A Party for Solange

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Naked and Funny

A surprise party for Solange. Only they surprise her in the bath.

Solange backed her little bagnole into the tiny parking space in the back street of the fifteenth arrondissement where she had her second floor apartment.

 

Swinging her handbag she walked in through the door which was guarded still, as it had been for as long as anyone could remember, by Mme Genet the ancient concierge.

 

"Ciao Madame," said Solange as she passed by, hardly giving the old lady a glance.

 

Mme Genet scowled as one whose name befits their nature, "Bonjour Mademoiselle," she replied, "Bonne soirée," how she hated these modern pretensions, 'Ciao' indeed! She looked at the retreating figure as it mounted the stairs, hips swinging in the ridiculously high heels. No better than she should be! And at her age too!

 

In this Mme Genet was perhaps a little hard on the unfortunate Solange, for though today was the day of her thirtieth birthday, with her slim figure and olive brown skin she could have passed for a girl barely out of her teens.

 

Born, as she had been, in Martinique, Solange was a true Parisienne having lived in Paname since the age of sixteen. She lived as a girl about town, working during the day in the small cafe on the Bou Mich and enjoying the evenings in the small clubs and bars of Montparnasse.

 

But not today. Today she was thirty. It was a day not to be celebrated. She hated the idea of being thirty. She had always regarded thirty as, if not the beginning of the end, at least the end of the beginning. She would not be thirty. She would be twenty-nine forever.

 

That was why she had not mentioned her birthday. That was why she had not arranged a boum, a surprise-partie, a celebration of the end of her youth. Despite this though she felt a twinge of disappointment. Her friends at the cafe: Sylvie and Nathalie her fellow serveuses, Big Jean-Claude and Little Jean-Claude who breakfasted every day on croissants and cafe au lait, and all the other mecs and nanas who made up her customers and fellow workers; they must have known it was her birthday. She had always had a party in previous years.

 

Those years she had laid on the bouffe and the rouquin and they had danced the night away, ignoring the banging on the ceiling from that old cow, Mme Genet, in the apartment below.

 

So Solange had expected a muted 'Bon anniversaire', a card even, or a little something. But they had forgotten and the occasion had not been mentioned.

 

So she had, for once skipped her noisette at the Deux Magots and made her way straight back. She knew how she was going to pass the evening: alcohol, smoked salmon with bread and butter, and a long soak in the bath. Then she could forget being thirty.

 

In thinking that her friends, Sylvie and Nathalie, had forgotten her birthday Solange had done them an injustice. Knowing her disinclination to mark the occasion they had planned in secret; not for nothing is a birthday party in French known as a 'surprise-partie'.

 

The bouffe had been packed, the champagne had been iced, the party dresses had been put on, and they were at that moment on their way to the fifteenth arrondo to set things up, knowing that Solange would be toying with her noisette and eyeing the bo-mecs in the resto.

 

Unbeknown to them Big Jean-Claude was passing a coup de bigo with Little Jean-Claude.

 

"Ca va? Jean-Claude."

 

"Ouai, Jean-Claude! Ca va! Ca va?"

 

"Ca va Jean-Claude! Today, it is the anniversaire of la belle Solange. Jean-Claude it is we who must do something to celebrate this event. The girls at the cafe, they do nothing!"

 

"But Jean-Claude, this is a thing not to be tolerated. I will buy champagne. You will buy... Jean-Claude, what is it that you will buy?"

 

"It is the flowers that I will buy, Jean-Claude, flowers for our little flower!"

 

"And we will take her to the best restaurant in Paris, Jean-Claude."

 

"That's it Jean-Claude!"

 

"You know the address where she lives Jean-Claude?"

 

"I know all Jean-Claude! You can have trust in me. I know all!"

 

Solange slipped off her little dress. Under it she wore, as do all Parisiennes, the silkiest smoothest sexiest lingerie that her modest salary (plus pourboires) could buy.

 

She wore no soutien-gorge (in French the word brassiere refers to a sleeveless liberty bodice), and she ran her hands over her culottes (the word in French referring to ladies panties). They were black and fringed with a little lace, and clung close to the smooth rounded contours of her lower regions. She slowly slipped them down, loving the feel of their silky smoothness as it passed over her bare skin. They dropped to her ankles and she stepped out of them to admire herself in full length mirror of the baisodrome.

