It happened on a beach in France
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Beach Etiquette, Marseilles Style – by Praeparvus (edited version)
I was 24, exams were over, and it was my last chance to enjoy a month of unlimited travel on Europe’s trains at the bargain student price.
I was a lone traveller, and looked younger than my years. I was a very late developer, and though I had experienced one or two fumbling encounters with girls, I was, to be honest, still a virgin.
I had decided this European tour would be make or break – and I headed for the beaches of the south, where I was sure I would find some liberated young Europeans who would help to rid me of these Anglo-Saxon inhibitions.
Mind you, I knew was also I was doomed to fail. What convinced me wasn’t my background or my upbringing, it was simpler than that – anatomy. The size of my penis was the true reason.
From an early age, I’d been aware I was a lot smaller than other boys. I could not stay at friend’s houses, after one occasion when, aged 11, I wet the bed and my friend Andrew’s mother made me take off my wet pyjamas in the kitchen in front of his two sisters, warning me that she would ‘cut that silly little willy right off’ if I did it again.
It hit me harder still the first day at secondary school, when we were forced into communal showers, stark naked, as the games-teachers slapped us with their wet towels. I hated sport, and became so plump that I could barely see my own genitals. I was given a new nickname – a Latin word, ‘Praeparvus’, meaning very, very small. The shame of this had been branded deep into my psyche, and had affected almost every aspect of my life since – especially, needless to say, my (non-existent) sex life. Basically, my self-confidence had been destroyed. I became anorexic, yet at 17 I shot up to 6 foot 2, and became skinny as hell. The only thing that did not grow is my penis.
All these thoughts were going round in my head as my train pulled into Marseilles. I found a cheap room in a scruffy hotel, and started to explore.
After a day in the hot city I yearned for beaches. I’d read about the secluded creeks down the coast, so next morning packed trunks, towel, camera, and food and caught the bus to the nearest one.
It was a hot day, and the bus passed the massive university on the edge of the city. It became packed with local students, all seeking beaches. We reached the end of the line, everyone bundled off, all heading the same way. I followed a group of four noisy French girls, who seemed eager to get away from the even noisier boys, who’d been teasing them on the bus. I held back, and saw that the French boys had given up, and began chatting up three blonde Scandinavians with backpacks.
I stumbled down a steep, rough path and soon got onto a rocky beach, with plenty of boulders to hide behind. Not that there were many others there to hide from. As I unrolled my towel, I heard voices from above. The French girls from the bus were aiming for a patch of beach about ten metres away from me. They staked their places and started unpacking bottles, food, sun lotion, and so on, chattering and giggling the whole time.
I rolled over and let the sun soak in to my poor pale body. I had awkwardly changed into a pair of well-worn black Speedos. They’d done for my last six holidays, so why not this one? I must’ve been fatter at 19 though, as they seemed distinctly looser.
I was half-reading, half-snoozing when a girl’s voice asked me something in French. I sat up was staring into the gorgeous, grinning face of a girl, about 20, and she was making the gesture of rolling a cigarette with her two thumbs and index fingers. She wore a stringy brown bikini, her olive skin gleamed. Her small yet full breasts were loosely cupped in the minimal material.
She needed Rizlas – presumably for a joint – and knew I had them from the half-smoked roll-up wedged between my fingers. I got the pack out of the bag and handed it to her. As she took out about twelve leaves, she scanned my poor white Speedo-clad body. I felt a tiny stirring.
She asked, “You are English, right?”
“How did you guess?”
“You look like English hippy,” she replied.
It was true, I had shoulder length hair then, and as I was thin and a bit curvy, I was sometimes even mistaken for a girl. She thanked me and went back to her friends. I decided to take a swim, then came in to sunbathe and put oil on as much of me as I could reach. But I was thinking all the time of that gorgeous girl, with her playful, smiling eyes. And of course, her three friends as well.
I watched them sneakily from under my right armpit as one by one they got changed, and trekked up and down the beach, some having a real swim, some just messing. Two of them got topless. I very carefully got the little digital camera out of my bag and propped it on stones under my t-shirt, set the zoom to max and surreptitiously snapped about 25 shots of them as they took off more and more clothes. They all seemed to me unbelievably gorgeous and attractive.
A few minutes later another of the group came over. She had cropped bottle-blond hair and mischievous elfin face with dark brown eyes. She asked me, “You come talk us in English, please? It is good if we speak with real English man, yes? Please, come and smoke stuff?”
The former tiny stirring returned with force. |t appeared someone had pushed an AA battery down the front my trunks, perpendicular to the body. That – to be frank – was the size of it, and as I glanced down I saw that she had also glanced down and the ghost of a quizzical smile flashed across her face.
“Please, yes? Just five minutes?” she insisted.
