Sex in the City Paris

by Maxim Jakubowski (ed)

  She leaned her back against the wet wall, ran her hands through her hair and looked at him. He could see her feet inching slowly apart. Her lips were pursed. LaStanza was breathing heavier now.

  She pulled her purse off her shoulder and let it sink to the ground. He watched her reach down, place her hands on either side of her hips and slowly, ever so slowly, pull her tight dress up her thighs. The lacy tops of her stockings became visible, along with the crotch of her sheer white panties. They looked soaked, plastered to her mat of dark pubic hair. She continued to raise her dress. LaStanza looked around and felt foolish for doing so.

  Juliette ran her tongue over her lips as her hands stopped. All of her panties were visible now. LaStanza felt his heart thundering, felt the stiffness between his legs become rock hard. He moved to her.

  Pressing himself against her, he heard her let out a faint sigh as he kissed her ever so softly, savouring the softness of her lips, before their mouths opened and their tongues entwined and pressed against one another. He put everything into the kiss, every bit of unexpected emotion, every bit of excitement growing in his heart.

  Juliette seemed to rise as he moved against her. He could feel her hands in his hair, holding his head as they kissed, as he pumped against her crotch. He felt her left leg rising around him, wrapping itself around him. He heard her left shoe fall behind him.

  He ran his hands up from her hips, up to her breasts. They were firm, her nipples hard and pointy. He moved his right hand around to the back of her dress and began to work the zipper down. Juliette’s hands moved from his head to his belt. They unzipped one another. He felt her hand rub his dick.

  LaStanza pulled her dress down and sank to his knees in front of the girl. He worked the dress over her hips. Juliette’s hands were back in his hair again, massaging his scalp. He shoved her dress down past her knees. She raised each foot as he slipped the dress from under her. He reached his hands into the rear of her panties and caressed her ass. His face, an inch away from her, took in the beautiful sight of her wet, plastered panties. He licked the front of them, tasting the rain, and then worked them down slowly, his hands stopped to squeeze her ass. He used his right hand to pull the panties off, his left hand roaming over her ass, his tongue working itself into her soft pubic hair. Darker than the hair on her head, her silky pubes had more red highlights.

  With his face buried in her bush, LaStanza reached up to unsnap her strapless bra. Juliette helped and the bra tumbled atop LaStanza’s head on its way down. He reached for her breasts and kneaded them as his tongue slipped into the soft, sweet folds of her pussy. She was very wet, but not from the rain.

  Juliette pulled at his hair and cried out, his tongue working furiously now. She tasted sweet and tangy and hot. She began to yank at his hair, pulling him up. Her hips were already pumping against his tongue. She pulled so hard on his hair, he had to relent and kiss his way up to her navel. Her skin was still wet, but no longer cool.

  He stopped at her breasts, kissing each back and forth, feeling each with his eager hands, opening his mouth as wide as he could to take in as much as he could, to run his tongue over her erect nipples. She moaned even louder when he pinched her nipples and gnawed gently on them.

  Sinking his tongue into her mouth, LaStanza felt Juliette’s strong hands shoving his pants and shorts down and grabbing his dick. She squeezed it gently and rubbed it and pressed its tip against her wet pussy. He felt himself slipping into her. She put her hands on his shoulders and sank down, impaling herself on his dick, moaning in his mouth as they French kissed.

  She was so hot. Her pussy felt steamy as it grabbed his dick. He felt himself burning as he rocked against her. He slowed himself and began to move in and out of her pussy in nice long strokes. He loved the way she cried with each insertion.

  He had so much trouble breathing he had to pull his mouth away from hers, through the tangles of her hair as they fucked against the wall, in the alley, in the rain, in the city of light. Juliette cried loudly and he began hammering himself into her. He felt her rise and hold him close as she came. He felt her legs go momentarily limp, before she started up again, more fiercely than before.

