As soon as I shut the door, we were kissing passionately and her clothes were off. She threw herself on my bed in just purple panties and a bra. I pulled my shirt over my head, pushed my pants and boxers to the floor, and crawled onto the bed after her, kissing her as she crawled backwards towards the pillows. It occurred to me at that moment that I had not even showered since having sex with Purvee, I could still smell the scent of her sex on my body. I’m sure Lauren could as well, but she didn’t hesitate.
It began in France in 2005.
I was sitting in a wicker chair in the cool air of an outdoor Parisian café reading a French newspaper when I first heard her voice, and her unmistakably feminine, American-accented English. I put my newspaper down on the small circular table for a moment, sipped my espresso, and glanced to my right to get a look at her.
She had a slender, petite figure and chin-length straight blonde hair parted down the middle. Her lips were thin and her mouth was parted wide in a broad smile. She wore a blue and white-striped long-sleeved shirt, a brown puffer vest, and a pair of skin-tight designer jeans tucked into knee-high black boots that reached almost to her knees.
She took her seat just a moment before her companion, a curvy, caramel-skinned beauty in black jeans and a grey jacket. The other woman had long, jet-black curly hair that cascaded down her shoulders to the middle of her back, and a tiny diamond stud on her left nostril. She had large breasts and her cleavage was visible through the low-cut neck of her turquoise blue blouse.
Both women paid no particular attention to me. They scanned around for the waiter impatiently as they talked, in a way that Parisians don’t usually do. I could tell they were tourists immediately. But actually, so was I.
After returning to the United States after serving a few months serving in the military in Iraq, I decided to take a month off, to get away from the pressures of my life and travel alone to Europe. I was 26 years old at the time, and I had never been to France, despite taking four years of French in college. I bought airline tickets on a whim, and after a brief search on the Internet, I found the perfect apartment on the top two floors of a building in Marais, a quiet but upscale district along the Seine River filled with trendy restaurants, shops, and bars.
I spent a week in the city, and had just one day left in France’s capital before I would head to wine country for the next leg of my journey. Each morning, I would set out to explore on foot after grabbing a coffee and a pastry at the neighborhood bakery. I rarely took a taxi or metro, and I was learning the city’s narrow mysteries well.
This particular brisk spring day, I zipped up my leather boots, put on my jeans, brown leather motorcycle jacket, and hounds-tooth scarf, grabbed my camera bag and set out with my hands in the pockets of my coat. On my last full day in Paris, I decided to have my coffee while reading the newspaper at Café de Flore. I was halfway through an article about the installation of a new pope in Rome when the two young women sat down.
“Hey, is that the waiter over there?” The raven-haired one said, raising her hand. “Excuse me…excuse me, could we see a menu please?” I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the suit-wearing waiter, who evidently did not hear or see them, or pretended not to.
After minutes of conversation with no service, the blonde made her own attempt. “Excuse me! Excuse me,” she followed the busy waiter around the restaurant with her eyes. “Um, excusez-moi, um…can we get some menus please?” The waiter then casually grabbed a pair of paper menus and slowly walked over and handed them over with a slight tilt off his head. “Mer-see!” she said, with an undeniably American accent as she was handed the menu.
They ordered some classically French cuisine, a croque monsieur sandwich and quiche lorraine to go with their white wine, and I glanced at my watch. In America, it would have been time for brunch, which is evidently what these two had in mind. I became distracted by their friendly banter as I acted as if I was reading the newspaper but eavesdropped on their conversation. They clearly had just met, making small talk, and were still getting to know one another.
“So how long are you staying in Paris?” The blonde asked, holding her glass as the waiter took their empty plates away.
“I dunno, a few days maybe,” the brunette replied, looking down and swirling her glass, “I want to go see Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, all the major sights, but then I want to get out. Maybe go down to Cannes, or Nice, or Marseilles or somewhere? There’s something about the south, the sun. I live in Chicago, I’ve spent the last few months in winter hell, I want some sand in my toes.”
“Cheers to sand in our toes,” the blonde said, and the two clinked glasses.
With that, I turned, looked at the waiter, and made eye contact. “*Monsieur, l’addition, s’il vous plait*,”(“Check, please!”) I asked for the check in French, miming the motion of signing a receipt. He immediately printed the bill and brought it over to my table.