 

Thirty indeed! She still looked as sexy and alluring as ever. Her skin was that rich cafe au lait with a shiny lustre as if of polished bronze, her breasts were full, but not large, with large dark nipples and wide areolas. A triangle of black curly hair adorned her sexe, for the true Parisienne regards this as the real mark of 'la fille sexy'.

 

She went through to the salle de bain and turned on both taps. Immediately a cloud of hot steam filled the air, she poured in the scented bath oil and lit her incense sticks. Then filling a glass with champagne she stepped into the bubbling water, lay back, let the warmth suffuse through her body and the soporific perfume of the incense relax her spirit, and drifted into sleep.

 

Sylvie and Nathalie had not been so lucky with finding a parking space. They had had to lug the bags up from the underground parking and walk the five hundred metres to chez Solange. Still, they reckoned, they still had time to set things up. Solange never got back before eight at the soonest.

 

Mme Genet looked at them suspiciously.

 

"What is it you are wanting Mesdemoiselles," she asked with a veneer of politeness.

 

"We are the friends of M'mselle Solange," said Sylvie, with her most ingratiating smile, "these are the deliveries that we have brought for her. If you could please give us admittance to her apartment."

 

A small sum of money settled any qualms that Mme Genet may have had upon the subject and the two girls found themselves in the apartment.

 

They were girls such as you might find living the life of a free spirit in any big city. Sylvie, slim, dark, fiery was from Corsica and Nathalie, tending to the slightly plump and blue eyed was from Brussels, but they had espoused the life of the unattached Parisienne with vigour. And they were planning a girls' night in. Bachelorette party! Un vrai teuf de meufs! What could better cheer the spirit of the girl just turned thirty. But it was necessary to be quiet, Solange would soon be back and she mustn't suspect a thing before they leapt out at her as she came in through the door. The wine was put out, the food was displayed, the lights were turned down low, and they waited.

 

Sylvie listened to the footsteps mounting the stairs towards the Apartment. Solange was coming. She stood quietly behind the door.

 

Big Jean-Claude and Little Jean Claude walked in step, despite the disparity in size. Big Jean-Claude was tall and thin. He came from Rouen and was possessed of that quality of sang-froid known as "la sagesse Normande". Little Jean-Claude, by contrast was small, dark haired and sported a well groomed toothbrush moustache. He was a quick tempered Provencal from Marseille who punched (sometimes literally) well above his weight.

 

They arrived together at the door and Big Jean-Claude put one finger to his lips as his finger went to press the bell.

 

Sylvie heard the footsteps stop in front of the door. Solange was there! Grabbing the door handle she flung the door open and yelled, "Surprise!!!!"

 

Solange had been dreaming. She was a sixteen year old girl, floating in the warm waters of the Caribbean. The sweet perfumes of the tropics wafted in her nostrils. All was peace until.....

 

"Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

 

A huge scream rang out. There were the sounds of banging and crashing coming from her living room as if all the hooligans in Paris were battering at her door.

 

She awoke with a start! Cambrioleurs! Burglars! They had broken into her apartment. They would break into her bathroom. She was naked in the bath. She had only one thought - to escape. And there was only one way out - through the small window which led out onto the flat roof of the extension next door and then by way of the fire escape to the street.

 

Grabbing her fluffy pink towel she lifted the window sash and poked her head out the window. It was too high to go out head first. There was only one thing for it. She stuck her legs through first and felt with her feet for the roof. She had just got so that she was standing on it on tiptoe when the disaster happened. With a loud bang the sash descended and with a sickening clunk came down on her back pinioning her in position. She was trapped. Her bottom, precariously covered by her pink towel sticking out the window. Her top half covered with precisely nothing still left inside. She wriggled and wriggled but it did more harm than good. With a sort of horrible inevitability her wriggling loosened the towel and she felt it fall to the ground, and blew away in the gusty Parisian breeze, leaving her bare behind on public view. All had gone quiet in the apartment. There was nothing for it. She took a deep breath...

