I wasn't expecting much when I was told another exchange student from Paris would be staying with us for the next school year. Unlike our first exchange student who was nice but definitely not my type (nor I hers), Ronelle was hot. She had a very pretty face and a thin willowy figure that was just starting to blossom. She had a sweet face and a rather candid outspoken personality. Ronelle came from a wealthy French family that wanted her to experience life in other cultures. Or, maybe they just wanted her out of their hair for awhile and to separate her from her boyfriend. The Exchange Coordinator told my parents Ronelle was a "spirited, mature" girl for her age. My parents are strict and were reluctant to accept her at first, but eventually agreed. And am I am sure glad they did, because when I met her... wow.
Soon after she arrived, I asked Ronelle privately about what the Exchange Coordinator had meant about her being a "spirited, mature girl" and Ronelle was surprisingly straightforward with me. Apparently, in high school back in Bordeaux she had had a boyfriend with whom she had been sleeping regularly. Her parents first sent her to study in Britain for a semester to separate them. The separation had worked. She broke up with him after she found out he had found a new girlfriend to have sex with. Ronelle told me she blamed her parents for it and had rebelled by having a couple of short term affairs with a few British blokes. So, her parents decided to transfer her again, this time to an American college, and sent her to stay with us for a year of study here at Rosemont College. My parents are known for being strict, which may be why the Exchange Coordinator placed Ronelle to stay with us. Maybe they were hoping my parents would "straighten her out."
Ronelle is a sophomore at Rosemont and I'm a freshman at Townsend Community College. I live at home and commute to school, which is less than 2 miles away. My parents moved Ronelle into the spare bedroom. I always thought she was hot, but the feeling obviously wasn't mutual. She was nice to me but never showed any romantic or sexual interest in me whatsoever.
Over the first couple months, I got to know Ronelle better and was mesmerized by her lean sexy body, pretty face, and her odd accent. She spoke English like a Brit but with a heavy French accent. She was cordial enough and we even got to know one another better as we shared the house, the family dinner table, and by spending a good amount of time talking and playing video games in our spare time. It's fair to say we became rather close, but in a strictly platonic kind of way. She told me all about herself and her life in France and England, and all about her boyfriends, former lovers, whatever. She held nothing back, and treated me like I was her best girlfriend. Over time, I grew more and more attracted to her, but to her, I was a strictly a "guy-friend."
As for me, as time went by, I found myself looking forward to spending more and more time with her. I loved that she often wore provocative clothing. Tight clingy jeans. Loose shirts that gapped open a lot. A couple times when she shifted her body at just the right angle, she accidentally gave me some quick peeks at her always braless tits. I'm 100% sure it was accidental, but I loved it anyway. I loved the sleepwear she'd throw on to watch TV at night or would wear to breakfast on Sunday morning. There were also those tight tank tops she wore a lot. I tried to avoid getting caught ogling the pair of alluring mounds and the two prominent nipple bumps that outlined the shape of her young breasts just millimeters under the thin tight fabric. In the right light, you could even see the faint outline of the dark circles of her areoles through the slightly sheer fabric. And in the cold Chicago winds, her nips were often rock hard and prominent, sitting high on her chest, and just begging to be felt up and sucked.
I knew she definitely wasn't showing off for me. I sure wished she was. But one thing was for certain, she was not shy or overly modest about her body. She told me she had lifted her top and flashed her tits (along with several other girls) at a Mardi Gras night at one of the local bars Rosemont students frequent. I sure wish I'd been there to see that. Then there was the time when we were just talking in her bedroom, she turned her back to me and changed her blouse and pulled on a pajama top while I lay on her bed. I kept chatting away, trying not to give away my surprise and my intense interest. I didn't see much of course, since her back was turned to me, but even a 2-second glance at her partial side-boob was enough to make my penis stir in my jeans. I found myself praying she would turn around or maybe bend over to pick something up. But no.
My passion for her grew even deeper after she told me about swimming at topless beaches or sunbathing totally nude in France. To French girls, showing your tits in public is normal. Maybe she thought nothing of it, but my imagination ran wild, picturing her naked. But several times while we chatted or played video games, my growing attraction to her got doused by a virtual "cold bucket of ice water" when she interrupted our talks to take a phone call from one of the guys she was "involved" with. One of her most frequent callers was one of her former lovers back in England who called her on her cell for some sexy talk about once a week. She also took calls from a guy in her Math class at Rosemont who was trying desperately to get her to go out with him. I was jealous.
She was flirtatious with lots of guys, but as far as I know, she hadn't fucked anyone in the 5 months since she had moved into my parents' house back in September. I'm pretty sure of that because I overheard her telling her British friend over the phone that she was really horny from being without sex for so long. Maybe she was lying to him, but either way, their long distance calls often sounded a lot like cybersex. I listened a couple times with an ear against our adjoining bedroom wall, and I could swear she was probably diddling herself while she was talking to him.
By March, I was head-over-heels crazy for her, and she was all I could think about. I fantasized and masturbated about her several times a week. I found myself rushing home from classes to be around the house whenever I knew she'd be around. I had even signed up for a French 101 elective in January mostly so I could get close to Ronelle, and so I would have an excuse to ask her to tutor me. She was happy to do it and in return I helped her with Math and occasionally helped translate obscure American words and idiomatic expressions for her. We spent a lot of time together. But she still treated me like a brother and I wasn't sure how to change that.
My chance came when I found out my father had come home early from work one afternoon and found her making out with a guy on our living room couch. Dad had also found a box of condoms and an un-smoked joint on the coffee table. When I got home from my classes that night, I found her sobbing. She confided in me the whole story and I held her in my arms. (I was like a best girlfriend to her, I'm sure. But to me, I got a thrill holding her like that). My dad was quite angry about it and had literally thrown the guy out of our house. She said she was worried my father was going to cut short her exchange placement and send her back to France early. She was afraid she'd lose her college credit by not finishing the semester and was afraid her parents would "kill" her when she got back to France. She didn't give me as many details as I tried to get her to tell me, but I do know the guy had his hands all over her naked breasts when my dad walked in on them.
I held her and listened to her and said supportive things the way a girlfriend would, but all the time, my penis was twitching and I was secretly fantasizing I had been the guy with his hands on her tits and my tongue swirling hers. One way or another, I knew I had to make my fantasies come true. I just didn't know how.
Later that same night, long after my parents went to bed, I heard her talking with her British friend on the phone. With my ear pressed against our adjoining bedroom wall, I could hear enough of her sexy talk and heavy breathing to know she was masturbating. On an impulse, I rushed over to her bedroom door, gave a quick knock, and barged right in without waiting for her to invite me inside.
Sure enough she was partially sitting up on the bed in flannel pajamas with a cell phone in one hand and her other hand down inside her stretchy pajama pants. Her top was completely unbuttoned but mostly closed, with just a hint of shallow cleavage and a part of one breast visible.
"Get out," she yelled.
I held my finger to my lips and said "Shhh. You don't want to wake my dad, do you?"
To my delight and complete surprise, she lowered her voice, pulled her hand out of her pajama pants, and covered the mouthpiece of her cell phone. "Get out" she said again but in a quiet hushed voice.
I shook my head no.
She glared at me for a few moments, but then her stare grew less angry.
"She told the caller she had to go, and a few seconds later she said her goodbyes and clicked her phone off.
Still staring at me sternly, she asked in a quiet voice "What are you doing in here? You steal my privacy. What do you want?"
I didn't answer but stepped closer and dropped my eyes back and forth between her face and the open gap in the unbuttoned pajama top, trying to get a better look at what was inside. She saw me ogling and clenched the two front halves of the top together.
