I travel all the time for work. All. The. Time. So there has to be a place in the world where I can have some downtime and just chill, free from the distractions of hammering out killer code. You would think I could work remotely, especially now, given how COVID has changed the workplace. Alas, no. I’m busier than ever, and my skills are much in demand.
I provide corporate clients with the unbreakable security they require for top-secret projects. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m securing. Nine times out of ten, I’m flown in and then sit for a few days behind an air-gapped computer, in a room with layer upon layer of electronic defenses. One time I even had to work naked, the client was so paranoid about me bringing in a USB flash drive or some other such storage medium. I like a finger up my ass like the next man, but not from a 6’4” private military contractor with digits like a giant. Still, they pay me fabulously; some discomfort is worth it.
My secret spot in the world is Paris. I know, it’s a little boring to say that, but I love it here. Like New York, I instantly feel at home upon arrival. And my ease at moving around both cities has caused me to be mistaken for a local many times.
I had purchased a monthly rental of a cute AirBnB on rue Vieille du Temple, right in the heart of the art and fashion district: Le Marais. It was perhaps enormous for just one person at 105 m². Still, I loved the mid-century furniture, the white-washed brick walls, sanded factory wood floors, and tall industrial windows, which flooded the space with fabulous Parisian light.
It was a short walk from the National Archives, but I had skipped my daily walk through the gardens and instead headed east to my current favorite cafe, Merci Used Book Café on Boulevard Beaumarchais.
I did enjoy the traditional Parisian cafe, but I had fallen in love with this modern cafe, principally because of the ten thousand books that were lining one wall, available for any patron to browse and read. And there was a deliciously comfortable armchair, nestled in the corner by the window, that had become my go-to spot to enjoy my daily un café crème and croque monsieur.
Even though there were enough books there to keep me occupied for a few years, my understanding of the French written word isn’t that good (yet), and so I had brought a ragged treasure of mine to savor for the umpteenth time again. My paperback copy of Terry Pratchett’s Mort had been a favorite of mine for decades. I never grew tired of reading it, and I still chuckled at the same paragraphs over and over again.
I didn’t notice her sitting down opposite me, but I should have. When I first arrived in Paris in my twenties, my jaw was always hitting the ground, tongue hanging out at observing so many utterly stunning women on my daily strolls through the city. Nowadays, I was vaguely desensitized to the fact that women in Paris are beautiful and stylish. Shoot; even the Parisian dogs are fashion savvy.
She was probably around my age, wearing a minimal amount of makeup, just a touch of eyeliner and mascara. Although French women are blessed with great genetics, she could easily have been old enough to be my mother, and I wouldn’t have known. Men are generally, and unfortunately, hung up pursuing younger women, but I have found the best lovers to be older women. Age and experience trumps youth and exuberance every time. Period.
I didn’t think she had paid me much attention, but I was immediately caught off guard when she leaned over and quietly said to me,
“THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE’S JUST ME.“
Fuck. I think I nearly orgasmed right there. No one has ever quoted Mort back to me, let alone in a husky French accent. And she got the uppercase emphasis perfectly. (You have to read Mort to understand what that means.)
She joined me in the corner, sitting close by, and we chatted easily about all things bookish. I had found a fellow book nerd, and when I said I had met Douglas Adams, I think she almost came too.
After two hours of nonstop conversation about the books and authors we love, it wasn’t much of a surprise to find ourselves walking back to my apartment, the growing mutual physical attraction becoming palatable with each step.
I will be honest and say it had been a long time since someone turned on my brain like that. I take care of my basic sexual needs with a handful of worldwide Friends With Benefits lovers. True love has always been elusive for me. I have probably a nice car’s worth of psychotherapy trying to get to the bottom of it, but the long and the short of it is: I don’t fall in love easily. Let’s not get into that just now.
As we climbed the stairs to the apartment, I felt her hand brush against mine, and my heart skipped more than a few beats.
I was about to punch the code for the door when she stopped me. I was so close I could smell her delicious perfume, a richly complex scent filled with bergamot, jasmine, and hints of black pepper. No doubt some expert French perfumier had spent their life’s work creating this exquisite concoction.
