A Girl in Paris
c. 2001, Miriam M. Wynn
"Bonjour, ma'amselle, voulez-vous des bon-bons?" A vendor smiled at me, proffered his basket of croissants and tartes and desserts for breakfast.
"Merci beaucoup, mais non." I smiled, walked away. I passed a café, saw that there were several businessmen and fellow businesswomen having chocolate and coffee for breakfast with their croissants.
"Il fait beau, non?" I smiled at the middle-aged man who was indeed right about the beautiful weather. He tipped his hat and strolled past me down the sidewalk, whistling as he did so, a content look on his face. The good mood in the air made me glad to have gone out for a walk by myself.
"Fais attention, Arien!" A woman scolded her young son, and he just missed hurtling off the curb of the sidewalk as he played with a dog that had no leash. The dog barked cheerfully and dashed over to me, and I smiled at its lolling tongue, its bright eyes.
"Yves! Yves, arrêtes!" The little boy called after the dog to stop, and started for him. Amused, I laughed as the puppy yipped at my heels and I dropped my belongings, bending down to scratch between his ears. My reward was a dazzling smile from the boy, and the mother nodded nicely to me, her lips in a gentle lift as she watched her son and his pet run off again.
I picked up my things walked on; I was on my own now and traveling with three duffel bags suddenly seemed annoying to me. I pondered throwing or giving one away. Up ahead, I spied a young girl, haunting a corner across the street. She wore too much make-up, and her eyes were huge pools of darkness surrounded by black shadows and mascara. She was scrawny, but absolutely, positively, beautiful.
"Eh, ma'amselle. Voulez-vous moi?" She couldn't have been more than sixteen or less even, and still I knew that I looked older than her. She seemed stunted, even though she was so frighteningly lovely; maybe it was because of the cigarettes you could tell she smoked all the time. The way one casually hung from her lip just now, so natural to her. From across the street I could feel her fragility, but it was brittle, and hard, a sort of frozen victimization. Her height was not remarkable. Neither was her voice, or the blankness in her eyes. She was a whore, much like me, except that she got paid for it.
"Ecoutez," I whispered, as I walked over to her, not even bothering to glance around. I was not ashamed of approaching her. I wanted to talk to her, not buy her time. She cocked her head, sized me up, watched me walk. Was it natural, for women and teenage girls to pay her money for lesbian pleasures? It worried me.
"I have something to give you," I said in English, and she understood me. She obviously assumed it was money that I wanted to give her, for something that no longer meant anything to her.
She led me down a little street, and opened up a tall, narrow door with peeling green paint and no knob, just a hole to stick your finger in and pull it open. She led me up rickety, ugly stairs, five flights, and then turned to look at me.
"Pay me the ante now," she said. She gave me a raw smile. "It's like gambling."
I reached into my pocket, careful not to let her sense how much money I had in there, not to let her hear the thick crumple of dozens of bills. I handed her a few hundred francs. She took it without looking at it. She was staring at my mouth, and I smiled slightly. I was paying this girl, and she was taking it. She really thought that I wanted to ... to ... use her. I cringed inside. This darkness had been so long a part of my life, but I had never thought about what other girls were out here, suffering, burning for a touch and finding only cruelty. It was like a stain on the world, a bottle of ink that stained everything it touched, and destroyed what might have been: innocence, and joy.
Disturbed, I watched as she turned and opened the door. We were inside a small studio, with crumbling plaster walls, a crappy bed and a pile of dirty pillows and sheets in a corner by the window. There was a closet to the left of the window, a key hanging out of the old-fashioned lock.
"Come." She led me to the bed, gestured that I put the things down. She took me to the huge, dirty window, showed me the view. Filthy; everything I saw, deep inside the bowels of the city of Paris, was haunting, rich, and carnal. I saw whores everywhere, pimps, pickpockets, con-artists. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning, and they were all staking out their prospective territories in the cold shadows of late fall.
"Beautiful, non?" She asked me. Her voice was heavy with cold humor.
I couldn't breathe. I felt as if I were looking down at my soul, bared. Had I been this, all along? It had taken my goodwill, to give a bag of expensive clothes away, to bring me to this, where I belonged? Enough men had touched me that I might as well have been this same girl, locked in a dirty tower, pulling men in to save me with their money while they killed me with their grip.