 

Sylvie admitted afterwards that she had overreacted. She had been so sure that it was Solange out there in the hallway. On the other hand Little Jean-Claude was just being French. What does a Frenchman do when he greets a beautiful lady on her birthday! Give her an embrasse, of course, that is to say a kiss that is somewhat more than a friendly bisou upon the cheek. And he had thought the lady was Solange.

 

Even so it had been an overreaction to plant her knee in that most delicate part of a man's anatomy; but Sylvie was of course Corsican, and that is what Corsicans do when they believe they are being attacked! It had been Little Jean-Claude's scream that had awakened Solange.

 

The very Solange who was at that moment stuck stark naked half in and half out of the bathroom window, and was about to call...

 

"Au secours," Sylvie looked round alarmed, "Au secours!" That sounded like Solange.

 

It was Solange. Her plaintiff voice could be heard calling from behind the bathroom door. The locked bathroom door.

 

Big Jean-Claude rattled the door impatiently.

 

"Solange! It is I, Jean-Claude. Open the door. We cannot help it you do not open the door."

 

"Au secours!" Solange's voice could be heard calling plaintively again.

 

"Come Jean-Claude. It is we who must help. There is a small window to the bathroom at the top of the fire escape. I will hurry there! You must go to Mme Genet to obtain a key to the bathroom so that we may effect an entry."

 

"Certainly Jean-Claude. I will do that!"

 

Sylvie watched the Jean-Claudes depart and turned to Nathalie, "Men!" She said, "Come on!" And she walked over to the bathroom door and kicked it open with her foot.

 

"Solange!"

 

Sylvie stood agape at the sight in front of her. Solange was stuck in the window stark naked looking up at her, her mouth open, struck speechless by her predicament.

 

Sylvie looked back, her gaze transfixed by the sight of Solange's breasts hanging bare and enticing. They really were rather beautiful specimens. Finally able to tear her eyes away, a sudden thought had struck her.

 

"Jean-Claude," she said, "he has gone round to go out on the roof."

 

They both reached the same conclusion simultaneously. Solange's bare behind was sticking out the window.

 

Solange started struggling haplessly as Sylvie raced over and vainly tried to lift the sash. It was jammed. It needed something to free it.

 

"Quickly," she called to Nathalie, "fetch some butter!"

 

"Butter?"

 

"Yes, it will act as a lubricant!"

 

Nathalie dashed to fetch the pot of butter, but as she returned they heard the clear voices of Big Jean-Claude and Mme Genet on the staircase.

 

"Nathalie," she cried, "you apply the butter. I will stall them!"

 

She dashed out of the room leaving the struggling Solange calling after her.

 

"It is all right Madame," we do not need you now.

 

"But Monsieur here said there was an emergency."

 

"Monsieur was mistaken."

 

"No I wasn't," Jean-Claude was affronted at the suggestion that he might have made an error.

 

"Yes you did," Solange kicked him hard in the shins.

 

"Yes I did," said Jean-Claude getting the message at last. But Mme Genet smelled a rat. Hanky-panky of some sort was going on in her apartment and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

 

Outside the apartment on the top of the fire escape that led to the roof of the next door extension Little Jean-Claude was staring perplexedly at a most extraordinary sight. Standing on tiptoe on the extension were a pair of long shapely olive brown legs, these were attached to an even more shapely and equally bare bottom. The rest of the figure was invisible.

 

What had happened to the rest of the lady (for Jean-Claude could tell that no gentleman would have quite such a shapely bottom)?

 

The question was soon answered for as he approached the bottom started to wiggle in a most provocative way and he heard the plaintiff cries coming from afar. Cries in a voice he knew only too well - M'mselle Solange!

 

He rushed forwards, for what man would not rush to assist a naked lady!

 

"M’mselle Solange!" He expostulated, "what is it that has happened! How can I assist?"

 

"Quickly, the old dragon's coming!” It was the voice of Nathalie from within, "she's stuck. Apply this liberally," and Jean-Claude found himself presented with a large pot of butter. Delicately he stuck in his fingers and pulled out a lump.

 

"Out of my way!" Mme Genet pushed Big Jean-Claude and shoved past Sylvie.

 

"Stop," cried Sylvie, but it was too late. She just had to hope that Nathalie had succeeded in greasing the sash runners with the butter and Solange had escaped.