“Did you see that?” The dark-haired girl leaned in, “that’s how you do it.” She mimicked my motion. “That’s how the French do it, that’s what we need to do from here on out.”
As I reached into my wallet to grab some cash to pay the bill, I realized that these two women thought I was French, even though I was every bit as American as they were. I decided I would have some fun with it. I turned and looked directly at them and imitated my best French accent in English. “*Excusez-moi*, but um, zey will not, uh, bring you zey bill…bon, you must ask for it-uh, okay?” I said smiling. “You make like-uh this, ok?”
I made the flamboyant signing motion of a signature in the air. They copied me, but I shook my head. “Non, non! Like-uh, like-uh dis!” We all practiced air-signing imaginary credit card receipts repeatedly. It was all nonsense, but after a few moments, I had them miming me like I was teaching them sign language.
“Parfait…perfect!” I exclaimed, giving them a thumbs-up sign and winked at them. They smiled. I stood up, walked out of the café and turned over my shoulder. “Enjoy your stay in Paris,” I said, still in character.
“Merci,” they said in unison smiling, waving as I stepped out into the cobblestone streets of the Latin Quarter, winding my way to the Luxembourg Gardens. I strolled through the gardens, taking photos with my camera of the architecture, the statues, and the ducks in the pond. After a while, I found a soft patch of grass, took a seat and read a paperback John Le Carré novel that I had picked up at the airport in New York. Closing the book after a couple chapters, I got up and decided to visit the Rodin Museum to look at some sculptures. It was one of the few top museums in Paris that I had not visited yet during my stay.
As I walked, I couldn’t stop thinking of those pretty American girls in the café. I imagined kissing the blonde, pressing my body against hers, and feeling her soft little hands against my hard chest. Along the walk, my mind drifted to her dark-skinned friend with the nose stud, and how her breasts looked when she leaned forward in her seat.
I entered the museum after paying the entry fee and walked around the landscaped grounds. I took some photos of Rodin’s famous Burghers of Calais in the garden and then headed into the interior of the museum. As I walked around admiring the art, in a baroque palace filled with sunlight from massive windows, I was surprised to hear two familiar voices.
“Come look at this one! It’s gorgeous.” It was the voice of the blonde from the café.
“Oh wow, it really is. It’s so…lifelike. You can almost feel their raw emotion.” The girl with the nose ring approached the statues in the garden closely. It was Rodin’s “The Kiss,” a nude couple embracing in sexual ecstasy.
“That’s ‘The Kiss’,” I said, walking up behind them. They turned to look at me. “It’s one of Rodin’s masterpieces. I mean, they’re actually a couple committing adultery and doomed to hell, unfortunately. It’s taken from another piece outside,” I said, gesturing, “it’s called the Gates of Hell.”
“Wait,” the blonde said, “you’re the guy from the café! You’re American?” I had forgotten to put on my fake French accent.
“Oh, yeah,” I grinned mischievously, “I was just messing with you guys. I’m totally American, but I do speak French, if that counts for anything.”
The dark-haired girl with the nose ring slapped my arm playfully. “Oh my god,” she laughed, “you’re such an asshole.”
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging, “It was just so obvious you were tourists, I was just having some fun with you guys.”
“Well you totally had us fooled,” the blonde admitted, “I even said after you left, I said ‘look see how nice French guys are!’”
“The French guys ARE nice,” I said jokingly, “It’s the asshole American guys you need to watch out for.”
They both laughed. “Oh,” the dark-haired girl said, and the two looked at each other, “trust us, we know all about American guys.”
“I’m Jace, by the way,” I held out my hand, “I’m from Delaware originally.”
“Hi, I’m Lauren,” the blonde said, shaking my hand, “I’m from Wisconsin.”
I turned to the dark-haired girl and shook her hand. “I’m Purvee,” she said, “I’m from California, but I’m living in Chicago right now.”
“Wait, Purvee?” I said, “Your name is Purvee?”
She laughed. “It sounds much better in Hindi than English. I promise I’m not a pervert.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I joked.
“But how do we know you’re not a pervert?” Lauren asked, “You’ve already proven yourself to be a liar.”
“Fair enough,” I conceded, and turned towards the statue, “Do you guys want to know something interesting about this statue?”
“Sure,” Purvee said, playing along.
“The statue is called *Le Baiser*,” which in French means ‘The Kiss.” The two of them nodded. “But *baiser* also means in French ‘to fuck.’”
