Nudist French Christmas -

In moments, two dozen nudists of all ages, shapes, and sizes were arranged in a great, wriggling pile on a massive pile of faux-fur throws. It was like a living palet breton —a human blanket of skin against skin. Children giggled. Grandparents snored softly. Someone produced a flask of cognac.

This year, however, a complication had arrived in the form of his sister-in-law, Chantal. nudist french christmas

“You know,” she said, reaching for another slice of bûche de Noël , “the stockings are hung by the chimney with care—but here, we are the stockings.” In moments, two dozen nudists of all ages,

“To Chantal,” he said. “May she always remember—at the Domaine de l’Évidence, the only thing we dress is the tree.” Grandparents snored softly

The crisis came at dinner. The main course—a perfect chapon (capon) with truffles—was interrupted by a power outage. The heated floors died. The outdoor hot tub’s jets fell silent. The temperature began to drop.

“Everyone! To the grande salle ! We shall use the only heat source left—the human body!”

But the Domaine had its ways. Upon arrival, she was wrapped in a fluffy white robe and led to a heated lounge where a colossal bûche de Noël sat on a table surrounded by naked carolers singing “Petit Papa Noël.” Chantal clutched her robe closed and sat stiffly in a corner.