Sex in the City Paris

by Maxim Jakubowski (ed)

  ‘Darling, you say you accept my little, how can I put it… idiosyncrasy. But you don’t know how deeply this addiction affects me.’ I persisted.

  ‘The sex fetish is nothing. It fulfils you and makes you glow. It’s harmless,’ he said, kissing my fingertips.

  Stretching out on the sofa with my arms above my head I convince myself I’m not the demon whore Madame thinks I am, I could never be a slut and I could never permit any other man than Paolo to fuck me.

  I do indulge, however, in a very daring addiction which flouts all the rules of etiquette, and addictions are not that easy to stop once they take hold of you. To be honest I don’t even know if I want to stop it. Naturally I could try to, but I have tried before and I can’t break the cycle. Actually, it’s mentally painful to try to do so, and if I deny myself my addictive pleasures, Paolo sees the light and colour in my personality begin to dwindle and he can’t stand it. Then, he begs me to rekindle the old Evasin and once again he presses me to pursue my addiction.

  Paolo adores every facet of the damaged Evasin: my vivacity, my humour and individuality, but in order to retain it, he knows he must allow me to indulge myself every so often. In little sips, when I cannot withstand denial any longer. Always, darling Paolo senses when the time is coming for the necessary fix and he’ll turn to me late at night and, pressing his body against me and stroking my hair, he’ll say, ‘Evasin, it’s becoming painful for you, holding it all in. Tomorrow you must buy a ticket. Actually I’ll order it for you over the internet. Now where would you like to go? Would you want it to be far away from here? How about a little trip to America this time?’

  ‘Oh no! Not America.’ Running my fingers through my hair, in the nervous way I have, I smile dreamily. ‘I think I’d like it to be Paris again. Paris always has the atmosphere. And the apartments there are better suited to window dressing than those in America. There’s no better place for me in the world than Paris.’

  This is true. Doubtless there are apartments in America ideally suited to my purpose, but there’s a certain magic about the old Parisian apartments and in particular the maison particulière, with its tall stylised windows and airy balconies, which draws out the creative eroticism of the window dresser.

  I keep telling myself this addiction is harmless and since it’s harmless no one seems to care about it. Paolo accepts it. On our wedding night he made it clear to me. ‘I’m all right with it, perfectly all right. However I make one condition. You must never discuss the details of it and you must never totally fuck the bastards and let them into that hot little love tunnel. Make me that promise now darling.’

  ‘That’s easy, Paolo. I love you and I’m devoted to you. I’ll never talk about it.’ I said, as I tenderly massaged his dick, lubricating his tip with tiny movements of my fingers. ‘Never. You can trust me, you know I have integrity. I will never “cunt fuck” them.’

  ‘And you definitely won’t fall in love with a man will you?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t work like that, my sweet. I’d never truly fallen in love until I met you and now you’ve stolen my heart. No, it’s all very divorced from reality really. I can’t describe it, but it’s like acting one of my little parts in a show or going out shopping. For instance, I look in the shop window from time to time and occasionally I touch the goods. Or I walk out onto the stage and I execute my little performance and then I step down, take the applause, change out of costume and into my day clothes, and life goes on as usual. It’s like you, Paolo. I’m sure on certain occasions you admire a beautiful woman. You go up behind her and you follow her for a few blocks and you think she’s beautiful and I shall flirt when she turns around. And soon feeling your eyes on her, she does turn around. So the two of you play out this little scene of make believe, for a while. But because you love me you don’t approach her to sleep with her. You might pinch her butt or even fleetingly brush her breast but that’s all right. All right, because there’s no actual intercourse. Nothing beyond the window dressing.’

  There’s no telephone in the apartment and I don’t require one. Monsieur Démage said he would happily have one connected, but I don’t want any distractions. I’m hungry for my own peculiar thrills and when I’m this ravenous I don’t want anything at all to interfere in the process. If someone now walked into the apartment he would not know who I am since my persona is so carefully disguised. I wear natural hair wigs and I cleverly apply my make-up so I am not Signora Sobrani, married to the industrialist Paolo Sobrani, but Madame Pucette, the cheeky little flea. Furthermore, there are only a few carefully selected items of clothing in my closet since I have no use for them. I leave no paper trails as to my identity.