“Oh these two are definitely about to fuck,” Lauren said, biting her lower lip and doing a little dance. We all laughed. Lauren was stunningly attractive, but also disarmingly silly. “So, tell me again how is this establishing that you’re NOT a pervert?” Lauren asked.
“Come on guys,” I said, waving them along, “let’s go to hell.” I walked them out of the building and down to Rodin’s “Gates of Hell” and pointed out both “The Thinker” and “The Kiss” were in the “Gates of Hell” before they were independent sculptures.
“What the hell? Are you like a tour guide or something?” Lauren asked at one point.
“No, I’m totally unqualified for that. I’m actually a military officer, I’ve just been hanging out in Paris for a while.”
“So…” she shot back, “you’re just making this all up?”
“No, no…this is all true, I swear I think this stuff is fascinating.” I needed to convince her. “For example…just think about how much time Rodin spent crafting every facial muscle movement, things we do everyday, every second, and pay absolutely no attention to. He started this statue around 1880-something and finished during World War I. Rodin spent like 30 years on a facial expression. A facial expression! That’s mind-blowing.”
“Wow, I never really thought of it like that before,” Purvee said, and she gently touched my left arm. Of the two girls, at least Purvee might be a bit interested.
“Have you guys had macarons yet?” I asked suddenly, out of nowhere.
“I have but not here in Paris, not yet,” Purvee replied.
“I’ve never had macarons,” Lauren admitted.
“Come on,” I said, leading the way, “let’s go get us some macarons.”
I led them to a nearby shop called La Durée on Rue Bonaparte, and we sampled salted caramel, pistachio, and lemon macarons. Lauren’s eyes rolled back in her head at the taste of the exquisite pastry. Purvee took one bite of her lemon-flavored macaron, made a face of displeasure and handed the half-eaten sugary wheel to Lauren, who closed her eyes with pleasure when she put it in her mouth. I handed Purvee a coffee-flavored macaron and she moaned in joy. “That was delicious,” she exclaimed.
Then I took them on a chocolate tour of the Latin Quarter, stopping at some of my favorite shops and sampling the candy art. Then the three of us walked across the bridges, over the river to the Louvre museum. I took their pictures together with the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa, amidst the crowds of tourists. We stopped at the Gérard Mulot bakery for ruby-red raspberry tarts in Trocadero and gazed up at the Eiffel Tower. In the early evening, we took a boat from the Eiffel Tower to the Notre Dame Cathedral. We took pictures together in the Champ de Mars, and on the Pont Neuf bridge.
“So how did you guys meet?” I asked, the sun went down behind us, “You obviously didn’t know each other until this trip.”
They looked at each other. “We just met two days ago,” Lauren said. “We were on the same flight from Chicago, and we checked in at the same hostel. We just hit it off, we’re both traveling along, she seemed super fun. I didn’t know what I was signing up for though.”
“She told me she spoke French!” Purvee said, teasing her. “I’m still waiting.”
“*Ah, bon*?” I said, back in character. “*Est-ce que tu parles français*?”
“No,” she giggled, “two years in high school. Honestly, it’s terrible. Seriously.”
“You lied to me,” Purvee teased, “I know you really just wanted to hang out with me for my money and my luxurious lifestyle.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lauren laughed, “that’s what it is.”
When the boat pulled up to the pier, I hopped off first and offered my hand, helping them each climb out. I offered to walk them back to their hostel near the Gare du Nord far from the tourist sights, down a dark, narrow street with graffiti sprayed on the walls. They were booked in a hostel with bunk beds in a large room like recruits at boot camp, and they shared a bathroom with dozens of other strangers.
After looking around, I pointed out that I was renting a nice apartment in Marais with two bedrooms for just myself, and there was no reason for them to stay in a hostel in bunk beds. They looked at each other for a moment as if to consider the proposal.
“Look,” I said, sensing some apprehension, “let’s go grab dinner. There’s a great place right by my apartment. You can come check it out, and if you don’t want to stay, you guys can come back here together. No hard feelings.” They quickly agreed.
I led them to my favorite neighborhood bistro, a two-story brown and tan building called Le Temps des Cerises, or “The Time of Cherries.” We sat down over a bottle of wine, salads, soup, pan-fried duck and cheese. We laughed and told stories for hours. The manager came out, recognized me from previous visits and walked over to the table. I stood and we spoke French with each other for a moment, and he gave us some samples of his special homemade cherry liqueur. I introduced them to some French friends I had met during my stay, and we joined a larger table of locals.
