He began massaging my right ankle. ‘Can we pretend you’re a virgin tonight? I just might have to fuck you before dinner.’
A frisson of excitement travelled down my spine and centred in my cunt. This was the kind of thing I wanted to hear more of. ‘Are you playing the virgin too? Or, the sophisticated Frenchman?’
Rob’s fingers massaged my leg. They were warm against my skin. That special sensation was taking over. And my panties were damp. Whether it was at the thought of my boyfriend making love to me on French soil or the thought of that distant seduction by a Gitanes-smoking Frenchman who must have thought Christmas had come when that sudden downpour pasted my clothing to my teenage body, I really don’t know.
‘Did he talk dirty in French?’ Rob breathed more rapidly as his fingers found my damp crotch under the lacy fabric of my knickers.
‘You needn’t say anything. Just pretend we got caught in the rain. Tell me to take all my clothes off.’ I swallowed. ‘You have to act concerned. Be a gentleman and hand me one of those big towels. Then start French kissing me.’
‘Why don’t you get in the shower? Leave your bra and panties on so I can peel them off when they’re stuck to you.’
He was keen, I’ll give him that. And I liked the image.
I gave a little wriggle. ‘Let me finish my champagne first.’
‘Tease.’ He moved my hand to his groin. Rob’s luscious knob was worth any amount of role play. He was worth any amount of dirty talking. He just needed to dominate a tad more.
‘You mustn’t frighten a shy virgin like me.’ With some reluctance I moved my hand away from temptation. I leaned back and began touching my breasts. The nipples were already fighting the soft stretchy fabric of my dress. ‘Mmm,’ I crooned.
Rob’s hazel eyes were turning into melted toffee– the look that tells me he’s turned on. But the guy had stamina. He needed to, with me around. If only I could lift him out of his comfort zone.
I drained my glass. Stood up and began a slow striptease. When I stood in front of him in my underwear, he was looking at my already damp knickers, snowy white but lacy, clinging to my contours. He reached out to me and stroked a finger between my thighs so cleverly that I shivered. I wanted to scream at him to fuck me. It was all I could do not to go down on him. But that would have spoilt the show.
‘Top up our glasses,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to take mine into the bathroom. Then we’ll turn the clock back. But don’t forget, I hardly knew anything about sex when I was eighteen.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I definitely remember telling him not to stop…’
Rob closed his eyes briefly then opened them again. ‘Dirty, horny little bitch– longing for prick in her tight blonde pussy.’ His voice was husky.
I gnawed on a knuckle. Stared at him. ‘You have to use a French letter.’
He stared back. ‘I’ll need to go down to the lobby. Better use the lift.’
I dragged my eyes off his crotch. ‘When you come back, we’ll drink a shot of Calvados.’
‘That stuff you bought in the Duty Free?’
‘Trust me.’
We opened the Calvados. That fiery jolt startled me again. I was already relaxed by the Champagne and the anticipation of how this role playing might develop.
Rob knelt at my side. I was spread-eagled on the bed, on top of a fluffy towel, my wet underwear a heap on the carpet. I was hardly able to keep still. All I could think of was that big, beautiful cock Rob was encasing in the tight rubber sheath. I wished it was me squeezing myself around it. I remembered being eighteen years of age, hearing Emile rip that packet open; lying on that single bed, imagining what it would be like to feel a man inside me. Taking his cock in my hand that first time.
‘What will you do to me?’
‘I want to lick you everywhere and anywhere you’ll let me,’ Rob whispered. ‘I want to get inside your mind, inside your cunt and inside your prim little ass.’
This was very promising. Especially as he began with my ears. I loved it when he did that. I always trembled and wriggled and couldn’t get enough. Then when he pushed his tongue, hot and wet, inside my mouth, I had to suck on it, taking it into me as if it was his stiff, hot rod. He was doing that to me now. I couldn’t help it. I sucked back… hard. Some virgins learn quickly.
He groaned. Moved down my body and flicked his tongue around my tummy button. It was no longer Rob caressing my body. It was Emile with his long, lean, male unfamiliarity. Rob’s duty-free after shave I’d treated him to, became Emile’s cologne that to a naïve English girl seemed as foreign as the territory I was now about to enter.