“I don’t normally do this,” she said.
“Neither do I,” I responded.
And then we kissed.
It was everything you can imagine and more. A perfect first kiss that felt like it was also our ten-thousandth. I knew her, and she knew me. We held each other gently, letting our lips enjoy each other. I knew underneath that she had a beautiful body, sneaking quick glances at her form in the reflections of shop windows while we were walking and talking on the way home.
We finally came up for air, and she said,
There was no shyness about her. She quickly undressed in front of me. I sensed that she was enjoying making it into a performance, a subtle striptease. One that had my full attention and my now hard cock’s. I barely had taken my jacket off, and she was done. I guess that was the point, as she now slowly took my clothes off. Damn. I’m not sure there is anything more erotic than that.
When she got me naked, I felt her hand on my cock, and her mouth on my lips. She somehow had managed to leave her heels on, part of the striptease routine, no doubt, but that meant she was as tall as I was.
Our kissing switched gears into full passion mode. I kissed her all the way down her neck and across her chest, savoring her sweet breasts with a lot of attention. She hadn’t removed a bra during her small performance for me and clearly didn’t need one; they were perfectly sized for my mouth to suck on completely.
So moaned appreciatively, and I bit down on an erect nipple to see what she liked. She squeezed my cock hard, arching her back away from me, grabbed my neck with one hand, and staring furiously into my eyes, said,
“Fuck me now!“
We did it right there, standing up. I was rock hard. I probably had been since leaving the cafe. She was either a yoga instructor or a retired ballerina, as she raised her leg vertically in front of me, pushing it against my chest and shoulder, and I entered her quickly. We found a natural balance for our three points of contact, and I fucked her hard and fast, thrusting myself into her perfectly groomed pussy over and over again. There was nothing delicate about this first time. We both wanted it. She would grab my face and kiss me passionately, biting my lips hard when I slammed particularly fiercely into her. I held onto her perfect ass, still amazing at how flexible she was and how my cock fit her so well.
Imagine it for a moment, in all the glorious details I’ve already described. We are naked, locked together in the most erotic of positions, fucking each other intensely. If I slowed down for a moment, she would grab me and push herself into me, her wet pussy gripping my cock so tightly. I shivered with each stroke, and given all the factors, I was probably going to cum very soon.
I grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her head back roughly, biting her neck intensely as I felt my orgasm rise. She reciprocated by digging her expertly manicured nails deep into my shoulders and back. That intense pain pushed me over the edge, and I thrust myself into her one last time and came with far more force than I usually do.
Feeling my cock pulse and throb, filling her with my cum, she pushed herself deeply over my still hard cock, and we found a new angle that rubbed her clit with my pubis. Within seconds I felt her orgasm around me, her pussy chocking my cock. I swear I almost came a second time feeling that and watching her orgasm in front of me. She held nothing back, and this was totally authentic.
I don’t know how we managed to do it like that for so long, but we quickly collapsed into the nearby chaise lounge. Spent and exhausted, holding each other tightly, with the ease and familiarity of old lovers.
At some point, we must have dozed off, and I awoke to find her gone. Immediately I considered the whole thing a dream. I’ve had that intensity of connections in my subconscious before, and they’ve left me depressed for days afterwards. My imagination is far better than reality, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
But just as I felt myself start to fall into a pit of despair once again, I heard her heels come clicking across the hardwood floors. She was carrying two tall glasses of iced water and still completely naked, except for those lovely stilettos.
I thought to myself,
“Yeah, this is it. She’s the one.“
As if reading my mind, she smiled, handed me the water, and said,
“Drink up. I need you to suck my clit for a while.“
Ha. Little did she know my superpower is cunnilingus.
“Stand right here,” I said, pointing to the space in front of the chaise lounge where I was positioned.
And with that, I licked and sucked her clit until she came five consecutive times. I still don’t know how she managed to stay standing.
Would we ever do it lying down?
Oh my god, yes!
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