  For several days before I arrived here, I lay waiting for the stirring to mature because there’s no hurrying it. It’s powerful and it comes upon me first of all as a ripple and then with increasing strength until the waves wash over me, wash me away. The ripples started a few weeks ago when I became restless. Then the obsession began to edge me once more towards the precipice. It was a familiar scene as Paolo watched me pack a small suitcase. I kissed him on the cheek, feeling the familiar swell of love for my husband. ‘I won’t be long darling. It’ll be the usual. Just a little vacation for me to find myself and before you know it, I’ll be back. On my return, I’ll be new and glowing and not this dark little thing with no light. I’ll be a better woman. Things will be calmer and we can settle back into our little groove. That’s how it works isn’t it?’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ Hugging me, I felt the pounding of his heart through his expensive shirt. ‘You know I’ll miss you like hell. But I’ll welcome the return of your light.’

  Madame is standing in the window again. When I look up at the apartment from the boulevard, she’s watching me. Actually she’s observing me through a pair of opera glasses. Smiling I raise my hand and she turns away. Did she think I wouldn’t see her? Does she want me to know she has her beady eye on me? I expect Madame has a little black book on the bureau by her piano into which she is writing her observations.

  I will have to be careful. She could be tricky. She doesn’t seem to have much at all to do, except observe me and instruct the odd child in music. If she’s not looking out of the window, she’s standing on the landing, and she has only to hear a footfall on the staircase or the creak of that naughty apartment door which I shall have to make a point of oiling– and there she is– with the same calculating look on her face. Little does Madame know that she is making the execution of the game so much more appealing by presenting an almost insurmountable difficulty.

  I’m not a beautiful woman but I exude what Paolo calls that certain something. I have a particular chemistry. I exude it. I’m the original femme fatale. Wherever I go men stare at me and they don’t understand why they are staring. I am the indefinable essence of sex. They see a woman who is somewhat petite, with short bobbed hair, but my outstanding attributes are my huge, luminous eyes. Paolo tells me it’s my eyes he first noticed across a crowded room. He said I had power with those eyes and wherever I moved they followed him and entered him in strange and exciting ways. Yes that’s what he said. My eyes had the uncanny ability to enter and capture him and stir things in him. I analyse myself in shop windows and mirrors and I see the eyes staring back. They are incredibly expressive, large sumptuous almond-shaped lakes of deepest green, which can portray the most startling range of emotions. Men are hypnotised by them and I learnt, early on in my acting career, that my eyes were the major tool of my audience seduction. I practised for so long getting the look just right that I now have a catalogue of suggestive expressions with which to hook movie directors and, more importantly, my prey. I don’t like to stalk the window shopper. I like for him to scent me, like a dog scents the bitch.

  I adjust my seamed stockings, apply a spray of scent, and then leave the apartment and stroll down to the Quai, and beneath the echoing bridges I apply myself to the advertisement of my presence with the coquettish angle of my head, the rise of my
skirt and the discreet loosening of a button or two. Then for a while I sit in the jardin des Tuileries.

  The air is hot and dry and bites at the back of my throat. There’s no heat like that of Paris in August. Swirls of dust tickle my legs and hot drops of rain dew my hair. The atmosphere is prickling with a storm so I head back across the river, buying a crepe on the way because I’m ravenous. I tear into it with my strong teeth.

  Pausing for a moment on the Pont, the familiar shiver clambers up my spine. Leaning over the stone parapet, I see my face reflected in the inky water, together with the paler reflection of the window shopper as he observes me. It’s another aspect of my sixth sense that I know he desires me. He’s staring at the swell of my breasts and my taut nipples. Sexually intent, he thinks he’d like to approach me.

  Yes! This one will do, this one will satisfy the addiction. I feel a tremor of satisfaction and the contraction and flexing of my sex. This is the kind of sexual attraction which compels me to run my fingers under the elastic of my sexy knickers and bring myself to orgasm then and there.

