Salsa Night in Paris [MF][21][Long]

[Part 1. Quite long. Feedback is always appreciated.]

In the early 2000s I was living in Paris on a placement year from my university course, an English guy working for a French tech company. I’d found accommodation in a self-contained little room in a sort of student village, with a cool mix of other English people either studying or working, young French people drawn to Paris from all over the country, and Erasmus programme students from all over Europe. Every weekend people would group up and do interesting cultural things like visiting museums, the latest hipster restaurant, or cheap dive bars.

So when Elle moved in, it was decided a welcoming night out was essential. We made quite a group when, with a few pre-drinks inside us already, half a dozen English girls, me, and a selection of Greek, Spanish and French girls and guys jumped on the Metro to visit a little restaurant in the 6th arrondissement someone had heard about. We crammed into one end of the restaurant, elbows banging against each other at the tiny tables, and ate and drank and laughed until late.

As it happened for most of the evening I’d found myself sitting next to Elle. She was from somewhere in the north of the UK, about 5’6”, with long bleached blonde hair, big green eyes, and a really strong, outgoing personality. As we got to know each other she joked that I didn’t have an Italian accent despite looking like I should; I replied that if her Northern accent was any stronger it’d come with gravy. You could say we hit it off really well. She’d said she had a boyfriend at home and I was coming to terms with a recent breakup, so it was good to chat to her without pressure.

Shortly after midnight we all made our way back towards the Metro, and as we stumbled down the steep steps into the St. Germain station, I overheard her talking to one of the others.

“Hey, Becky. You know Marco, is he gay do you know?”

Becky laughed. “Don’t think so, he used to have a girlfriend!”

“Cute, isn’t he?”

*****

A couple of weeks later on a warm Friday evening, a few of us were sitting around in a communal area having l’apéro (early-evening drinks) and discussing plans for the weekend. Romain, a tall, skinny French musician, suggested a salsa bar near the Champs-Elysées.

I wasn’t convinced. “You have to remember, we English can’t dance, we have no rhythm.”

“Ouahh… it doesn’t matter. The night starts with a class, there will be many beginners there. And we will have some drink, everyone will dance after a drink.”

His friend Max agreed. “Sure – you will all be fine. And the girls, they will love this bar, it is very historical.”

I called over to Elle, sitting with her nose in a magazine. “Hey Elle. What do you think about a ‘historical’ salsa bar on the Champs tonight?”

“Sure, Marco.” She laughed. “I’ll wear my best historical salsa dress.”

Several hours afterwards, six of us rolled up at the bar, halfway through the beginners’ lesson. We bought a bottle of vodka to share, picked a table, and settled in. Romain had been right, the bar was in a beautiful and very historic building, and judging by some of the beginners we probably wouldn’t be the worst dancers there. We chatted and made ourselves comfortable; once again I found myself next to Elle, watching the dancers.

Elle’s idea of a historical dress seemed to be a knee-length red number which contrasted with her green eyes, cut a little loose in some sort of thin floaty material that showed off her boobs clearly. She was very proud of ‘her girls’ as she called them – a pair of surgically enhanced 34DDs which sat proudly on her chest and could be very distracting. I’d caught myself looking at them sometimes, wondering how they’d feel in my hands, or against other parts. She didn’t mind people looking: in her words, she didn’t get them ‘done’ to be ignored. An elbow in my ribs got my attention. “Marco! We’ve got to move downstairs to the main room for the actual evening.”

I picked up the bottle and followed the group, ladies first of course, especially if following Elle was an option. Her shapely bum swayed gently as she descended the stairs, the dress caressing her curves. As we were some of the first people down there, we headed for the empty dance floor. For a few minutes Romain, the entertainer, led an impromptu session of simple steps and we followed his example, with a little over-acting for laughs.

