Read Platform for Free Online

see-through top - an ethnic print from Trois Suisses, most likely. Her trousers, in the same fabric, were just as see-through; you could easily make out the white lace of her panties. Lea, very dark, was skinnier; she made up for this with the pretty curve of her bum, nicely accentuated by her black cycling shorts, and with a thrusting bust, the tips of which were squeezed into a bright yellow bustier. A tiny diamond adorned her slender navel. I stared attentively at the two sluts so that I could forget them forever.
    The distribution of the vouchers continued. The guide, Son, called each of the group members by their first names; it made me sick. We were adults, for fuck's sake. I felt a ray of hope when she referred to the OAPs as 'Monsieur et Madame Lobligeois'; but immediately she added with a delighted smile 'Josette and Rene'. It seemed unbelievable, but true nevertheless. 'My name is Rene,' confirmed the old man, addressing himself to no one in particular. 'Tough . . .' I muttered. His wife shot him a look as if to say: 'Shut up, Rene, you're annoying everyone.' I suddenly realised that he reminded me of the character Monsieur Plus in the Bahlsen biscuit ads. It might have been him, too. I directed this question to his wife: had they, in the past, ever worked as extras? Absolutely not, she informed me, they had run a charcuterie. Yeah, that would probably fit too. So, this cheery jolly little fellow was a former pork-butcher (in Clamart, his wife explained); a modest establishment devoted to feeding the proletariat had been the previous theatre for his antics and quips.
    Then there were two other couples, less distinctive, who seemed to be connected in some obscure way. Had they already been on holiday together? Had they met each other over breakfast? At this point in the tour, anything was possible. The first couple was also the more unappealing. The man looked a bit like a young Antoine Waechter, if you can imagine such a thing, but his hair was darker and he had a neatly trimmed beard; actually, he didn't so much look like Antoine Waechter as like Robin Hood, though he looked Swiss, or to be more precise, he had something of the Jura about him. All in all, he didn't look much like anything, but he seemed a real jerk. Not to mention his wife, wearing dungarees, serious, a good milker. It was inconceivable that these people had not yet reproduced, I thought; they'd probably left the child with their parents in Lon-le-Saulnier. The second couple, a little older, seemed rather less serene. Skinny and nervous, with a moustache, the man introduced himself to me as a naturopath, and, faced with my ignorance, went on to explain that he practised healing using plants or other natural means wherever possible. His wife, thin and curt, worked in social services, reintegrating, I don't know, first offenders or something in Alsace; they looked like they hadn't fucked for thirty years. The man seemed inclined to tell me about the benefits of natural medicines; but still dazed from this first encounter, I went and sat on a bench nearby. From where I sat, I could barely make out the last three members of the group, who were half hidden by the pork-butcher couple. There was some fifty-year-old thug called Robert, with a particularly harsh expression; a woman, of the same age, with curly black hair framing a face that was nasty, world-weary and flabby, whose name was Josiane; and another woman, a bit younger, almost unnoticeable, of about twenty-seven who followed Josiane with a sort of canine docility and whose name was Valerie. Anyway, I'll get back to them; I'll have far too much time to get back to them, I thought glumly as I walked towards the coach. I noticed that Son was still staring at her list of passengers. Her face was tense, words formed on her lips involuntarily; it was clear she was anxious, almost distraught. Counting, it appeared there were thirteen people in the group; and Thais are frequently superstitious, even more