  I engage him, throwing out a length of invisible string which will lasso him. Then strolling away, with occasional backward glances, I reel him in to me, over the wide bridge and across the road, before I dart into the doorway and vanish up the stairwell to my apartment. Running to the balcony I fling open the shutters and look down at him. Yes there he is.

  This is the curtain raiser to my whole performance and intended to whet his appetite. I smile seductively, widen my eyes, take a step backwards behind the shutters and shrugging out of my silk dress, I reveal my exquisite French bra and panties.

  I’m so irresistibly aroused, my heart’s beating like a schoolgirl’s. I’d forgotten how good it is to be in the grip of the addiction, and now the delight pulses through me like a narcotic. I push the couch as close to the window as I can and sit astride it; my thighs wide, wriggling my butt as I imagine how it would feel for him to touch my secret bud with his fingertips. I intend to thrill him and colour his monotone life, by eventually showing him my breasts, then my cunt. Today though I simply draw his gaze with my finger, pinching my nipples into firm raspberry nubs, placing my hands on my thighs so my breasts jut forward provocatively. Next, I part my lips with my fingers and trail them down my throat, circling my breasts, before moving them lower over my rounded abdomen, to the moist swelling below. Watch me. Window shop me.

  This is my addiction. I am the window dresser who sits in her apartment window and flagrantly displays herself. Sometimes I wonder how I’ve got away with it for so long, but I suppose I’m just clever at what I do. Like any performer I have adjusted to the circumstances. I try to make sure no one else is looking up at the window when I reveal myself, and I have a robe close by just in case I should be caught red-handed. Furthermore, my senses are finely tuned to those who may take pains to discover my identity and expose Signora Sobrani.

  I can’t get him out of my head and the next day I’m raging with feverish sexual urges. I walk about the apartment so aroused, even the brush of my clothes brings me close to climax. I imagine his generous mouth on my neck, my shoulders, raining kisses on my back. I press my lubed glass dildo against my anus, and I feel the resistance as I contract my sphincter muscles around it. I have only to visualise his cock and the dildo slides in easily. I rock back and forth on the artificial cock, concentrating on my own pleasure as I touch my bare breasts and stare down the road.

  He walks across the bridge at the same time each day and I enjoy making up stories about him. I don’t imagine he works in the city; I think he must be a dancer, as he walks with a loose, loping stride and his limbs are free and dextrous. Today I slide off my bra and I lift and cup my breasts saucily, before I make my next move, slithering onto the arm of the couch, and spreading my thighs in my French knickers to their fullest extremity.

  He leans against a lamppost and, sliding my hand beneath the silk and squeezing my cunt like a ripe peach, I rub my finger around my dark hole, before pressing the trembling bud of my clit. My orgasm shudders and my thighs jerk in tight spasms.

  I cannot tell whether my performance surprises or offends him because he simply looks at me thoughtfully before pushing his hands in his pockets and crossing the road.

  I bite hard on my bottom lip. I’m indignant. Yet the fact that he is not easily seduced is also a thrill. Always, they fall too easily and that’s no game at all. Everyone knows that anything worth having is worth fighting for. Well I’ll have to polish my performance.

  Friday, when at last I expose my cunt, he smiles at me. I ought to give him a name. I will call him Tom. ‘Tom,’ I say out loud, touching my fingers to my lips and moving them suggestively inside my mouth. Once more I trail my hand over my body, jerking down the French knickers before pulling open my sex lips and moving my finger up and down the slit. I climax spontaneously, but this time Tom does not walk away and he never breaks eye contact. Gliding to my feet and posing by the window, I smile and I pull the shutters closed.

  On Saturday Tom’s face is drawn into a tight mask of desire; his face pale from lack of sleep. The hunger has turned to lust and it’s time to finish dressing the window. I play with the shutters for awhile. Half closing them, I dart behind them, so he catches tantalising glimpses of bare skin, before I push them wide open again. I use the shutters as a skilful stage prop, in the same way a Las Vegas dancer uses her fans in her seductive dance.

  Tom sits on the bench opposite my window and as usual I take up my position on the couch with my legs spread wide, raising myself up out of my hips, showing him my glass dildo, and the place where it will go. I move the dildo against my hole, then roll it around my nipples.