"Yes," I said. My throat was choked, and it came out strangled, a whisper. If this was her world, it would be all she knew; nothing else would make sense. It had its own kind of haunting beauty; a blasted sexual landscape. She kissed the back of my neck, and I half turned from the window to see her standing back. She stared at me, dismissively flicking the ashes from her cigarette onto the floor.
"Liar. They never care. They say yes; think it'll make me happy. They like to make me happy. Think it'll give it to them better."
"Give what?" As soon as I said it I knew. I felt hot in the face and suddenly felt completely eclipsed by her and what she was. I thought I knew men? This girl had become a woman overnight; had undoubtedly known beatings, rapings, pleasures and horrors beyond compare to what I had ever known, and still I thought myself better?
She laughed. She reached down to pull up her shirt and I shook my head. "No, I. ... I just came to give you something."
She arched a brow. "What?" She sounded slightly wary, now.
"Nothing bad," I murmured, and I went over to the bed. I opened up one of the black duffel bags, thinking, Should I pick through what I don't want, or just give one to her? I decided on the former.
"I have too much. I wanted to throw one away, or give it to someone. Then I saw you." I turned and smiled at her, gestured to the bag. "Maybe, now, if your wear some of this stuff, or sell it ... you can become respectable - I mean, it can help you with your look."
Timidly, I looked up from the bag to meet her eyes. The look on her face was one of absolute, unbelievable rage.
"I don't take charity! Who the hell do you think you are!" She threw the cigarette down, smashed its smoking butt out with her sharp-toed high heel shoe.
"It's not like-"
"You think because you're some rich girl, because you got money, that you got the right to give me these shit! I ain't no charity case!" She spat this all at me, and I blinked.
"I never said you were." My voice echoed in the silence of the room.
Suddenly her face crumpled and she turned away. She faced the dirty window, her tiny form so lovely, so hurt, so ruined. Someone had taken her bright flame and extinguished it, blown it away. I wanted to kill whoever had done this to her.
"Please-" My heart was breaking, my voice raw in recognition of her ruined innocence, of the harm others had caused her, the harm that I was causing. She cut me off, her voice full of tears struggling not to fall.
"I looked at you, I thought, She's beautiful! Too beautiful. You came to me with that look on your face ... I thought, mebbe ... mebbe this is the one. Mebbe she can make me happy, gimme what nobody else ever gave me. You like an angel; bright, dark. I thought I was falling in love- so hot, so right!"
She turned to me; I was shocked. I had only just met her, walked across a street to give a stranger a duffel bag full of clothes. Suddenly I was her savior, someone I had never expected, nor wanted, to be for her.
She had lost her battle; she was crying, and her mascara running. She was staring at me, and for absolutely no reason, I moved to her. I wrapped my arms around her like her mother might have done, and rocked her as she sobbed.
"Love me," she whispered brokenly. "Just love me, and don't ever have to think of me again!"
I was completely unprepared for the rush of hot warmth against my body, as she said this, her body turning to me. She pressed her lips to mine, slid her tongue inside and gave me the strangest feeling I had ever known. It was like melting. Melting from cotton candy into cotton clouds, the same type of substance, but ethereal, greater. She was kissing me fervently, holding on to the lapels of my silk shirt, a dress shirt belonging to a male lover."No! I'm not ... I've never ... "
"Men! Who are they ... nothing!” She said this hotly and wetly between kisses, the words raw from the back of her throat, from deep down within her. “Nothing is better than what I can do ...” She kissed me, then added, “This... "
She had bled her salty tears into my shirt, and now I was soaked with them, and suddenly the top was open, unbuttoned, and she was cupping her hands over my bra, sliding them between my legs, rubbing at the denim that hid my most secret spot.
"Yes, yes," she kissed my throat, "so warm. So wet." It was true. I was aroused, crazily, wrongly aroused.
I tried to disengage myself from her, but suddenly her eager little mouth closed over one sensitive nipple and I arched my back, cried out to God and knew that I was damned. This was a sin, and I was as good as sentenced to hell. But I couldn’t fight her. I didn’t want to.