I was more aroused than I ever remembered being before. My brain and my body seemed to be in synch. After all, I’d played out my solitary fantasy many times since that satisfying encounter in Emile’s apartment. But this time I was back in Paris. And I had Rob to help. I felt my guy’s fingers parting my pussy lips, felt his tongue flick across my frills. He pushed his tongue inside my slit. I began to pant. And writhe.
‘You’re so wet. So gloriously sticky. So, little honey cunt– you want me to stop?’
‘Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.’
‘Turn over for me then. Pretend I’m him. Your Frenchman, I mean.’ His voice was hoarse again. As Emile’s had been at the thought of pushing his cock into a virgin pussy.
Just as I had travelled beyond my boundary that rainy afternoon in Paris, I was on the verge of something unknown now. Rob had sensed my need. I turned over, got on my haunches and knew he was about to perform something I’d never before allowed any man to do. What’s more, he told me precisely how he would achieve it. He talked about my velvety pink nipples swelling like raspberries as he pinched them. He described how he knew I was creaming and how my tight cunt would stretch to let him push his fingers inside as far as he could go, making me scream for more and more. Making me beg him to let me come.
Then he talked about finger-fucking my forbidden place. He said I would tell him to stop. And he’d pull out. And make me long for him to keep going. He told me how he’d grease me with one inquisitive finger then slip right in and ride me. When I came, I would cry out.
‘Remember… I want you to come like you came for your Frenchman.’ He was issuing an order. And I loved it.
I felt him gently nip my bum. I whimpered. I longed to come almost as much as I was greedy for the sweet torture of waiting to come. I imagined Emile’s pale face, those high cheek bones and sensual curved mouth: the face that figured in my fantasy sessions. Now ‘he’ was here. It was Emile rubbing my clitoris with fingers slippery with my own juices. He was behind me: pushing cold, smooth gel inside my secret place… gently prising first with a finger of his other hand. When that erect cock nudged my bum I cried out. The thought of what was about to happen next lifted me into an unknown place.
This was where I wanted to be. As my man hesitated on the brink, my own eager hand took the role of Emile sliding one, two then three fingers inside my slit. I found my sweet spot and worked it. All the time I could hear myself panting. I writhed and wriggled my taut tunnel around Rob’s cock as he entered. Could this really be me? Taking a man into me this way?
‘Oh my God, I mustn’t let you… but, oh don’t stop. Please… don’t stop.’ I wanted him to tip me over the edge. I closed my eyes because I needed my own hand to become Emile’s, bringing me to climax while Rob fucked virgin territory. I gasped at each short sweet stab.
And then Rob did something strange. He cried out in French. I heard him call me ‘ma petite.’ I was right on the edge as he pulled out of me. I was frantic. Until I felt the palm of his hand spank one bum cheek, then the other. Hard. The shock and the hot sting unleashed a juddering, shuddering rush of pleasure that engulfed me just as the rain engulfed me that distant afternoon. We had travelled inside and around and outside each other’s most intimate places. And I knew Rob was drowning amidst splintering darkness and light, just as I was.
Neither of us needed to speak. I knew this h
ad been awesome for us both. And my naughty little mind was already planning another three in the bed scenario for tomorrow. Rob was going to need all his powers of imagination for this. And another pot of gel.
He seemed to read my mind. ‘Not bad for a shy virgin on her first night in Paris. Tomorrow we buy you a little souvenir of the city. A pair of handcuffs, I think, ma petite.’
About the Story
Capital cities are multi-faceted, reflecting the enticing cleavage and the dirty linen of the nation whose essence they reveal. City noise comes in layers. Some cities are underpinned by tube train networks. Like Paris. Some cities are divided by a river with its own allure and detritus. Like Paris. It’s a city that rocks.
I’ve always known it as the city where lovers linger beside the Seine. I know it as the city where ecstatic businessmen straddle expensive mistresses on satin couches. I know it as the city where honeymooners’ heartbeats race simply by osmosis.