After dinner, it was just a short walk down Rue Charles V and up an old, marble spiral staircase. I turned the key and pushed open the door to my apartment and the three of us went inside. The 16th century apartment had exposed wooden beams, wall-to-wall bookshelves, a giant sofa and even an antique motorcycle in the living room. We took off our jackets, boots and shoes, and Lauren tossed her scarf over the doorknob. I put on some of the owner’s old jazz music vinyl records and I gave them a tour of the apartment. I left them in the living room to chat while I went to the kitchen for another bottle of wine.
I could overhear their conversation as I pulled the cork and grabbed three glasses in the fingers off my left hand. I walked out and handed them glasses of red wine filled nearly to the brim, and the three of us talked for hours.
Eventually, Lauren said that she was tired from a long day and she needed some rest, leaving Purvee and I alone in the living room. We continued talking for a few hours, getting thoroughly drunk, until the sun started coming up over the mansard roofs of Paris. I invited her out onto the balcony of the fourth floor and when the sunbeams broke over the rooftops, that was the precise moment that I kissed her.
She breathed deeply through her nose and put her arms around the back of my neck. We nuzzled for a few minutes against the wrought iron balcony three stories above the streets, our tongues intertwining. I walked backwards into the living room as she was unbuttoning my shirt. I pulled her blouse over her head with a single motion, and her round breasts bounced out in her black bra.
She leaned her head back and I kissed her neck, while I peeled my shirt off and tossed it on the floor. We stumbled back onto the large sofa, and I slid both my jeans and boxer briefs off in one smooth motion. I was already very hard, and she got down on her knees and stroked my cock vigorously.
“Mmmm, look at you, oh my god…” her long, blue painted fingernails of her left hand gently traced the lines off my abdominal muscles as her right hand rubbed me softly but quickly. I laid my head back on the sofa pillows and watched her as she lowered her mouth onto me, and started sucking.
I squeezed her left hand with my right hand as I watched her head bob up and down, beautifully lit by the morning sunlight of the Paris dawn. She was eager to please me, and her mouth made slurping and popping sounds. Every few minutes, she would take a break and look into my eyes, still continuing to stroke me, grinning with naughty pleasure. Occasionally she would completely consume me, her lips touching the base of my cock, and I would enter her throat. She would back away after a few seconds of deep-throating, then spit on her hand and continue stroking.
I couldn’t take much more of the intensity, and it was now daylight, I had been up almost a full 24 hours with no sleep, and I was getting tired. I leaned forward and kissed her, and we switched positions, she shifted to her back. I undid her belt, unzipped her pants and attempted to pull her skinny jeans off her legs, but they coiled around her ankles and I had to try unraveling them at her feet. She laughed and lightly rubbed my cock as I tugged at her jeans.
As I fumbled with her skinny jeans, she sat upright and took her own brasserie off. Her areolas were large and dark, and her nipples were erect. She started helping me with her skin-tight pants until we were both nude. After kissing her a few moments, I made my way down to her vulva, parted her legs with my hands and began first kissing, then gently licking, then sucking her pussy. She had not shaved her pubic hair, but her legs were soft and smooth as I ran the stubble of my chin against them. She bent her back, moaning loudly, and I silently hoped that we didn’t wake up Lauren.
I ran my tongue through Purvee’s soft warm channel, flicking my tongue rapidly against her clitoris. She gasped, pressing her large, soft breasts together with her two hands. I could feel her begin to climax, so I applied even more pressure to her clit, and she wrapped her legs around my neck and pulled me closer. I gently took her between my lips, sucked softly, and played with her with the very tip of my tongue. She put her hands on top of my shaved head, and started making squealing sounds as she had her orgasm. Her body tensed, and then soon every muscle abruptly relaxed.
I climbed onto the couch, and guided my cock into her wet pussy easily. She moaned loudly, and I lifted her ankles over my shoulders and began to jackhammer. Her hands gripped the sofa cushions tightly, and her mouth was agape with pleasure. Our eyes met and we stared at each other, and she groaned loudly. I could feel the intensity building, and since we were having unprotected sex, I pulled out and stroked my cock a few seconds until warm streams of cum shot all over her belly.