She undid my zipper, yanked off my pants as I lay prone on the dirty floor. She slipped off my panties, and then suddenly I felt her tongue between my thighs, and I heard someone moaning and cursing for her to go deeper - yes deeper, lick it harder! That someone was me, and I just could not believe it.
I was on top of her before I knew what had happened. Wrapping my fingers around her neck and squeezing, squeezing as if I were going to strangle her, I stared down, angry suddenly that she had manipulated me in this way, and succeeded. But her thighs were naked next to mine, her own sex wet against my inner thigh, and I was torn. My body knew what it wanted, and it wanted her. I gave in.
I worked my hot sex against her own, her red tangles of hair at her pubic lips against my black ones striking in contrast as we writhed, bent on release, bent on denial, bent on this.
She screamed a dozen words at me in French and more, kissed me passionately, sucked fiercely at my breasts, and I kissed hers, nuzzled, bit and plucked them, and I rode atop her, my thumb inside myself, my fingers delving inside of her, thrusting as the hot juices spilled down between my thighs, galvanizing me.
I was shocked into arrogance, into commandeering lust. I felt like a man- I wanted to possess her, to make her need me. Not even my most experienced lover had made me feel like this.
The orgasms came in rousing multiples; she bucked against the floor beneath me and cried her heart out as she came, and when we were through, she lay on top of me, her fingers moving sleepily, artfully, inside of me. She must have done this often, with somebody. My mind clearing, I began to swear that I would never do this again ... until her finger plucked me, rubbed, me, and all thoughts of stopping were lost."Yes...yes...,” I murmured, “do it baby..." I was murmuring these things as she moved on top of me, her fingers between our legs, lazily touching me in a way no man could have done. We were women; we were soft, but dangerous. Men were hard and dangerous, and so they had no mystery, nothing enigmatic to be bespelled by. A few could capture hearts, and minds, and love, but all others had no magic such as this.
But I knew I'd never go near a woman of my own free will like this again. It was too humiliating. It destroyed my pride, though it gave me pleasure, sinful pleasure, beyond compare. For where it was forbidden, it was delicious.
"Mmm," she lowered her head, scooted down, ran her tongue inside the lips of my sex. "Sweet, sweet...” My little prostitute panted, “You taste like wine...real rich, French wine."
I moaned as she buried her entire face in me. We smelled of each other, of sex, and the room was a haze, at eight-thirty in the morning, of satisfied desire.
"I can't see you again." I was timid; I didn’t want to ruin the mood. She said nothing. "This is a sin, what we've done. I can't ever let it happen again. With anybody. You were wonderful. But I can't let it happen again. No. I’ll be damned."
"You and your God. What has He ever done for you?" She flicked her tongue across my clitoris, lightly, then raked it with one wet, long slide, and I whimpered.
"He gave me life," I whispered, and I spread-eagled my legs and rocked my hips against her head, loving how she flicked it back and forth, like a snake's tongue, nasty, dirty, a whore, a slave, a witch. Cruelly, she slid her heavily slicked tongue partway into my vagina, with a light slow thrusting motion, and I shuddered, my hands reaching for her, but she pulled slightly away from my reach.
"And?” She said, her voice humming against my inner labia so that I throbbed along with her words. “He gave us all life. And what else? Here I am. Making love to you, and you know you like it, like it nasty this way, and I'm a hooker. Poor, ugly, but I got some warm cunt, a place to fuck, and that's it. What has your God done for me?"
"He loves you."
She laughed, sucked hard at my clit, and I groaned, gasped as she pushed her tongue again inside the dark channel. It was still a little tender from lovemaking with my last lover the other day, and from my own searching fingers. The little numb hurt was making her touch keen in my organ, making it so pleasurable I had to shudder to release the wonderful tension in my body.
"Love you, angel," she whispered against my sex, and I came, came for a long, sleepy time, gasping and rocking, and when I couldn't come any more, she got up.
"Where are you going?"
She threw me a slick smile over her shoulder, my juices glistening against her chin and lips. "Go wash. And get something."
She went into the door, where I'd thought there'd been a closet, and I heard water running. There was a little while of silence, while I lay naked on my clothes and hers, and then she emerged, glowing from a make-shift shower from the sink, holding something oblong and white and mechanical looking in her hand.