Could I have woven my story elsewhere? Yes. But I believe Helen deserves her sexual awakening to happen in her dream city. She’s bound by the constraints of a conventional middle-class upbringing. Her body dictates her needs. Her conscience inhibits her. She’s out of her comfort zone and a combination of circumstances dissolves her schoolgirl inhibitions. She’s no precocious nymphet: the sixties are perceived as the permissive era, but for many young women there was still an expectation that ‘nice girls didn’t’.
Sophisticated older man Emile tries his best to fulfil his avuncular role. If his niece, Helen’s pen friend Jeannine, hadn’t missed her train, there would be no story. But by catapulting gauche Helen, achingly aware of her sexuality but still pure, into a position where temptation and opportunity exist, desire can engulf both characters. I imagine Emile being similarly ‘unable to bear the delicious agony’.
The story concludes with the adult Helen in the driving seat this time, feeling that her guy Rob needs a little roughing up. Paris pushes him to greater heights. And Helen’s real-time fantasy could turn into a real threesome.
I built upon personal experiences when crafting my story for Sex in the City. But my own pen friend met me on arrival and escorted me to her uncle and aunt’s Parisian flat. My taste buds still flinch at the memory of eating stringy garlic sausage. A Gitanes-smoking Frenchman was cool beyond belief. And the Eiffel Tower wasn’t as alluring as the silken underwear and kid gloves glimpsed in boutique windows.
I might just have to revisit the city. Maybe write a sequel…
Paris Passion Patsy
by Michael Hemmingson
I
Paris was cold and grey when we arrived in September, 2005, and there was something ugly in the air. I could feel it like a demon hand at the back of the neck: a gentle stroke before tearing into the flesh with demon claws. I did not like the city and I don’t think the city cared much for me.I didn’t belong here and my blood was estranged to the land. Still: here I was and I was determined to make the best of it. Dominique and I had about $5 between us when we got off the plane– we had depleted our combined resources for the coach class tickets from Los Angeles to Paris.We had left school. She was an exchange student at UCLA and I was a bum taking literature courses and writing pretentious critical papers on American writers.
Broke in Paris and we were hungry but optimistic. Her younger sister, Sabine, took us in. It seems Dominique’s parents were not very happy with her stay in America; she’d dropped out of college and been cohabiting with an American guy while abroad. They probably wouldn’t have allowed me to set foot in their house.
Sabine was nineteen and a student at the Sorbonne. Dominique introduced me as her ‘American boyfriend’. Sabine looked me up and down and did not shake my hand when I offered it; she was a smaller version of Dominique, with shorter hair and a rounder face. Dominique was twenty, five foot eight, skinny with long black hair and pale skin: just the way a French girl should be.
Sabine lived in a tiny one-room apartment on Avenue Georges Mandel in Poissy, the usual fare for a common student. There was a single mattress on the wood floor, the rest of the apartment was stuffed with books in four different languages. Dominique and I laid some blankets down and slept in a corner, using our bodies to keep warm.
Sabine could read English but she didn’t speak it well; it didn’t take long for me to understand the younger sister did not like me, not one bit.
‘Are you sure this is OK?’ I asked.
‘All is fine,’ Dominique said.
‘But your sister…’
‘She is an odd one, yes?’
‘She hates my guts.’
‘No.’
‘She does.’
‘It takes her time to warm to new people.’
‘I didn’t know she was warm at all.’
‘In time, you and Sabine will be very good friends.’
‘Oh?’
‘I believe so.’
‘You’re too sanguine.’
‘I am, yes,’ Dominique said. ‘I have to be, if we’re going to survive here. Now I want you to smile.’
I smiled.
‘Très bien, baby.’