  He wanted it to last as long as he could. He stopped himself twice. Each time, Juliette stopped and, catching her breath momentarily, kissed him again. Their tongues worked and he went back to jamming her against the wall.

  When he could hold it no longer, she seemed to know and bucked violently against him. He shot her full, in deep, hot jolts. The muscles of her pussy pulled it out of him until he was wasted. They continued kissing until he had to pull his mouth away or pass out from lack of oxygen. He could feel her vaginal muscles still moving inside.

  They did not move for a very long time. When they did move, his dick slipped out of her. Leaning back, he kissed her again, gently. He backed away and looked at her body, examined it, taking every inch into his memory. She was truly a lovely girl. Her face, still flushed, was more than beautiful. Her lips were red, but not from lipstick anymore, but from passion. Her breasts were so white and round, with small nipples. He traced his fingers over the flatness of her belly and the roundness of her hips, down to the thick bush between her legs.

  She had nice legs, shapely legs, long slender legs. Sinking to his knees once again, he stared at her pussy. Her legs were still wide and her flesh was still wet and her pubic hair was twisted and matted. To LaStanza, nothing looked more beautiful.

  Juliette touched the top of his hair. He looked up and she smiled down at him. He reached around, caressed the cheeks of her ass and kissed her pubic hair once more. Rising slowly, he pulled his shorts and pants up and looked around. A movement caught his eye on a balcony across the alley. There was a bald-headed man out on the balcony, a pot-bellied man wearing a grey tee-shirt and baggy pants. Next to the man was a smaller man, much older, in a wheelchair.

  LaStanza looked back at Juliette who smiled up at the watchers on the balcony. So he moved aside, and Juliette let them have a nice long look at her naked body.

  He helped her back into her dress and she took his hand again and said, “My room is right here.” She pulled him along the wall to a door with the number seven on it. She took a key from her purse and opened the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  LaStanza looked back up the alley and envisaged his wife waiting for him in the café. He pulled away and told Juliette he had to go.

  ‘Really?’ She tilted her head to the side and seemed hurt.

  He leaned in and kissed her again but the passion wasn’t in her lips. He backed away and she closed the door firmly.

  Moving up the alley, he suddenly felt drowsy. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes momentarily because he felt dizzy and hot.

  ‘So, what have you been up to?’ Lizette asked.

  Blinking his eyes, LaStanza sat up with a, ‘Huh?’

  His wife stood next to the table in her black skirt and green silk blouse, her long dark hair curled and hanging loosely around her round face, her gold-brown eyes twinkling at him. Instinctively, LaStanza looked over at the table next to the picture window. It was empty.

  Lizette moved around the table and sat in the chair to his right. Crossing her legs, LaStanza heard the nylon sound of her pantyhose. It, even more than her voice, stirred him to complete wakefulness. He looked at Juliette’s table again. It seemed as if no one had ever been there.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ His wife asked again. ‘Besides drinking coffee.’

  ‘Uh. Day dreaming.’ His mouth was so dry he could barely answer.

  ‘You look wet?’

  ‘What?’ He ran his hands over his clothes and they felt damp.

  Lizette put an elbow up on the table and rested her chin in her hand and said, ‘Did you get caught in the rain? And what were you day-dreaming about?’ She scrunched up her full lips in a teasing way.

  So he reached down and ran his right hand up her left thigh.

  ‘Was it a nice day-dream?
’ She ran her tongue over her full lips.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said as he pulled her left leg until she uncrossed it. He looked at the picture window and said, ‘I thought you could see the Eiffel Tower from anywhere in Paris.’

  ‘Not from every café.’

  ‘You can in the movies.’

  She laughed. ‘The bad ones.’

  ‘I remember a movie where the couple were strolling through the French Quarter and ended up in City Park?’

  ‘This Property is Condemned. Not a bad movie, actually. Natalie Wood and Robert Redford. Play by Tennessee Williams. Screenplay by Francis Ford Coppola.’

