French Bakery - Sex Stories

French Bakery

My name is Luke. I’m 24 years old, single, and travel solo for leisure at least twice a year. I head to France for a week vacation to explore Paris. As a solo traveler, I do what I can to stay within budget so that I’m not broke when I return home. As an example, I stay in hostels for lodging instead of hotels. Hostels are a very economical way to travel. They also provide people the unique opportunity to meet fellow travelers from around the world. Toward the end of my week, I decide to explore outside the city. One of the employees that runs the hostel I’m staying at gave me an address down the street to rent motor scooters at affordable daily rates. With a small backpack I carry with me everywhere I go, I head over to the rental place. I carry my wallet, phone, snacks and water. I pick up my scooter and head west leaving Paris.

It’s a scenic ride once I leave the city rush hour ride into the outskirts. I don’t have a destination in mind. I just want to explore. After a couple hours, I pull off the main road and find a side street that leads into a small village. The village is surrounded by mountains and sits in a valley. As I ride downhill into the village, I can see small homes, farms, and a large steeple in the center of the village. The side road I’m on takes me into the heart of the village. It’s almost a ghost town with few people out and about. I ride by and a few locals wave at me as I wave back in return. I stop my scooter and park it next to a bakery. I built ...

... an appetite on the road and this looked like the only place in town that served food. I take a good look at the small establishment. It’s two stories. The first floor is the bakery and the second floor looks to be residential. Most likely the owner of the bakery lives upstairs. I read the sign that hangs high over the doorway: “Boulangerie Olga.”

The logo has bread and fruit next to the name on the sign. Knowing little to no French, I take out my phone to translate the name: “Olga’s Bakery.” I wouldn’t have been able to guess that boulangerie is French for bakery. The only sentence I know in French happens to be that I don’t speak French. I’m fortunate that most of the places I’ve been to so far during my week had people speaking English and their native language. However, in the middle of nowhere at least 70 kilometers outside of Paris, I honestly don’t know if anyone speaks English. I make my way into the bakery and the smell of fresh croissants, chocolate, and cheese welcomes me.

“Bonjour!” Behind the counter, is a large mature French lady. She has a pan of fresh dough in her hands. She takes the pan and puts it inside a wood burning oven.

“Bonjour,” I reply back to her making my way over to the counter to get a look at what to eat.

I don’t see any menus but it looks like most of the items for sale are on display. The lady asks me a question in French.

“Desolé je ne parle pas Francais,” I say telling her the only phrase I knew in French. The kind lady looks ...