I fluffed, groping for jeans and shirt and said I ‘d just put some clothes on and join them. I was urgently hoping that I could do something to suppress the two and three quarter inches of arousal before standing up. I cursed my foolishness at wearing Speedos – the worst thing, obviously, for someone with my inadequacy. Now I come to think of it, this must have been a Freudian thing all along – I was subconsciously inviting humiliation even before I realised it.
“No need clothes, come, come!”
My face was now bright red, but I was able to waddle over the beach without revealing anything more by holding my bag firmly in front of my crotch. They greeted me warmly with the offer of a joint and a swig of wine. We exchanged names, we talked music and cities and all those usual things in a mix of languages.
“I adore your voice,” said the girl who’d approached first.
Her name was Cecille. I adored her instantly and could tell by the way she kept asking questions, and her smile, and the fact that we loved similar writers and music. I could tell that, just maybe, she was thinking I was OK as well. Then another of the girls, with jet black hair and fringe and huge eyes, said something like, “Oh, we like more than your voice mister,” which made everyone laugh.
And made me blush again.
The elf, name of Juliette, asked for more Rizla so I plunged into the bag, pulling stuff out in my search, and out rolled the camera. One of the girls who had so far not spoken had a lovely North African look, and indeed her name was Saana, she was perhaps of Algerian origin. She said, “Nice Nikon,” or something to that effect and picked it up.
The fourth girl, who they called Pomme, grabbed it from her and they had a pretend tug of war, they clearly liked my camera and wanted to play with it. “We study art,” she said, “But we do not have such good equipment.”
Then she said,”How you make image?”
So I switched it on, and said, “Like this, easy.”
She took the camera back, but Saana again snatched it, and in doing so she must’ve touched the playback button, because her face changed. First she looked puzzled, then disbelieving, and then she almost spat out – “Regardez! Regardez qu’est-ce que ce perv a fait!” (Look! Look what the perv did!)
She was looking at the photos I had just taken of the girls as they undressed on the beach, and although I had not even looked at them myself yet, they were clearly quite good, because they made these four girls very animated indeed. In a mix of anger – real or feigned, I am not sure – and stoned hilarity they started pushing the camera in my face.
“Ah, you like us? you like us ? You think we are sexy bodies free for you to photo?” said Cecille.
“He thinks we’re models, but you have to pay models many hundreds euros,” said Saana.
I was so totally shocked, and flushed red and trying to make my excuses and apologies and was trying to pretend it was all a silly mistake. But their strong hands grabbed my ankles, an arm, and a shoulder, they pulled me back on to the shingle. These were sassy Marseilles girls, and you do not mess with sassy Marseilles girls – believe me.
“No, no, no, you do not go,” said Cecille, pinning my arms out like a crucifix on the beach, whilst Sanaa and Juliette held my legs.
I could tell immediately that Cecille was really upset. Partly because I now remembered taking a particularly compromising shot of her struggling into her bikini bottoms – but also because she had started to like me, and now I’d revealed myself as just another creep.
“You pay us five-hundred euros!” shouted Saana, “Non, mille, mille euros!”
I told them they could have the camera, but I only had about fifty-five euros cash on me, and they laughed, and said by their looks that they would find other ways to make me pay. I was being mugged by four girls in broad daylight, on a beach in France!
Juliette now jumped onto me, her thighs straddling my bony chest. “You like these?” she asked, squeezing her breasts together so that her nipples were almost touching each other. Each of the other girls knelt around my head. “If you like, you can have, but you must pay.”
“So now we photo YOU! We photo you without clothes yes? You like this, yes?” laughed Saana.
While Juliette held my shoulders down with her knees, and Sanaa knelt behind me clamping my head with her knees, the two others shuffled down to my feet, one with my camera in her hand, the other reaching up for my waist. They all looked very intently at the front of my speedos, where again, that AA battery had arisen like a miniature tent pole.
There was more giggling, and then the chanting, “Let’s see, Let’s see!”
“Our English is good, no? Let’s see, let’s see his little pee-pee,” Pomme said.
“We speak English, we all wanna see tiniest Englishman’s petit oiseau (little bird),” Juliette said.
I thought they were going to strip me there and then, but I was wrong. The quiet one, who had a truly athletic body with a visible six-pack, kept picking at the waistband, but she didn’t pull it down. She slid a couple of her fingers in there, lifted the fingers and told Sanaa to take a look down the front – was there anything in there?
But my erection had again died and the ‘little bird’ was back in its tiny nest. “Rien, absolutement rein (Nothing, absolutely nothing)!” said Sanaa in disgust.
Then Cecille said something that stopped them all for a second. She had been looking through my bag and had pulled the leather belt off my jeans.