We both collapsed nude beside each other on the couch. I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her neck as she turned on her side. “Mmmmm,” she beamed, “that was amazing.”
“Yes, it was,” I said, exhausted. My fingertips traced the line of her hips. “I hope we didn’t wake up Lauren.”
Purvee laughed. “Oh, come on, she definitely heard us.”
“You think so?” I wondered aloud.
“Definitely, oh my god, the way I was screaming when I had my first orgasm? There’s no way she slept through that.”
“Wait, hold on…your first orgasm?” I asked.
“Yeah, I had two. I had my second one right before yours.”
“Oh no,” I said, “You’re mistaken. I didn’t have an orgasm. I faked it.” She laughed. Puddles of my semen were still on her breasts and tummy.
“I do feel a little bad though,” she whispered after a quiet moment.
“Why?” I wondered, “wait…is there a boyfriend? You’re married?”
“No, no…nothing like that. It’s just that…don’t say anything to her, but I think that Lauren really likes you.”
“Well, I think it’s pretty clear that you like me more,” I offered, gesturing to her to naked body stretched out on the sofa.
“Actually, I don’t know if that’s true,” she admitted. “She seemed like she was really into you. After you left the café, she talked for like ten minutes about how cute you were, when she thought you were French. I just felt like when she went to bed, she was giving up on you making your move. That’s why I was so surprised when you kissed me outside.”
“Well, don’t worry about it,” I assured her, “it’s you that I’m interested in.” Honestly, I was interested in both of them equally, but I thought I had a better chance with Purvee, who was overtly more sexual and flirtatious towards me.
I got off the couch, walked to the bathroom and snagged a washcloth off the shelf and ran hot water over it. I wiped her body down with the warm, moist cloth and realized that she was dozing off.
“Purvee,” I whispered, “are you asleep?”
She smiled. “I will be soon.” She opened her eyes to look into mine. “This was one of the most amazing days of my life. I’ll always remember this. Seriously.”
I grinned. “Me too.” I pulled the covers over here to cover up her soft, smooth, naked brown body. I kissed her forehead lightly, slid my boxer briefs back on, and walked up the stairs to my room. I fell onto the bed, and without even crawling under the sheets, I fell asleep just moments after my head pressed against the pillow.
I woke up a few hours later, with a powerful hangover, shielding my eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the window with my hand. I could the shuffling of feet and rattle of metal pans coming from the kitchen below. I threw my legs over the side of the bed, put on a shirt and the same jeans I wore the day before and grabbed my watch on the bedside table. It was nearly noon, and the owner would be there in a few hours to check me out.
I came down the spiral staircase in the living room where I could see that the sofa I left Purvee on earlier was empty and the blankets were nicely folded in a pile.
I stuck my head through the doorway into the kitchen. It was small by American standards. There, Lauren was by the sink, fumbling with a metal Bialetti Italian stove top coffee pot. She was wearing a pair of form-fitting black straight-legged sweatpants and a grey and white tight tank top.
“Bonjour,” I said from the hallway, “Good morning. Do you want me to make some coffee?”
“Bonjour monsieur,” Lauren looked up and smiled. “Well now you offer to help, now that it’s almost ready.” The coffee maker was in pieces and the coffee beans were still whole, they had not been ground. The coffee was nowhere near ready. She handed me the parts and I demonstrated the traditional European way to make coffee.
Hot coffee in hands, we sat down at a window-side breakfast table, where we could look down at people walking the streets a few stories below. “How did you sleep last night?” I asked.
“Terrible,” Lauren stirred milk and sugar into her cup. “A couple somewhere in this building was banging each other like crazy all night. The walls are like paper in these old buildings.”
I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was being serious or toying with me. I played along. “Oh really? Well that’s Paris, the city of love. Did you get something to eat?
Lauren shook her head. “No, not yet. Purvee ran out to the farmer’s market in Bastille to pick up some things to make for lunch. I thought maybe we would go shopping around here later this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you guys some recommendations. There’s a bunch of great places here. When is she supposed to be back?” I looked down at my watch.
“Maybe an hour or so, why?”
“I have to check out, the owner will be here soon,” I admitted. “I actually have to pack up soon. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you guys sooner. I don’t mean to rush you out.”
“It’s okay, it was really cool of you to let us spend the night,” she said, raising the cup to her pursed lips and coyly blowing the steam off the top of the hot coffee. “This is way better than that hostel we were going to stay in.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said, sipping from my cup.