  ‘Really? The Godfather guy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So how’d the speech go? You want some coffee?’ He pushed his fingers down into her crotch and rubbed them against the front of her pantyhose. He knew she wasn’t wearing panties today. She let out a small moan and smiled, nodding toward the waiter.

  He continued feeling up her crotch as her legs slowly parted. Feeling the outline of her pubic hair beneath her stockings, she felt damp.

  Lizette gasped and moved her legs apart, the little exhibitionist. She looked at the waiter. LaStanza could see the waiter placing himself at the end of the counter so he could look up Lizette’s skirt. The man pretended to be wiping the counter.

  LaStanza leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear, ‘Let him look.’ LaStanza felt a growing erection now.

  She closed her eyes and he felt her up good, gently rubbing her until she was juicy and her chest rising as her breathing increased. Her eyes snapped open and panting, she said, ‘Come on, short dark and handsome. Let’s get back to the hotel.’

  LaStanza held her skirt up a second before pulling his hand away. The waiter certainly got a good look that time.

  When LaStanza stood, he felt a little wobbly and sat back in his chair.

  ‘You OK?’ Lizette picked up her purse from the table.

  LaStanza saw something that caused pin pricks along the back of his neck. He saw two cups at his table. The one to the left sat askew in its saucer. The pin pricks became needles.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Lizette asked. ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘No.’ He felt a grin come over his face. ‘Better. Much better.’

  The café door opened and two armed gendarmes stepped in, each carrying machine guns, each in light blue uniform shirts, dark pants and the classic round police hats.

  They scanned the café, their gazes lingering on Lizette as a tall man in a suit followed them in. Obviously a plainclothesman, he had salt and pepper hair and a thin face, deep-set eyes. He barely looked at LaStanza, staring at Lizette as he moved through the café to the portly waiter standing behind the counter.

  The men spoke in rapid French and LaStanza heard the word Sûreté. He leaned over to tell Lizette that the Sûreté were the French equivalent of the F.B.I., when she said, ‘National police. They’re looking for a woman.’

  LaStanza immediately looked at the waiter who was shrugging to the Sûreté man, sticking out his chin and rattling at the mouth.

  Lizette whispered, ‘He says lots of women come in, but not many today and not any in the last few hours. Except me.’

  The goose bumps were back. The plainclothesman pulled something from his coat pocket. A picture, he showed the waiter and spoke again, a little louder and LaStanza heard something like terroriste. Terrorist!

  Like a good Sicilian, LaStanza was used to keeping emotion from his face but Lizette must have seen something in his eyes because she leaned back and narrowed her eyes slightly.

  She moved her legs away from the table and uncrossed them and LaStanza saw the gendarmes watching her. They could probably see up her skirt. Lizette noticed and took in a slight breath, a little wily smile on her lips. She left her legs uncrossed as she looked back at the plain-clothes man, then looked away as their gaze moved to her legs. No doubt they were getting a good show, which drew a wicked smile to Lizette’s full lips.

  The man from the Sûreté stepped up to their table and spoke. Lizette answered in fluent French. She’d told LaStanza her Parisian was nearly perfect. The only word LaStanza understood was Américain.

  ‘Oui, madame,’ said the man from the Sûreté. ‘Have you seen this woman?’ He handed the picture to Lizette who looked at it.

  ‘No.’ She passed the photo to LaStanza. In the grainy, black and white picture, Juliette’s hair was shorter. It was taken from a distance, a surveillance photo.

  A movement to LaStanza left caught his attention as the waiter stepped forward, a towel over his shoulder. He pointed to LaStanza’s coffee cup but there was something else, a knowing look in his eyes and LaStanza the Sicilian recognized the threat immediately. The waiter backed away.

  LaStanza shook his head and handed the picture back to the plain-clothes man who asked Lizette what hotel were they staying at. When she told him, LaStanza saw the eyebrows of the waiter rise slightly. He looked at the gendarmes, who were too busy ogling his wife’s legs to notice the exchange of looks.