Suddenly I was being lifted up. They frog-marched my up the beach. We got to an old sign about six feet up on two rusty poles. With one girl holding each arm, they stretched me out like a scarecrow. I could probably have wrestled myself free at this point if I had really wanted to, but a strange, tingling feeling was surging through my body, maybe adrenaline. I was curious to know what they would do.
Things changed a minute later as Cecille tore my t-shirt in two and used the frayed cotton to tie my wrists to the sign at the top of those poles. I was now their prisoner.
Cecille held the belt menacingly and walked behind me, swishing it around. The others were taking their places in front of me, like an audience awaiting a show. Two were texting furiously. I twisted round to see what Cecille was doing, she was in discussion with Saana, who was also on her phone, saying, “Vite! vite! (Quickly! Quickly!)” to someone.
Then they were laughing conspiratorially. Clearly they were calling up all their friends to come over to this part of the beach quickly to witness some fun at my expense.
Sure enough, two groups of girls, four in one and three in the other arrived, all in beach wear, and they joined the others sitting or kneeling around the posts. My camera was passed around again as evidence of the crime that was soon to be summarily punished. At one point three or four boys drifted over as well. They took one look at what was happening, and shuffled off chuckling.
Saana started strutting around talking loudly, saying something about justice and that each girl who had her photo taken by me could give me vingt coups (twenty strokes) of the belt. I felt myself shrinking.
Then she said with comic exaggeration, and very slowly, “Sur les fesses nues! (On bare buttocks!)”
This caused a scream of laughter, followed by a big cheer from all the girls, and my heart almost stopped. I had never been beaten in my life, so I did not know what to expect in terms of pain. Nor had I ever my had bottom exposed to any girl since that sad kitchen incident over a decade ago.
I could no longer tell who was doing what, but I felt hands pulling at the back of the speedos, and someone – I think it was Cecille – pulled them down just far enough to expose the white cheeks of my bottom. More laughter, and the girls were moving around behind me to get a better view and take photos, both with my camera and their phones.
My frontal modesty was now very precariously preserved only by the waistband of the speedos snagging on the couple of inches of again semi-erect penis beneath.
There was a sudden silence. I twisted my head around and saw Cecille raising the belt. She caught my eyes. She faltered a bit, then raised the belt higher, and brought it down across my bottom for the first time with real force and accuracy – making a much louder ‘smack!’ than I imagined possible. It stung badly. I just could not believe this was actually happening. Why was no-one telling them to stop? But I realised we were invisible from both main beach or the path above. I was doing sums: four girls, twenty lashes each – that’s eighty lashes!
The girls chanted with each lash. “Deux” hurt much more. “Trois” was miss aimed and got the back of my thighs, also somehow stinging my scrotum, which I realised must be visible from behind. With that thought, full hardness returned to my penis stretching the worn lycra, she exploded with giggles and beckoned the other to join her.
“Quatre” hit full across the bum with a very loud ‘whack!’ and for some reason this made my poor little prick leap to a hardness I had not experienced before – but the old Speedos still contained it, just about.
“Cinque” was an odd one – she’d let more of the belt out, and it came right round my hips and curled inwards, licking my balls with enough force to make me gasp. I clamped my knees together, involuntarily sticking my arse out to receive the next blow, “six!” – a real stinger. The sudden collapse of my mini-erection meant there was little now to stop the loose waistband from slipping further.
“Sept” hit lower, and snagged the Speedos flapping beneath my buttocks.
This seemed to give huge encouragement to my tormentor, as she began swishing the belt with real fury, and she was definitely aiming at my front as well as the backside. She also seemed to lash downwardly, which had the effect of tugging the trunks ankle-wards.
After the fifteenth lash, I felt a curious peeling sensation.
And then the slipping of fabric over thighs.
Oh no, please, no, I thought. I could not bear this. I felt hot blood rushing into my cheeks. So many extreme sensations at once. So much humiliation. No, it was not possible that eleven laughing, beautiful French girls were about to see the bit of me that I had been hiding from the world all my life – and to see it at its most pathetic. But there was no doubt what this new feeling meant, the feeling of warm air on my even hotter, now stinging and ridiculously erect member.
I looked down desperately to see the trunks now slipping down my thighs. For indeed, I was now fully exposed, the little rod with its pink tip just pushing out of the tight foreskin, quivering above the small testicles packed tight inside the tea-bag-sized scrotum.
After what seemed an age of astonished silence, there were gasps, hands over open mouths, then short bursts of disbelieving laughter from all ten girls sitting around that old sign. There was even some clapping and oohing and aaahing, as they took pity on the poor little pathetic thing, standing out from my stomach, its tiny pink hat now glowing, with a glistening drop of something right at the tip.
This was not possible. Since that incident at eleven, I had never allowed any female to see me naked or even in underpants. I could not allow this to happen, and yet – it had happened. I struggled but could not get my arms free, and Saana, seeing what I was doing, tightened the knots with a malicious grin.