As the room became packed with people, Elle became a little nervous and danced more closely with me. Soon there was so little room on the floor that we were pressed up against one another, getting nudged from one side or the other. I held her hips as we danced, enjoying the silky feel of her dress as we swayed together, her boobs brushing against my chest through my thin black shirt, our thighs sometimes entwining as we tried to dance and keep our balance. With all of this contact and surrounded by other heaving dancing bodies, predictably my cock started swelling up against my trousers a little. I hoped she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.

Elle leaned into my neck. “I need a breather. Where are the others?”

We headed back to the table where Max had just bought another bottle of vodka. Elle grabbed one of the girls and headed off to the toilets as I sat down and poured us some more drinks.

Romain appeared from the crowd and flopped down next to me. “Great night, yeah? All the sexy people. You are having a good time? With Elle?” He winked.

I waved away his implication. “Sure. I don’t know that much dancing is happening, but this place is amazing.”

When the girls came back, Elle pushed something into my hand. A tiny rolled-up ball of fabric. “Stick that in your pocket for me?” Not thinking about it too much, I complied.

The night rolled on into the early hours. Romain introduced us to some old Spanish friends he’d bumped into: or had he just met them, it was difficult to tell. We all spent time on the crowded and sweaty dance floor, laughing at each other in French, English and Spanish, and drank more vodka. I noticed that Elle only danced closely with me, and we spent a lot of time grinding against each other, laughing at our amateur attempts to copy the better dancers.

We were finally thrown out of the club in the early morning light. Leaning on each other a little for support, Elle whispered in my ear.

“Marco… I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you…”

“…Gay?” I interrupted.

“Er… yes. How did you know I was going to ask?”

“I heard you asking one of the girls before. And no. Very much not-gay. Which I think Romain is very disappointed about.”

She laughed. “Oh! In which case… I’m offended. Why haven’t you tried it on with me tonight?”

“Well, you have a boyfriend…”

“Ah, yeah… No, I don’t. I just say that so guys keep their distance.”

We walked slowly on up the hill of the Champs-Elysées, enjoying the peace and quiet before the tourists, as the dawning sun peeked over the Paris skyline and bathed us in its warming light. At the top, near the Arc de Triomphe, as a group we sat on a stone bench, quietly drinking in the atmosphere. Feeling Elle shiver slightly, I put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

“Careful!” She laughed, whispering again. “The stone’s cold on my warm… you know.”

“On your…?” I didn’t know.

“What did I ask you to put in your pocket earlier?”

Without getting it out, I felt the ball of fabric. Sort of silky. Thin strings though…

“Elle… is that what I think it is?”

“I’m going to need a coffee when we get home.”

If only camera phones had existed at that moment, I’d have liked to capture the look on her face. As it was, I simply squeezed her waist, stood up, and started herding the group towards Etoile métro station.

What felt like the longest Métro journey ever, finally delivered us home. We were all yawning as the energy of the night wore off, so I made my excuses and started heading for my room, but knowing Elle’s room was on the same corridor, once I was around the corner I waited for her to appear. Only a few seconds later, her bright smile and long flowing blonde hair swept into view.

“So, I’ve got some coffee if you want it?”

Silently, she took one of my hands and put it between her legs. Even through the silky dress I could feel her warm, damp pussy, and I leaned in for a kiss. Her lips were warm, but broke contact quickly.

“Oh, I want it all right.” She laughed. “Come on.”

Quickly shutting my room door behind us, she pushed me against the nearest wall and we kissed passionately, kicking our shoes off, our bodies pressing together, her hands holding the back of my head, mine caressing the silky fabric covering her arse. Gradually I hitched her dress up, running my hands over her bare cheeks, then slipped my right hand around to her front. Under a patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair I found her soaking wet pussy, stroking two fingers along her outer lips, making her groan. “Don’t tease me, lad… I’ve been rubbing up against you all fucking night!”