I pulled my eyes from the object and gazed instead at her. She was lovely without her makeup, without her satanic clothing, meant to attract lewd eyes and remarks. Meant to help bring in the money. Her face, when I saw it without its mask, had high cheek bones, a pouty, red mouth, and long, incredible lashes over saucer eyes the color of cornflowers. Her dark red hair she'd washed, and now it lay soft and slightly damp across her shoulders, her body glistening, her skin flushed. I grew damp again between the legs and closed my eyes. I heard her kneel beside me, and I waited several minutes before I opened them again.
It was the most erotic picture. She'd been holding a vibrating dildo between her spread thighs and now watched me as she turned it on. A lot of it protruded from her sex, aimed toward the ground as she gyrated her hips, her tongue flickering across her lips, her eyes wide and pretty and her breath short and sweet. I heard a humming noise; watched the instrument pump slowly in and out of her as she guided it with her body.
"The French make such beautiful toys, non?" She asked me, and threw her head back. "Come ... I cleaned it. Ready for you. Come play with me."
I obeyed. I crawled toward her slowly, and straddling her pushed her legs wide open with my knees and thighs. The organ protruded, and I took it with my fingers and slowly, carefully, placed it against my opening. She smiled, moaned, her lashes lowered but her eyes flashing as she watched me.
I held my breath, then, my eyes caught on the lines and ridges of the false penis, began to push the tip in. It was huge, and I gasped at the size of it, the feel of each centimeter as I eased it in. It was headily big, and she smiled with me, as I became accustomed to the largeness of it, saw my sex swallow it slowly, heard the wetslick sounds of my pussy juices devouring it. It was impossible, yet delicious; the false hugeness that surely no man could have been.
When it was all the way in, I rocked against her, undulating slowly as I ran my hands over her upper arms, kissed her bared neck, her rosy-tipped breasts. She was so white ... so very pale, so luscious, she did not belong to these cruel streets or this dirty apartment. She could have gone to college, could have had a respectable job, had respectable men courting her, not abusing her; lusting and moping after her, not cursing on top of her, not hitting her, not paying her money for it.
We played all day, all afternoon. She was worshiping me, I came soon to realize, the only way she knew how: with her body, with physical pleasure. When we took a break, she followed me into the bathroom, watched me as I used it. When I was through, and flushed the toilet after wiping myself, she made me stand with my legs apart and bathed the tangy, salty urine from between the lips of my sex with her tongue, and made me come with my fingers clasped to her head, guiding her there.
She wanted every part of me. When I mounted the bed, she watched me laying there, staring up at the ceiling; from the floor, she began to masturbate, and then I couldn't look at anything any more but her gaping sex and parted legs, and she came finally to give them to me.
At one point, she bent me over with my hands pressing to the bed, so that my hair hung down by my toes, my legs spread and my feet flat and my sex peeking at her while I faced the wall. From behind, she slid that massive vibrator down into my sex, and thrust, thrust so powerfully and sweetly that by the time it was over I had grown too weak to stand, and was kneeling down on my knees, my head down between them, my ass up in the air. I watched her from underneath as she took me. We came again, and again.
This lust was outrageous. I knew it, though she may not have cared, and it had to stop. But it didn't, not until night.
Until then, we had so many positions to try, so many things to do, so many games to play. She brought out a blindfold and used some strange instruments on me that I couldn't identify because I couldn't see. Once, something wet and mushy came up inside of me, and it was like having ripe, bursting fruit pushed up inside my womb, and I felt as if I wasn't allowed to move, or do anything, because it would all spill out and make a mess. After a while, she began to take whatever it was out bit by bit with her mouth and tongue, and by the time she was through, I was gasping with my release.
She tortured me, and loved doing it. She talked, talked a lot all the while, made me hot and sweaty and warm and ready for loving, and she gave it to me, in overwhelming doses, in tiny ones.
"You like to be opened, inside out, upside down," and I nodded, whimpered as she rode me with that fake phallus again, "to be owned, possessed, conquered, robbed of everything you've ever known." I sighed in response.
"You want the unknown, the places you cannot go, where everything is dangerous, different, scary to you."
"Yes..."
