Stepping out of the Uber, you let the hot, humid air breeze across your face for the first time. Pulling out your french dictionary, you hoped that someone in Marseille would be able to speak your language, but you weren’t holding your breath. It was your first time outside of your home, outside of your little bubble of cultural comfort, and it was exciting. You had a few goals for this little excursion: one, embrace yourself in the gay culture. Two, find a summer boyfriend. Three, have your beach body ready. That third goal, however was a little delayed. But sitting there, letting the hot sun and the cool ocean air, the sounds of crashing waves, honking horns, music and chattering… You knew immediately you’d be in town for a while.
The issue was finding a local guide to help him navigate this brave new culture. After all, you were far out of your element. Pulling out your phone, you start to google local hostels to crash at for the night until you catch someone peering at you from down the promenade. Shirtless, sunkissed, his gorgeous tanned muscles glistened in the hot sun, his big masculine feet sliding his longboard back and forth, and those deep brown eyes glancing at you made your heart flutter. You turn back to your phone, thinking to yourself in rising anxiety that he’d caught you checking him out. Just look busy fiddling with your phone, maybe you were just staring at the beautiful beach. Though, the sound of a rolling skateboard and skidding of shoe on pavement shattered that fantasy.
“Vous n'êtes pas d'ici, n'est-ce pas?” His silky tenor voice had a laid back melodic quality that instantly put you at ease, though you had no clue what he was saying. Panicking, you start to flip through your french dictionary, as he chuckles at your demeanor. Smiling, he puts his hand on the book. “I can speak your language. My name is Beau.” His heavy accent was difficult to understand, but you understood the gist of what he was saying. You introduced yourself and expressed that you were trying to find a good hostel to spend the night at. Beau laughed again, this time a bit more pointed. “It is summertime in Marseille… I wish you the luck, my friend. I don’t think there are many places to stay.”
You sigh, in the back of your mind you knew that perhaps reservations were a good idea before travelling. But the excitement of backpacking in the south of France was too overwhelming, and all sense of planning and organization was tossed out the window. You wanted to be as spontaneous as possible, but now here you were with no lodging, no mastery of the language, and no knowledge of the area.
“If you would like, I have a couch in my studio you can stay on? It’s a mess, I was working earlier and left a mess all over, but you can stay if you need to.” Looking down at your phone, he was right. No vacancies at any of the local hostels- you truly didn’t have much choice. You agree and Beau smiles, slapping you jovially on your back. “Bien-sûr. Allons-y. We can go now.” He takes your backpack, tossing it over his shoulder as he rolls away, forcing you to hasten the pace to keep up with him on his longboard.
The distance was farther than you anticipated, though strolling along Beau’s glistening body in the summer heat, his strong musk gently trailing behind him, it wasn’t so bad. You arrived after perhaps an hour of walking and rolling, pulling up to an run down building in the old town of Marseille. He pushed open the door, letting you in. The two of you ascend the stairs in silence, marching four stories up to the attic apartment. Each footfall from Beaus massive feet made the stairs shudder, though whether it was the dubious maintenance of the stairs of his sheer mass, you couldn’t tell. Arriving on the fourth floor landing, he opens the front door to the studio.
The apartment was a sprawling open space, bright and airy, with four open doors leading to the balcony, their curtains fluttering aimlessly in the wind. Beau was correct, however, in stating the place was a wreck. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, art supplies were haphazardly tossed from one side of the space to the next, even a clearly very heavily used, still dripping fleshlight sitting on the very couch you were to sleep on that evening. You knew the French were sexually open, but you weren’t quite expecting him to be that open. You weren’t lying to yourself, you lusted over this beautiful specimen, as he tossed your backpack onto the couch and threw his hands triumphantly in the air.
“Et bien! Welcome home. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to clean, I have been so busy with sculpting and it has been so chaud, ma fois I was sweating all over the place I could barely think.” Putting that comment to the side, you distract yourself from staring at his glistening abs and strong legs. You sit on the couch, gingerly pushing the dripping fleshlight to the side.
“Oh you sculpt? What do you sculpt?” Immediately, Beau’s face lit up. He smiled a genuine grin and eagerly plopped down next to you on the couch, propping up his huge feet on the table.
“Men. I love the male form. It is so… qu'est que c'est le mot pour ça… Beautiful.” You smile earnestly, listening to him talk so passionately about his art, and how every ounce of a man from his body to his scent to his mind fills him with passion. He pauses, and his glance changes to one of intrigue. His brows lower, his eyes peering deep into yours. “When I saw you, I was inspiré.” You blush and look down, not before taking a guilty glance at his massive feet propped on the table, teasing you from afar. “May I sculpt you?”
Your head darts back with attention to him, floored that he would be even moderately interested in sculpting someone like you. You intend to nod, but your trailing gaze betrays your primary interest as you admire this statuesque adonis. Your eyes move from his plump lips, to his meaty pecs, to his cobblestone abs, to the growing tent in his damp shorts… all the while letting his irresistible musky scent mesmerize you.
“Ah I see. You like?” He smiles as he raises his arms, flexing his bulging biceps, veins popping from the sheer strength of his muscle. Your heart melts as he winks at you and takes a deep whiff of his sweaty pit, sighing in complete satisfaction. He was incredible, so intensely beautiful, sensual… Unlike anyone you’ve ever known. Smiling, he brings his face close to yours, letting his minty breath cool your red face. “All you have to say is yes.”