II
Dominique and I would fuck in our little corner when we could; Sabine didn’t seem to mind; she was asleep or pretended to be asleep or acted like she wasn’t aware of the copulation going on so near and under her roof, but I wondered how she could deny the deep smell of fuck that permeated the air. Either way, Sabine would sneer at me when she could; she would look me up and down and shake her head in disgust and after a month of this I started to get really pissed off. Who the fuck did this little French bitch think she was? I was determined to show her who the superior one was– maybe being cooped up in the tiny space was getting to me (it was too cold to go outside)– and so one morning I did. Dominique had found a part-time job at a market and left for work at 7 a.m. We usually had a quick fuck before she went, but there was this one morning we did not; my cock was hard and I was alone with Sabine.The little sister was lying on her stomach wearing a shirt and panties, the panties hiked up the crack of her ass.I went over to the mattress and got on top of her. I pulled the panties down and shoved myself inside her.She wasn’t very wet so I had a hard time, but she started to juice up as she woke up and struggled under me, cursing me in her language– and then, in English: ‘What in the damn hell do you think you are doing, Maurice?’
‘I’m fucking you,’ I said softly, ‘I know you want it.’
‘Go to hell, bastard!’ she cried. ‘I do not want any part of you like this, you bastard!’
I was holding her arms down, keeping my cock inside her. ‘Maybe so,’ I said crazily, ‘but you need it.’
‘Quoi?’
‘You need a good hard fuck,’ I told her, ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘N’importe quoi!’
‘Hold still, girl,’ I said, ‘Hold still and enjoy it.’
She stopped fighting and lay there. I fucked her. She didn’t make a sound but her pussy was contracting.
She said, very softly: ‘Encule-moi.’
‘What’s that?’
She turned her head and said: ‘Fuck me by the ass. Fuck me like I was a boy. Fuck me like two men fuck. Encule-moi!’
I did what she asked and stuck it up her tight little French asshole.
‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ Sabine breathed, ‘Fuck me like I’m a boy!’
‘You like it up your pooper, girl?’
‘I’m a boy!’
‘Your sister sure doesn’t like it this way.’
‘It feels so good, Maurice.’
‘It’s so goddamn dirty,’ I said. I felt sick and horrible and came inside my lover’s sister’s ass. That orgasm moved up and down my body like a happy whale in the big ocean. I turned away from the girl but she grabbed me and kissed my nose and lips and asked me to do it again to her, when I was ready. ‘Let us engage in this sex matter all the time,’ Sabine said, ‘It is so marvellously marvellous.’
III
A
t first, Dominique didn’t appear to mind sharing me with Sabine; I can’t say I didn’t mind having these two sisters (ensemble or solo) taking turns from one hole to another. Oh, we had some memorable moments there in that Lilliputian and benumbed apartment, all right, but Dominique wasn’t fooling me: she was simply ‘going with the flow’, acting ‘cool’, still trying to be the hip-chick she left back in California, still acting like she believed in ‘polyamory’ and that Sabine’s new-found affection for me was ‘a good thing’ blah blah blah, but I knew this train was going to hit a wall soon, this balloon was going to explode. So I let it.
IV
Sabine held my limp, sticky dick in her hand: examining it closely with a wry and attentive smile on her pretty round pale French girl face; jiggling it to and fro like the neck of a turkey, rubbing her thumb from my curled-in balls to the discolouration caused by the early removal of the sacred foreskin.’I do wish I had one of these,’ she said in strained English (which, I’d like to think, was improving with my influence). ‘I do wish I was a boy,’ she said with a growl at the back of her throat. ‘Then I could live my life as I should be.’
‘You are a funny one.’ And I patted her on the head like I always did when she did her weird talk before, during, and after sex.
‘There is no “funny” here, Maurice,’ she said, looking up at me, and she looked sincere. She said, ‘I am a homosexual man trapped in the body of a girl.’
This was the first time I realized how earnest she was.
‘Would you still love me if I was a boy?’ she asked.
‘But you’re not.’
‘One day you may wake up and wah-lah! a boy with a penis will be at your side, and his name will be Saul.’
‘What?’
‘Saul Bean.’
I said, ‘Cool-io.’
V
‘You didn’t know?’ said Dominique with a small laugh, covering her lips with a gloved hand and rolling her eyes. ‘How could you not know?’
‘I’m an idiot,’ I said.
We were at a café down the street from the Sorbonne, drinking cognac before sundown.
Sex in the City Paris Page 15