"I am here to make you realize that you cannot run from what you are."
Her tongue and hands and lips and eyes; her lashes, bottom, feet and calves; her cunt her breasts her neck her ears; her thighs her back her arms her nipples; everything was mine, and everything was shared.
The clock, miles away, bellowed irritably in the darkness of her rickety studio. On the bed, soaked with sweat and lust and the juices of our fruit, we were prone upon the sheets that she had tied me down with, and blindfolded me with, and twisted up and whipped me lightly with. I was sore all over; my body glistened in the moonlight, and I looked over my arm to see her sleeping softly beside me.
I reached for her, watched with interest as I slipped my fingers inside of her sex. Immediately, her chasm clutched around me, and she was flooded with fluids. In her sleep, she enjoyed my touch, and I continued to observe as she gyrated to the pace I set between her thighs.
She sighed.For me, this girl had no name. She never would. And she would not know mine.
I sucked her breasts and nipples, lathered them. She awoke, and together, we made soft noises of pleasure and listless bliss; when it was through, she lay atop me, between my thighs, and I raised my hand to strok her back.
She said: "Do we eat or do we stay?"
"Eat," I replied, and I got up. I cleaned myself with her soap and her dirty tap water, and dressed again in my shirt, jeans, and boots. "Take me somewhere affordable but nice. I'll pay. No slums. And put on one of those dresses. I'm going to show you what I meant about giving you that stuff in the first place."
Slowly, she got up, and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open so that I could watch her while she cleaned herself. When she was through, she went naked over to the duffel bags, and I pointed to one. She hefted it up, and unzipped the top.
"Oh merde," she murmured, cursing, and she lifted out a tailored Chânel skirt suit. It was a deep, reddish shade of pink. I had never liked anything resembling pink, except for what I had found between her thighs.
"Put it on. There's matching shoes. Go without stockings."
The finished product was dazzling. "Beautiful," I said, walking over to her and taking her in my arms. I was, of course, taller than she was. All those cigarettes had ruined her growth patterns, at least in height. Everywhere else, she was magnifique.
"Love you," she whispered, and I stopped her sighs of adoration with the kisses of my commanding mouth.
We walked into the restaurant and ignored the stares of strangers. I realized we would look odd, a beautiful, stunning French girl and a foreigner, together, one dressed impeccably, the other not.
"Yesss," addressed the mâitre d', and I glanced past him, scanning for a table. "May I 'elp you, mademoiselles?" His English was slurred and heavily accented. I liked it, even though he looked pompous.
"A table for two please, by the windows, monsieur, and your finest bottle of champagne chilled and ready within the half our."
"Of course, madamoiselle." He did not bother to ask me if I had a reservation. I looked over at my Parisian girl, and knew that to all appearances she reeked of money.
"Right this way, if you please."
“I cannot believe this," my escort breathed as she walked beside me, irresistible in her hot pink-red high heels. She wore pearls around her neck, diamonds on her fingers, pearls at her ear lobes. I had forced the jewelry on her back at her studio apartment. She had gone barelegged, and her calves and thighs were smooth and velvety. I knew it; I had tasted them before we left.
"Believe it," I said, and I sat down across from her, as she sat slowly in the chair that our waiter pulled out for her. The waiter was a gorgeous young man, in his early twenties, with slick, black hair and intense brown eyes whose fervor I attributed to youth and the sight of such a luscious creature as my reformed whore.
"Zee champagne shall arrive shortly, mademoiselle," he said quickly to me, disappearing with a longing look at my companion.
"He likes you," I remarked, and she gazed across at me, surprised. "Non! Non, my dear, he was watching you. I saw. He tried to look down your shirt when you sat down."
I only smiled, plucked up my cloth napkin, a painstakingly folded peacock, and destroyed the work done with one snap of my wrist. The stiff, thick wine-colored napkin billowed out, and I spread it across my lap.
"You are used to this?" She had watched my movements, and looked uncertain.
"Listen," I said, and underneath the table, where no one could see past the spilling tablecloth, I leaned forward and slid my hand between her thighs. Her eyes widened.
"There aren’t many rules to being classy."