 

"My door!" Mme Genet let out a shriek at the door Sylvie had pushed off its hinges, "and.... What on earth! M’mselle Solange. What are you? Doing there? And like that!"

 

Sylvie gaped, "Nathalie," she yelled, "you were supposed to spread the butter on the sash runners not on Solange!"

 

Jean-Claude stopped unable to suppress a little disappointment. He had successfully buttered Solange's waist and her delightful derriere and had got as far as her knees. He somehow wished he could finish the job. Poor Solange could only close her eyes and try to imagine if things could get worse: she had been stripped naked, trapped in public view by a window and covered in butter. No, she decided, things could not get worse.

 

Big Jean-Claude felt he should take charge of the situation, “Jean-Claude,” he said, “you take hold of M’mselle Solange’s er... er... posterior and push, and I will take her... er... waist and pull. Here M’mselle Solange place your arms around my neck.”

“What?” cried Little Jean-Claude from outside.

 

“I will take her waist and pull.”

 

“What?” Little Jean-Claude was finding it difficult to hear above the noise of the traffic.

 

“Pull!” yelled Big Jean-Claude.

 

So inside the bathroom Big Jean-Claude grasped the buttery Solange as best he could and pulled, unfortunately Little Jean-Claude on hearing the instruction to pull grasped her buttery behind and pulled. Two seconds later Little Jean-Claude had lost his grip on the greasy bottom and fallen flat on his back, Big Jean-Claude meanwhile felt his hands slide up Solange’s torso. With a sense of horror he discovered that he was holding onto to Solange’s golden orbs and squeezing hard.

 

Somehow feeling unable to loosen his grip he gasped, “Desolé M’mselle Solange I didn’t...”

 

“Yes you did,” gasped Solange, “could you stop squeezing my titties please.”

 

From his val dingue on the ground Little Jean-Claude looked up and blinked. It was an interesting angle. He could see right up M’mselle Solange’s... He closed his eyes. There are some parts of a lady’s anatomy a gentleman, even a French gentleman, should not stare at.

 

He got back to his feet and grasped the greasy posterior again. That stupid Jean-Claude had got it all wrong, “I will push, Jean-Claude,” he shouted.

 

“What?” cried Big Jean-Claude.

 

“Push!” shouted Little Jean-Claude, was the man deaf or stupid, “Push!”

 

“Waaaah!” as a change from being pulled from both ends poor Solange now found herself pushed from both ends.

 

It was the first time Little Jean-Claude had ever had his nose in contact with that particular part of a girl’s anatomy, and it was going to be the last.

 

“Jean-Claude!” yelled Solange, “Will you get your nose out my...” and she used a word which defies translation into English unless you want to be very rude indeed. Poor Jean-Claude had pushed in vain, his hands slipping on Solange’s posterior he had catapulted forwards and his nose had gone straight up between her legs.

 

“Please,” wailed Solange, “will somebody get me out!”

 

“Perhaps I might suggest olive oil!”

 

Solange’s yell drowned out the rest of Jean-Claude’s suggestion.

All this time Mme Genet had been watching with a sort of amused interest. This was almost worth having her door broken for. Now she stepped forwards.

 

“Allow me,” she said, and releasing the catch at the side of the sash she slid it back up.

 

Fifteen minutes later Solange’s birthday party was in full swing. Mme Genet was relaxing with a tisane, Sylvie and Nathalie were sharing a bottle of rouquin, Little Jean-Claude had served himself a pastis. Solange lay soaking in the perfumed water of her bath; it had seemed that a long soak was needed to get her cleaned up. She held out her champagne glass for Jean-Claude to fill up. There was nothing in this world, she thought, quite so absolutely relaxing as lying naked in a hot perfumed bath being waited on by men! She should try it more often.

 

“Jean-Claude,” she called out.

 

“Yes,” a voice called back from the kitchen.

 

“I am waiting for my smoked salmon.”

 

“It’s I who must apologise,” replied Jean-Claude, “I cannot prepare the bread accompaniment.”

 

“But Jean-Claude I am waiting.”

 

“But there is a problem,” he replied, “we appear not to have any butter!”


Submitted: August 16, 2020

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