Then they chanted “seize (sixteen)” and again the belt stung hard on the buttock, making my cock twitch ridiculously.
It was bad, but worse was to come. The girls were getting closer. They seemed truly fascinated, like scientists. A beautiful, fragile looking girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit and a floppy hat picked up a bit of driftwood and tentatively probed, very carefully pushing my erection downward with it. Then she let go and was laughing even louder as the tiny pecker jumped back up.
Another was focussing my camera expectantly as the chant of “dix-sept (seventeen)” unleashed a new level of humiliation. The belt again curled around me and hit my scrotum, harder this time. The result was that my erection sank, the pain made me force my thighs together and both balls and cock were pulled back into my body. This new departure caused great hilarity. More photos were taken. The eighteenth stroke again came round to the front again, like a cruise missile seeking out that bud of wrinkled skin, the contents of which just wanted to disappear completely.
One bold girl decided she needed to verify that I did indeed still have a penis, as it now looked like the head of a very small button mushroom on the tight-shrunk tea-bag of my testicles. It was turning into a send navel, an innie.
She gingerly used two fingers to open the foreskin and peeped inside, just as “dix-neuf (nineteen)” hit my backside with a tremendous crack, and the little pink head stuck out again between the girl’s fingers. She look astonished, her eyes widened, and she held it tighter, and touched the little tip with the finger of her other hand, grinning like mad.
Two other girls then started touching me, they all wanted to feel it, and it grew back to its full, majestic, not quite three inches.
And then came “vingt (twenty)” – the sting went deeper, connecting with a spasm of pleasure coming from the tip of my penis, and the two produced a delicious, almost electrical jolt. It went through my body, and I jerked forwards – and then I realised to my horror that I had produced a tiny drop of liquid. I was not even sure if it was semen, or if I was simply wetting myself.
The girls let go quickly and looked at me with scalding contempt, stood up, and flicked what was on her finger back into my face.
Cecille put down the belt and angrily dragged my Speedos back up to cover the source of my shame and mortification, as though she was disgusted by the sight of this tiny thing. Then she took her place in the front row of spectators.
The belt had been handed to the next girl, and the lashing continued. Very soon, the Speedos were back around my knees. Many of the girls were taking pics on their phones, texting the pics to all their friends, no doubt, and then started taking it in turns to yank at the stupid little member. At one point three of them knelt next to me with their faces right up close to my crotch, their tongues rudely stuck out within an inch of my penis, while others took photos.
Stoned and drunk, the girls crowded closer. One of them had a towelling belt from a bathrobe, and they tied that around my genitals. They pulled quite hard, as the leather belt continued to bite into my now very raw rump. I looked down saw this curious little package – tiny penis atop a tiny pouch of testicles – being pulled away from my crotch, as though they were going to castrate me. Of course, they just tugged a bit, it was just another source of amusement, a novelty.
I lost count of the strokes of the belt, and so did they, it seemed, but when it stopped, well before the 80, thank god, I was left dangling on the posts, the hard-on had now turned into a little shrivelled slug which sat atop on my tight, somewhat bloated scrotum, making them laugh hysterically all over again. The last photos they took were of joke measuring, putting their little fingers alongside my much littler member. Every single girl there had to take one. Even Cecille. In fact, she made the point of doing it with most contempt and ridicule. And as her little finger lay alongside my penis, while her other hand cupped my balls to make a cushion for it, and while her friend took the pic, I felt terribly sad, and dreadfully happy at the same time.
All the member could do now was shrink in shame. The prize photo was the girl who had fingernails longer than my shrunken penis. They wrote some rude words on my stomach in lipstick or something, with arrows pointing down to the crotch, and then they all went away.
Remarkably, no-one else came by to witness my total humiliation. It took me over ten minutes to wriggle free of the knots and recover the remains of my clothing. I climbed back up to the bus stop, went back to Marseilles, and to my scruffy little room. My arse and loins and genitals were still throbbing from my punishment, but the deeper pain of humiliation was much more enduring, and I enjoyed every pang of it.
For the rest of my stay in Marseilles, each time I passed a group of young female students in the street I felt their eyes moving down my body, I noticed their smirks and whispers, and I realised that some of them had been there, had seen me in the most shaming circumstances it is possible to imagine. Some had even touched me, and many more had no doubt seen the photos.
I now realise I was lucky this was two-thousand and three, and not five years later, by which time I guess they would have put the pics all over social media and someone back home would’ve seen them. I thought about going to the cops, but quickly realised how ludicrous an idea that was. I decided that, from now on I would take pride in this little thing I had that had given them so much fun. I would provide this entertainment as often as I could manage.
Without knowing it, these beautiful, tough, naughty French girls had set me on a course that was to dominate my left to this day.