Her skin slid against my hand, purposely, I knew, and her own fingers joined mine, entwining and drawing them forward. I touched her silk panties- panties that had been mine. They were damp and warm. She smiled at me, covertly undulated her hips beneath the cloth, and I knew that not a soul was aware of what we were doing. What had she done to me? Now, suddenly, I was unashamed of wanting my pleasure from her. Dear God.
"One," I said, as the waiter neared with the chilled champagne, and I withdrew from her, leaning back as he popped the cork expertly, poured the crystalline liquid, and settled the cold bottle into a silver bucket of ice on a stand. "Never speak or chew with your mouth open." The young man looked startled, and I ignored him.
"Two, never belch or pass gas." He made a strange noise and turned quickly away, walking off, to gossip about us, no doubt. I grinned at her. She smiled back.
"Three, pretend you are Katherine and Audrey Hepburn, both of them, in their debutante years. If you are a man, Paul Newman and Cary Grant. Sean Connery and Sir Anthony Hopkins, if you want, but both of them in their older, more distinguished years."
She was giggling, and eyes turned to stare at the redhead who had the shocking beauty of a model. But her cornflower irises, huge and breathtaking, were only for me.
"Four, every time you go to the bathroom, or go anywhere else, wash your hands. When you get back, make sure that there are always several beads of water on the backs of your hands, so that people know you washed them."
She was laughing outright now, and I smiled slyly.
"And- and ... and five?" She asked, her eyes bright.
I smiled, sipped my champagne. "Five...just ignore everybody, and you'll do fine."
She let loose on that one, amazed. Her laughter eventually subsided, but not before she cast me a sexy glance and murmured, "I think you like the way I've made you."
"Oh? And how have you made me?" The waiter was stealthily approaching.
"You are a lover of women now. You were ashamed, but now I think you like it."
I shook my head. "I am a lover of you. Just you, and nobody else."
The waiter finally arrived, looking disappointed that the conversation had stopped, and proceeded to take our orders, after we cast a cursory glance over the menus. At one point, my secret lover was undecided.
"I've never eaten at a place like this before. I do not know what to get." The young man looked taken aback at the way she stated her first sentence. It could have been taken as arrogance. But she was also excited.
"May I suggest-" The waiter began, but I interrupted him.
"No thank you, monsieur. Try the exotic special, my dear. It looks marveilleux." Our waiter now looked surprised by the way I’d said marvelous in French. I knew I had said it correctly, I’d had plenty of French lessons - long ago and recent - before. I gave him an assessing look, and he dropped his eyes to hurry away.
While we waited for dinner, she gazed at me from her seat and trailed her eyes over my chest and neck. I had left several of the top buttons of my shirt undone, though the opening was well above my cleavage.
She said: "You are very ravishing, you know."
"Shh," I prompted, and she was silent for a short while. We each sipped our drinks.
Then: "All the men are staring at you. They remark on you. They think you're old."
I gave her a wry smile. “And how old am I? I'm not an old hag."
She smiled, a beautiful, pearly-toothed smile. I had given her a toothbrush and some paste and she had used them before we left. "No. I mean, they think you are old enough for them."
“I am."
"No ... you know what I am meaning."
I nodded, smiling back at her. She hesitated. "How...how old are you?"
"How old are you?" I replied.
Her mouth puckered in attractive irritation. "I asked first."
"Hmm." My short laughter seemed to delight her, as her frown disappeared and she ran her tongue lightly across her teeth. I replied, "Eighteen, my dear. And my birthday approaches."
"Ah! When?"
"Couple of months. November."
"That is very young."
"What? My age?"
She nodded slowly, wide-eyed. "Eighteen years. That means I am not much older than you."
I looked at her carefully. She still looked younger than eighteen to me. But I figured she may not want to admit the truth."Answer my question,” I said finally. She was quiet for a moment. She pushed some of her shoulder-length red hair away from her neck before she answered.
"Nineteen. I have been in this business for seven years. And I was not even so mature as you are, right now. I was just a hole for the men to climb into."
"And the women?" I asked, a little too firmly. She looked very sensitive. As if anything wrong that I said might mar her forever.
"I was just a hole for them to suck and play with and tease."
"But did you like it? Do you like it?"