  Whenever I masturbate, I usually insert my dildo and press my thighs together to increase the delicious pressure whilst I rub hard on my clit. But today, I need to do it with my legs spread wide and Tom’s eyes on me.

  I orgasm violently and quickly, my mouth open in an O of pleasure and a small spurt of my juice marks the couch. I walk to the window, and press my hands to the glass. I blow on it until it mists and with the tip of my finger I write my name: Evasin. I dance for him, undulating my curvaceous body in tune with the jazz from my CD player, pirouetting with my arms above my head. If he comes tomorrow, I will use a larger dildo and I’ll slide it all the way inside my hot tunnel as he watches. I’m so self-absorbed, so high on the shot of pleasure, I don’t see her. But there she is, standing right by the lamp post. Madame Culotte. For a moment I’m frozen, before snatching my robe from the back of the sofa, I quickly cover myself.

  Madame Culotte fires her fist at the door with impatient staccato shots. ‘Come out Madame Pucette, I know you’re in there.’

  When I open it, I’m confronted by her face drawn into a mask of rage and there are two spots of high colour on her cheeks.

  ‘You whore.’ She says raising her fist. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t doing that filthy thing because I saw you. I’ve never experienced such behaviour. How could you, you dirty putain? Do you want to give me a heart attack?’

  ‘No,I don’t want to give you a heart attack, Madame, but just what exactly did you see?’

  ‘You know damn well what I saw, you licentious bitch. I shall call Monsieur Démage and the police. There must be laws about women who walk up and down naked in front of their windows flaunting and touching themselves in full view of the whole world. It’s indecent exposure.’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe you, you know. Besides, you’re mistaken in what you saw. Look. Why not come in for a cup of coffee and I’ll explain how I like to walk around the flat naked. It’s not that unusual, Madame. Thousands of people do it.’

  ‘You must be joking. Me, enter the whore’s boudoir. And you needn’t try and make out I’m a senile old woman. I know what I saw.’

  ‘Madame Culotte, Suzanne.’ I say in placatory fashion. ‘I really didn’t mean to upset you in any way. I think you have me very wrong. After all if I was a whore wouldn’t strang
e men be arriving and departing at all times of the day and night? Anyway it would be so disingenuous of me to even think of prostituting myself with you watching me so closely.’

  Madame leans closer, so close in fact, I can smell her pastille-scented breath. ‘Listen to me, you minx.’ She shakes her finger in my face emphasising each point. ‘You think you’re a clever little thing. All whores are clever. But believe me there are whores and whores. Your whoredom is of a different flavour to the usual, that’s all. I know what you’re up to. You play a dangerous game. You dangle yourself like a lure. You enjoy tantalising men. Well one day the fish will bite and he’ll gobble you up and there’ll be no more Madame Pucette.’

  I laugh. ‘You can think what you like. You seem to know an awful lot about my supposed profession.’

  ‘I’m not as stupid as you think. I know nothing about you, and you know nothing about me. I could have run the most notorious brothel in all of Paris and how could you prove I didn’t? Hey.’ Her knifelike finger jabs my breast.

  ‘Ouch!’ I exclaim. ‘That hurt. There’s no reason to get physical.’

  ‘You little bitch whore, you think you’re so clever and so smart with your words and excuses.’

  The next day Tom does not appear. I sit at the kitchen table in sad contemplation, crumbling a croissant into pieces. I’ve lost my appetite. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning because I’ve been delirious with lust. When the addiction is upon me I become possessed by a fever, and all I need to live on is the thrill of seduction. It’s like falling in love again and again yet without the hazards of emotional entanglement and the threat of a broken heart. I’m safe within Paolo’s love.

  How could Tom not come? I’ve never failed, I’m a one hundred per cent success story. When I first created the game I made a ruling that I could never fail. I picked my victims with a formidable intuition. If that failed, the window dressing failed. Well, for the first time my sixth sense must have tricked me. Evidently, Tom’s not so sexually adventurous after all and I’ve offended him by pushing the boundaries too far. The trouble is, Tom is now in my head and I am mesmerised by his lips and presence. It seems impossible that this time I could have failed in the game, right when he seemed so enamoured of me and I could see the approach of the dénouement.