  Lizette told them her husband was also a policeman.

  The man from the Sûreté said, ‘Yes?’

  LaStanza pulled his ID folder with his gold N.O.P.D. star-and-crescent badge clipped outside and handed it to the plainclothesman. The waiter’s eyes became wide for a moment.

  ‘He’s a homicide detective,’ Lizette said, finally looking at LaStanza again. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Are there many homicides in New Orleans?’ The man from the Sûreté passed the ID folder back to LaStanza who told him, ‘Every day.’ He stood and slipped the folder back into his rear pocket. ‘And most nights.’

  A sly smile came to the man’s thin lips. ‘Yes. Everyone in America has a gun.’ He bowed slightly and led the other officers out.

  LaStanza dug in his pocket for money and turned to the waiter who rattled off an amount in francs and dollars. LaStanza put a ten on the table and caught the waiter’s eye again. It was there– that knowing look followed by a slight nod. LaStanza reciprocated with his own slight nod.

  Stepping outside, LaStanza spotted the three policemen moving up Rue St André in the opposite direction from the alley. He and Lizette turned the other way and she wrapped her hands around his arm, the same way the girl had done, sending a shiver up his spine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  They passed the alley and he looked down it. Empty. They continued to the corner and LaStanza spotted a pay phone across the street. Waiting for traffic to pass, he felt his pulse rising again.

  ‘Actually,’ Lizette said as they started across the street, ‘my talk went very well. I told you about Professor LeGris, the man who holds the Chair of French Revolution Studies at the Sorbonne, well, he was quite complimentary.’

  LaStanza stopped next to the pay phone and Lizette was almost pulled out of step.

  ‘What is it?’

  He looked into her gold-brown eyes and smiled weakly. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice was lowered, more cautious. The look in the eyes of this police-wife told him she was expecting something. Something not good.

  ‘I want you to call the Sûreté from this pay phone. Tell them the woman they’re looking for, the terrorist, lives in the alley just down from Café Degas on Rue St André. The door is on the left with the number seven on it.’ His voice rising. ‘She’s there now.’

  Lizette eyes grew wider. ‘You saw her?’

  He ran his hands up her arms. ‘I need you to make the call anonymously. Using that perfect Parisian accent.’

  ‘She was in the café?’

  He looked back toward the alley and Café Degas. ‘You wanna stand here and discuss it? Or can we talk it out later?’

  Lizette opened her purse and reached for change.

  LaStanza let out a long sigh. ‘I feel naked without my .357 magnum.’

 
Lizette shook her head as she reached for the receiver. ‘I don’t believe we come all the way to Paris for you to get in more shit.’

  ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘Cute, LaStanza. Real cute.’

  She made the call and sounded a little shaky. As soon as she hung up, LaStanza led her away, quickly. She looked over her shoulder and said, ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘We have to change hotels.’

  Lizette huffed and the fire in her eyes told LaStanza he was in deep trouble. Looking around, a freshening breeze flowing over the couple, LaStanza felt pretty good actually. After a week of visiting museums, palaces, dusty bookstores, the Tomb of Napoleon, LaStanza was back in the shit.

  About the Story

  A café in the rain, a man alone, a pretty woman enters.Inspiration for a short story as the two sit at different tables and exchange glances. The man’s mind drifts to what might happen. The image is indelible and remains in the mind, filed away for use in future writing. A slice of life the writer will expand into a sexy story.

  Sitting in another café, on another rainy day, another writer sips coffee as she reads. She’s in a short skirt and realizes she’s being ogled by two business men who have positioned themselves to see up her skirt if she would only uncross her sleek legs. She does, slowly, opening her knees wider than usual before re-crossing her legs. A slice of life this writer files away for the future, the titillation of flashing the appreciative men.

  Paris in the rain. The world’s most romantic city, the natural setting for a collaboration of sexy ideas. Drop in characters, let them do what men and women do. There comes some unexpected emotion and steam from writhing bodies, then add a twist.