Her blue eyes, huge and lovely, looked up at me with quivering honesty. “Yes," she breathed, watching me as I watched her, waiting for my reply. "Yes, I liked it more than anything. More than the men. The men...they hurt me. But the women..."
She left off with a sigh. I understood.
“Women are more gentle,” I said. She nodded.
Then, “Something more-“ she said, and, her fingers playing with the orchids in the little vase between us, she began to explain.
Even when demanding and in control, the few women she had encountered were kinder. Men were brutes, who did not care, who did not even bother to tease and toy with and pleasure. Even if the women were a little cruel, with their commandeering, manipulations, toys and games, at least they cared enough to make- or force- her to feel and enjoy or abhor something. This sadomasochism was not so very painful as it was exquisite for her. They did not give her pain, except for the pain of wanting and longing and suffering even as she was touched, pleasured, tortured sumptuously. She had done all this with me.
"You prefer women," I finally said, though I had known this when she had spoken out against men earlier. Earlier, when I had told her I couldn't do it, couldn't suck greedily at her breasts as I had, lap hungrily the musky juices between her thighs, lave artfully the secret places within her mouth that gave up that delightful moan of succumbing humiliation, all that which I had done anyway, even as I was angry and afraid to do so.
"Yes," she said almost inaudibly, nodding slowly, eyes gigantic and vulnerable.
"That is quite alright. I have nothing against it. But it is not for me."
"Then ... what will you do?" She spoke of herself, of our affair.
I stared at her sweet lips, her clean skin, her delicacy. I imagined tearing her clothes from her, taking her roughly in a back hall of the restaurant, satisfying my voracious sex with her mouth pressed wetly to its lips, leaving her afterward broken, mewling, adoring. I shook my head. The images were intense, and I was wet inside my own underwear. Where had these violent thoughts come from? Why was I thinking this way? Was it her description of these women, these powerful women, who took so cruelly yet made the taking so pleasurable?
I looked away from her, evading her innocent and imploring eyes. She did not know hate. She knew fear and she knew pain, from these men that used her for pleasure, but she did not know hate, or loathing, or loss, or horror. She did not know me. She was too innocent for me. I had never wanted this. I had not wanted to come across a grown-up little girl so similar to me, lost on some street corner, waiting for money and a cold, hot fuck. I would leave her soon. Maybe tonight. Definitely tomorrow.
Why I kept leaving like a ghost in the night I did not know. But it was time. Until I could stop running, this would be just another stop along the road. But she needed reassurance. She wasn’t ready to be hurt, and I didn’t want to do this to her now, on such a powerful and erotic night.
"I'll make love to you," I finally said, gently, and her relief was evident in the way she sagged heavily, releasing a pent up breath.
I'd make her love me painfully tonight, and walk out again. Leave my mark this time on not a man, but a woman. A little girl woman, who knew more secrets about my body than I had ever known existed.
"Et voilà, mademoiselles, your meal has arrived." The young man presented our dishes, and we finished our meal with mostly companionable conversation.
Companionable as it was, the meal was a torture of anticipation. When it was over, we broke into her apartment, shed our clothes and tore at our undergarments, releasing our frustration and excitement in short, gasping breaths of excitement as we shoved the door shut and fought our way to the middle of the dirty floor, where we collapsed naked against each other, licking and kissing all the way.
I welcomed her between my legs and arched my back, sliding my fingers into her hair as she licked licked licked, slurping and lapping and nuzzling with her entire face, her lashes tickling my secret flesh, her nose rubbing against my little nub, her tongue deep inside my channel.
We had walked the cool, elegant streets of Paris arm in arm, a common sight, and passed by residences, apartments with alleyways, sneaking into them and leaning against walls to kiss and fondle each other as we made our slow, serene way about the city. We had hailed a limousine taxi, climbed genteely into the backseat after our feet had decided strolling time was over, and after directing the driver to a roundabout route to her studio apartment, pushed the button for the tinted soundproof glass divider
I watched as she slid down between my legs on the floor before and beneath me, and let her unzip my jeans and work them down my thighs to my ankles and then away. She lifted my legs onto the long, velvety seat on either side of me, and watched me as I slipped my fingers between my thighs and tested the texture of myself, making sure that I was ready, knowing that I was. I pleasured myself physically for a little while, seeing how her breath was quick and how she grew flushed, in the dim light from the ceiling of the car, watching me masturbate. I had never done this before, no, never done this so freely, so wickedly.
