upper bust. The dress stopped at mid-thighs. At that time, the bra was not always appropriate.

At first, the sea was flat calm. Sylvie was terribly seasick. Crossing the “Bariou des campos” cape (which shakes the barrels, in Provençal) was easy. It’s a place where it swings, even if the sea seems calm.

We spent a good part of the day swimming in the clear waters and picnicking on the beach. Her appearance and bare breasts did not leave men indifferent.

The wind had risen during the day, and the sea had become agitated, but the return was necessary. Sylvie’s jersey was still wet, and was about to wet her light dress. I suggested to her to remove it, which she did. She was naked under her light dress. The absence of panties was easily guessed.

I let her walk a few meters in front of me, to admire her nudity sketched by the sun through her clothing. We took the boat, and I offered to settle in the back, where it moves less, in principle, and especially not in the cabin, where the lack of air risked inconveniencing it. We placed ourselves on the last bench at the stern of the small boat.

Her short dress went up on her thighs, almost to the crotch. The masculine looks were trying to see more, beyond his long legs.

I placed a reassuring hand on one of her bare thighs and, as a result, her dress rose slightly, flush with her “intimate space”. No one could ignore the nakedness of his sex anymore.

As soon as we left the port, the boat became a nutshell, tossed by the waves. It swayed so much, that it prevented us from being sick, the mind being focused on balance.

To maintain herself, Sylvie was forced to spread her legs, thus offering men repeated glimpses of her little sex.

Some people ended up sitting in the hallway, ejected from the benches.

The boat sank into the swell, and the sea spray passed over the cabin, crashing on the aft deck, dipping us to the bone.

Sylvie’s white dress became transparent, accentuating every detail of her silhouette. She was almost naked. Her splendid breasts stood out under the wet fabric, and the triangle of her fleece marked the crotch. The male passengers did not lose a single bit.

She found a certain pleasure in pressing the fabric against her body, pretending to wipe oneself.

Her dress emphasized her curves. She exuded an eroticism that would have made a troupe of Senegalese get hard.

We returned to Toulon, the marina in the city center, where the docks, a promenade for tourists, are lined with bars and restaurants. The terraces were full of people.

When we got off the boat, we had 2 km left to walk to return.

We also had to walk along all these terraces.

Attention was inevitable. Soaked, Sylvie’s dress stuck to her skin. The top of her dress draped her breasts, revealing their roundness, and her nipples pointed, stimulated by the damp fabric and the breeze.

The fabric hugged her thighs and stuck between her buttocks. Her little triangle in the crotch perfectly traced her pussy.

The crossing on the crowded black dock led to a situation of indecency and indecent assault, few people being aware of reality. Sylvie felt a slight discomfort, almost naked in front of hundreds of spectators.

We accelerated the pace, and finally arrived in less crowded streets. We interrupted our walk to catch our breath.

She jumped on my neck, I dropped the packages, and we gave ourselves to a long kiss.

She whispered to me:

– I was not proud on the platform, but I felt an unspeakable pleasure to be naked.

– Let’s hurry home.

Her dress became less transparent with the heat and the wind that had partially dried it.