“Well, thanks again. But I wanted to ask you…was this a one-time thing?”
“Oh, I’ll definitely come back again, it was my first time, but I love the city.” I looked down at the streets below.
“That’s not what I meant,” Lauren tilted her head as if to examine me. “I heard you last night with Purvee. Was it just a one-night stand?”
I nervously ran my hand along the windowsill. “I’m definitely interested in staying in touch with her, but I’m not sure how she feels. I don’t know. We both might have just been caught up in the romance of Paris.”
“And what about me?” Lauren asked, looking down into her cup. “Any interest in staying in touch?”
“Sure, of course,” I said, “I hope we can all be friends. I had such a great time hanging out yesterday. I’d love to stay in contact with you.”
She finished her coffee and pushed her blonde hair back and wrapped it behind her right ear. She leaned forward. “So…I have a confession,” she finally said.
“Me too,” I said. I had many, but the one I chose would depend on hers. “But you go first.”
“I am kind of embarrassed about this, but I got a little jealous last night. Please promise that you won’t tell Purvee, it’s not really about her, it’s me.”
“Of course not. Whatever you tell me, if you want it to stay between us, it stays between us.” There was now a growing list of things I wasn’t supposed to talk about.
“I was in a relationship for a long time, but then we broke it off. I decided to come to Paris to forget about it.” She recounted the story of a failed engagement with a college boyfriend. “I just can’t seem to find the right guy.” She poured more coffee into her cup and stirred in the sugar. “A part of me thought, you know, in the back of my head, when I came to Paris I’d meet an amazing guy…and we’d…I don’t know. Like you said…we’d get caught up in the romance of Paris or something. But then I meet this other girl, but the guy is into her, and she is the one that gets the Paris romance.”
“I understand,” I said after listening, “Is there anything more you want to share?” She shook her head. “Now are you ready for my confession?”
“It better be good!” She teased.
“My confession is that you were the one I first noticed when you walked into the café yesterday. I thought you looked so sexy in those boots, you were so confident and funny. You took my breath away. But Purvee seemed to be more interested in me, you know she came on pretty strong right away. After you went to bed early, I just assumed you weren’t interested.”
She extended her left hand across the table to touch my right hand on the windowsill and smiled. “That sir, is a pretty good confession.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you will get your Paris romance. This city has enough romance to go around.”
Lauren grinned mischievously. “I know that Paris does,” she said, “but do you?”
All of a sudden, the soft touch of her hand on mine was like a bolt of lighting. The look on her face changed and I felt she was begging me to come onto her.
I got up from my chair, walked over to her, bent down and kissed her. Her mouth tasted of fresh coffee. She stood up, put her arms around my neck and actually jumped into my arms. I reached under her and grabbed her legs, and turned to carry her up the stairs.
Since Purvee was coming back at any moment, I didn’t want to have sex in the living room. I was also worried that the owner might come back earlier than we agreed and see us fucking on the couch. So I carried her towards the old spiral staircase, but it turned out to be more difficult than it first appeared.
“I think maybe we should just walk up the stairs,” she laughed, holding my hand. We walked together up the stairs, and I followed her, looking at her ass in those tight sweatpants from behind.
As soon as I shut the door, we were kissing passionately and her clothes were off. She threw herself on my bed in just purple panties and a bra. I pulled my shirt over my head, pushed my pants and boxers to the floor, and crawled onto the bed after her, kissing her as she crawled backwards towards the pillows. It occured to me at that moment that I had not even showered since having sex with Purvee, I could still smell the scent of her sex on my body. I’m sure Lauren could as well, but she didn’t hesitate.
We kissed passionately on the bed for a while, and I slid my left hand into her panties to feel her pussy. She was extremely wet, but I was only partially hard, still spent from having sex with Purvee just a few hours earlier. I began fingering her, and she slid her panties off with her thumbs herself while we kissed. Her pussy was totally shaved and waxed. I realized then she had come to Paris with the explicit intention of having sex with someone. I felt lucky enough for that person to be me.
She moaned tenderly as she stroked my cock and I inserted another finger inside her. She began rubbing my shaft faster and I was surprised I was soon rock hard again. I could sense that my arousal was turning her on and she was getting excited. She leaned into me, pushing me onto my back, looked deep into my eyes and slowly ran her tongue up my shaft. Lauren then wrapped her thin lips around me.