In a lusty musk drunk stupor, you nod, and he smiles as he guides your face into his dank pit. You inhale his sharp, salty musk as if it were the very air you breathe, huffing maniacally before calmly taking it in. Your tongue brushes over the bristly hairs, lapping up every single beadlet of his savory sweat. He retrieves you from his pit, your face ripe with his scent, and pulls you into a deep, passionate kiss. He kicks off his thrashed, well loved shoes, allowing the wet, heavy smell of his feet having skated all day in the summer heat of Marseille. He pulls his damp shorts and underwear down, tossing them aside, letting his slim, uncut 9 inch cock slap against your leg. You peer down at his musty member, the radiating heat from it warming your thigh. Smiling, he stands up, his semi hard dick and sagging balls mere inches from your face. He gently caresses the back of your head, with an intense look in his eye.
“May I sculpt you?” He asks one final time, and in a breathless huff, completely enveloped in the moment you affirm with a gentle yes.
He flashes his pearly whites with a hearty grin before he places his ripe feet against your face. You take it in: heavy, wet, salty, sweet, sharp, reminiscent of the best blue cheese. You open your mouth to suckle on his toes, your mouth stretching a bit more than expected to accommodate his wide size 15s, but the flavorful taste of his feet were simply too delectable to pass up. He moans in pleasure, bringing his second foot to your lips. You feel your jaw stretch downward as his right foot plunges into your mouth, contorting your face like a silicone mask. You feel his feet push down your throat, your neck bulging and creaking as the outline of his huge feet slide further and further into you.
Grabbing the edges of your mouth between his calloused fingers, he stretches your mouth wide, thrusting his legs even deeper into you. The sensation of his wide, slick feet creeping down your thighs and calves was a strange mixture of fullness and warmth until his toes pushed into your own. As if pulling on a pair of socks, he grabs your ankle, stretching your foot wider and tighter over his until his heel slips into place with a loud snap. Beau wriggles your toes playfully, feeling his musky sweat start to drip from your soles. Standing on his (your) feet, he tugs firmly on your waist, pulling your legs up his, your skin stretching and squelching until they’re bulging with his firm, lean muscle.
His breath labored, you watch as his musty dick slips past your lips, down your throat and press against your midsection. It starts to slide and press against the base of your cock, until he thrusts his cock into yours. Stretching longer and wider until all 9 inches are suctioned into your cock, his pendulous balls dropping like bowling balls into yours. He sighs in relief as he pulls the rest of you up his abs and pecs, sliding his arms tightly against his side, while your skin slides upwards, swallowing his broad shoulders in a loud gurgle.
Maneuvering his thick arms within you, you feel his wide, meaty mitts thrust into your arms, his fingers bulging outward under your skin, ending up filling your hands with his gruff, calloused palms. He flexed your thick, juicy biceps and ran your hands over your rippled abs, every sensation more sensitive and poignant than you’ve ever experienced. Finally gripping your lips one last time, he pulls your face over his, pressing down the skin and sealing him within you.
With an energetic pep in his step, he sauntered over to a podium, standing in front of a floor length mirror. Through your eyes you could see what he’d done to you. You were easily 6'7, same height as Beau, with the very same lean, glistening musculature which had graced his body. You see him smile with your face, and his silky voice poured from your lips.
“Et maintenant, Ã sculpter.” With that, he brought your calloused fingers to your face and began to pinch, pull, and work your features. He widened your nose, pulled your eyebrows lower and pressed your jaw wider and sharper. Smiling, he rubbed your teeth with his thumb until they were a pearly white, and beautifully aligned. Happy with the results, he opened a small cabinet to the side, pulling out a puck of pomade. He scooped out a dollop of the black sludge between his fingers and began to run his hands through your hair, making thick, sweaty black waves of long healthy hair, rubbing the excess off on your jawline for a pristine five o clock shadow.
“Parfait. Eh bien, peut-être…” He shuffled through the drawer, pulling out a sharp black pen. He sat down on the podium, crossing his legs, and began to draw simple, yet beautiful tattoos on your arms, neck, groin, and feet. Finally, from a small box atop the table, Beau picked up a gold piercing, stretching your tongue out of your mouth and pressing it into place with no resistance. You could feel Beau purring with glee inside you as he finalized every last inch of you, until he’d sculpted an absolute masterpiece.
Beau beamed from ear to ear, hopping off the podium to his dank shorts, wet socks, and ripe shoes. Happily putting each item on, with them fitting absolutely flawlessly.
For the next week, Beau wore you non-stop. He carried on with his everyday life, skating from place to place, running errands, painting, lifting weights, jacking off in his favorite fleshlight… and as time passed you became more and more accustomed to this laid back lifestyle- the epitome of la vie boheme. You began to think your every thought in French, embracing the tranquil days on the beach, your addictive parfum de corps au naturale, the polyamorous barrage of men who either wanted that tight hole of yours, or the musty cock. Life was a breeze, and by the end of the seven days, Beau had no more to teach you, and stripped out of your body, dripping in his fragrant sweat.
Slowly, you felt your senses return. You brought your calloused hands to your smooth pecs, pinching your sensitive nipples. He’d truly given you a body and a life only a visionary artist like Beau could provide. Sauntering over to you with a cup of coffee, Beau chuckled.
“Alors qu'est-ce que tu en penses? Aimez-vous la pièce finie?
So what do you think? How do you like the finished piece?” Filled with romantic passion and love for your sculptor, you pulled him onto your lap, still wearing his ripe clothes.
“Tu sais que j'aime ça. Je ne peux pas te remercier assez, mon amour.
You know I love it. I can’t thank you enough for this, my love.” He kisses your neck, being sure to take a very deep breath of your own musky pits before passionately kissing you. “Et aussi, je m'appelle Pierre. And also, my name is Pierre.” No longer whoever you once were, you were proud to be a kiffeur artiste français with your deepest loving partner Beau. No matter what sidepiece himbo found their way into your bed, you were in love.
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