Finally, she leaned forward and almost curiously pushed two long, short-nailed fingers into me, her right forefinger and middle finger, and I contracted around her, shuddered and gasped for her as she murmured soothing words in French, and touched me, stroked me. Loved me.
She drove these two digits into me repeatedly, pumped them slowly, deeply, as a man would his own, erected cock, and as I grew closer to my exploding point, I guided her up onto my lap and slid my legs down, dragging up her skirt and pulling away her panties. Together, fingers inside of each other, we rode ourselves to orgasm, and groaned passionately, chest to chest, our breasts bared due to messy, excited undressing, suckling and grinding and thrusting around and through our clothing.Her little abdomen rubbed against mine, and I grabbed her hips, slowed her down, worked her like a man as I held her, kissing her, sucking at her tongue, as her own fingers delved slickly into me, her thumb high inside her pussy. I loved this vulgar lesbianism, this outlawed, taboo, forbidden pleasure. Sad that I would never know it again, after her, after tonight. No woman, except for her, had ever aroused this eroticism in me with just a little kiss on the back of my neck. Her beauty was unequaled, her hunger unrivaled.
We came profusely, in the back of that limo, and we continued to touch and grind even after the car came to a stop outside the degraded apartment building. The man spoke through the one way intercom, informing us that we had arrived. I pressed the button down, pressed her face to my sex, as she had tumbled down there in order to start again. I pressed so as to keep her silent.
"Stay here, we'll be out in a minute. Keep the meter running."
"Oui, mademoiselle." And I left off the button and began to come again.
Afterward, I arranged her perfectly, so that she looked even more composed than she had when we had gotten into the car. My boots had lain strewn on the floor of the limousine with my jeans and underwear, but mere moments, and everything was back to normal again. We payed the driver, and disappeared up the horrible steps to her door.
And, this intoxicating brandy, her warm, wet tongue inside of me, around me, against me, between my thighs, was succulent.
"Jesus," she said, and I cursed in reply, sitting up and grinding against her down into the floor, supporting myself with one arm and hand while I tangled up my free hand in her coarse, red tresses, pushing my cunt against her eager face and mouth.
Peak a thousand times; culminate, and then I pushed her down onto her back and grabbed for a regular dildo, one of the many toys we had used and cleaned before leaving earlier, and slid it inside of her. She screamed, bucked beneath me, and, carefully, I mounted her, marveling at the thickness of the green rubber instrument.
This thing was not battery powered, or alive in some way. We induced our own pulsing movement as our sexes sucked and expelled the jolly little instrument, and the delight was in finding exactly which angle elicited the burning, impatient sensation similar to the pleasurable pain felt when one had to go to the bathroom badly. It was a galvanizing sensation, one that made us mindless with waves of this burning feeling that went on and on and on, never stopping, until we grew too excited from it all, and needed to come now.
We did so, our perspiration making us slick, like slippery eels as we slid against each other. In silence, we gasped for air, clutching at each other, the dildo between us, hot and extremely wet with our pleasure, from its hunt within our second mouths.
"C'était incroyable...magnifique...you are so fucking good!" She gasped this against my skin, amazed and wanting more, and eventually murmured other sweet things in the silence as she fell asleep gently upon my breast, while I stared out at the moon.
I covered her with the sheets from the bed and beneath her head put a pillow for her comfort. I cleaned myself in her tiny little bathroom, then dressed in some new jeans, the same boots, and a sweatshirt. I left her one duffel bag without picking through my things, knowing that it did not contain anything I really needed. What was left were things she could use, things with my scent on them, things to remember me by.
I stood in the doorway, looking back her prone shape, the moonlight shining through her undraped window, the shadows of the dirt upon it making ethereal shapes across her skin. She faced the window, her eyes closed yet seeming to seek the light, and I knew that she might never find it, might never find any comfort at all.
Eventually, I took the key, locked the door behind me, and then shoved the little thing back under the door, before turning and stepping quietly down the stairs and into the streets of Paris alone with my two bags.