Obediently I dropped to my knees, leaning back against the wall while holding the back of her thighs, and allowed her dress to fall over my head as my tongue sought out her pussy. Her inner lips protruded, swollen with arousal, coated with her juices, and I tickled them gently with the tip of my tongue before pulling her towards me and dipping my tongue between them, long strokes up towards her clit and back down. Her ‘ooohs’ of pleasure from above encouraged me to carry on. It had been some time since I’d last eaten pussy; after a few minutes of this my tongue was just starting to get tired when her breathing became heavy, the ‘ooohs’ turned into little squeals, her hands grabbed my head through her dress and I felt her knees shake with her orgasm.

Pulling her dress off my head, I stood up and kissed her once more.

“Oh, Marco. OK, I guess you’re not gay then…”

“Told you. So, coffee…?”

“I’ll take it like I like my men. White, sweet, and in bed.”

“Be my guest.”

As I made the coffee, she laid out on my bed, recovering, still in her bright red dress, one arm back on the pillow. She laughed. “Will you draw me like one of your French girls?”

Placing our coffees to one side, I joined her on the bed, lying face to face. Stroking her hair back, I kissed her again.

“Do you normally get in bed fully dressed?” Elle asked, a glint in her eye, slowly pushing me backwards off the bed and taking a mouthful of coffee.

Taking the hint, I stood up, unbuttoned my shirt, and undid my belt as she watched closely. As soon as I had unzipped my trousers, she patted my hands away. “I’ll take it from here.”

Elle quickly slid my trousers down and I stepped out of them. My cock was growing again in anticipation as she kissed the bulge through my boxers. “Mmmm, I’ve been feeling this cock rubbing against my pussy all night. You know I’d have fucked you in the train if the others hadn’t been there?” Pulling my boxers down to release my cock, she breathed in sharply. I’m not much over six inches, but straight and nicely thick. A drop of pre-cum was already shining at its tip as she quickly put her lips around my cock head and started sucking. Her technique was more ‘sucking’ than ‘licking’, with a hand holding my shaft and the other cupping my balls as I grew to fully erect, enjoying the view from above as her head twisted around my cock, giving tantalising glimpses of her chest.

Unable to wait any longer, telling her “I need to see you”, I pulled up at the sides of her dress, unveiling her smooth thighs, the pussy I’d been eating a few minutes ago, a slightly curvy stomach, and then, with a flourish as the dress came over her head and she threw it across the room, her firm round tits. Supported by a red silky bra which I quickly undid, they sagged slightly as they were released, but her small light pink nipples stood up proudly. I rolled her back onto the bed, smoothing my hands over her naked skin, caressing the sides of her breasts, bending to flick her nipples with the tip of my tongue.

“These are amazing, Elle…”

“They are, aren’t they? I fucking love my tits. I fucking love the look on guys’ faces when they see them. And I fucking love cum over them.”

“Oh, it’s all yours, babe. Come and get it.”

At that Elle sat up slightly, her green eyes on fire. Taking hold of my cock again in both hands, she laced her fingers together making a double fist with her thumbs towards her rubbing the underside of my rigid cock, looking deep into my eyes. “Come on then Marco… give me your cum. Cover my big bouncy tits in your cum.” She alternated sucking on my shining cock head and telling me to come for her for a few minutes while pumping her hands on my throbbing cock until I could no longer resist.

“I’m going to come, baby.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, I held her eye contact as my balls tightened and my cum shot out, first splashing off her chin and dripping down into her cleavage, then onto her tits as she steered further spurts over herself. One rope dangled from around her right nipple as she jumped up to look at herself in the mirror, a naked cum-covered vision of plump tits, rumpled blonde hair and pale skin.

“Well! Got what I asked for there!” Elle laughed as she wiped a blob of cum from her chin with a fingertip before licking it off.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Elle.”

“Thank you, Marco. And you… have a beautiful cock.”

I fetched a towel and wiped her off, enjoying the roundness of her tits and the rest of her perfectly proportioned body. Once we were no longer sticky, we kissed again and climbed back into bed, me spooning around her, and as the energy subsided, we both fell asleep.

[To be continued.]

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/lx1e0f/salsa_night_in_paris_mf21long