It felt amazing, but Lauren wasn’t quite as skilled as Purvee. Her teeth scraped against the skin of my cock a little too harshly, and instead of technique, she went for speed. I let her continue for a few moments, then reached down, grabbed under her arms and pulled her up to my face to kiss her mouth.
She reached down between her legs and ran my throbbing cock back and forth against her wet pussy to lubricate it. With my skin pressed against her wetness and warmth, I fought the urge to thrust inside her and let her slide slowly down on top of me. She took off her bra and began grinding her ass against me, thrusting my dick deep inside her. Her hair swung back to front, but her small, firm breasts barely shook.
I reached up and cupped one of her breasts in my right hand, while my left hand squeezed her ass. She made short, rapid huffing noises and bit her lower lip. She moaned as she got herself to climax, but I knew that I would not be able to cum on my back. She looked down at me with her bright green eyes. “Do you want to get behind me?” She asked.
“Of course I do,” I said, and she rolled off me, turning sideways on the bed and getting on all fours. I walked around to enter her from behind and I could see she had reached down and had spread her pussy lips for me. I held my cock with three fingers to guide it into her and she looked over her shoulder.
“Spank my ass,” she said, surprising me with her boldness. I struck her left cheek with my open hand sharply as I thrust back and forth, leaving a bright red mark on her bottom. “Harder!” she exclaimed,”fuck me harder and slap my ass!” “Yeah, yeah,” she said impatiently. “Keep fucking me please sir. Fuck me hard and slap my ass.” She was animalistically horny, and she was letting her guard down and exposing her kinkiness. I built up a rhythm of thrusting and slapping, and I looked down her ass at my cock, wet and glistening as it slid back and forth.
I could feel myself building up to a powerful orgasm and was just about to cum, when I heard the door slam downstairs. I stopped thrusting for a moment and listened carefully.
“Please don’t stop, sir,” Lauren said, and I could feel her hand rapidly massaging her clitoris, “please, please, fuck me!” I pounded her frantically, trying to finish quickly, unsure if the person who entered the apartment was either the owner or Purvee. Interpreting her sexual energy, I grabbed a fistful of her hair into my left hand, pulled it back hard and began hammering her as hard as I could. At the same time, I used my right hand to strike her right ass cheek, shading both of her sides pink from harsh slapping.
I moaned as I withdrew from her and sprayed my load all over her ass. Almost instantaneously, I slid off of her and began putting my clothes back on. As soon as I was dressed, I ran down the spiral staircase and saw the landlord, an old, balding Frenchman in a tweed jacket.
“Ah, b*onjour monsieur, tout est en règle, je suis prêt à partir.*” (Good morning sir, everything is ready to go, I’m ready to leave.) When Lauren came down the stairs and waved, he smiled at her. When Purvee climbed up the stairs behind him and entered the apartment with bags of groceries, he looked a bit confused.
“*C’est la livraison*,” I said extemporaneously, taking the bags from Purvee. (The delivery service.)
Purvee looked confused by what was going on, but we were out of the apartment quickly and soon making our way down the street to a café where I explained that I was on my last night at the apartment and soon headed to the Bordeaux wine region. “I’m supposed to catch a train for Bordeaux this afternoon,” I confessed to the girls over coffee, “I made these plans before I met you guys yesterday. I rented a cottage in wine country and planned to bike around tasting wines at different vineyards for a few days.”
The two girls looked at each other briefly. “I want to come with you,” Purvee said instantly.
“Me too,” Lauren echoed. I wasn’t prepared for two traveling companions, but I felt compelled to agree. After all, I had just had sex with both of them just a few hours earlier. The idea seemed exciting, but it wasn’t expected.
A few hours later, the girls bought their tickets and joined me on the train. There were four seats facing each other across a table on the high speed train to Bordeaux, and Purvee took the seat next to mine, while Lauren sat across from us. We all chatted for a while until Purvee fell asleep on my shoulder, nuzzling up against my neck. As she dozed off for a nap, I felt a bit guilty and looked across the table at Lauren. However, Lauren was engrossed in her novel, and seemed to be barely paying attention. I closed my own eyes and fell asleep, cuddling with Purvee as it started to rain.
(To Be Continued…)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/lvesz1/the_time_of_cherries_part_one_mff
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