0 comments/ 7494 views/ 3 favorites Paris Bound Ch. 02 By: Turbidus Illicit lovers push their boundaries. This continues the story begun in "Paris Bound" but it is not necessary to read that story first. The current chapter can be read independently. ***** He woke to the feel of her mouth on his cock. He was already hard. He wondered if she had awoke to find him erect and wanting her or if it was the feel of her mouth that had aroused him. He decided he didn't care. Her panties and bra lay by his head where he had dropped them when he "untied" her. Somewhere in the bed, or scattered about the floor, where the tufts of ermine he'd warmed before caressing her with them. And a pink feather, for the rest of the afternoon's activities he'd made due with fingers, ice cubes, mouth, tongue and penis. He shifted his hips to let her know he was awake. He could feel his chest hair pull as he moved, encrusted in cum that had dried on his chest. They had hugged and kissed afterward, his chest smearing the semen over her breasts. After days of anticipation, anxiety and finally relief, it had been a prodigious outpouring. She was taking all of him now, holding for a moment with her nose in the mat of curls above his cock, then slowly withdraw, her hand following and twisting around his shaft. The other hand cupped and tugged at his balls creating a delightful ache in his belly. He pulled his right leg up and let it fall outward, giving her more room to work between his legs. She lay across his left hip, sitting on her heels and leaning over her legs to suck him. Holding his hips still he twisted his torso to the left, closer to his lover's body. His right hand folded the damp pillow and pushed it lower under his neck, propping his head up. His left hand caressed her ass for a moment, then wiggled its way between her legs. She moved slightly, opening herself to him. The insides of her thighs were wet, not from him; he'd slipped out of her and came all over her belly and chest. Her thighs were wet with her own excitement. He pressed against her right leg. She didn't understand or perhaps she was worried about her rule. Her pussy she reserved for her husband's mouth. It wasn't her pussy he wanted but he stopped pushing, not wanting her to feel pressured. She pulled her mouth from him and slide her barely parted lips down the underside of his cock. Her hand tightened on the shaft and he was treated to a soft moan as he slide two of his fingers into her pussy. She was still open from their earlier romp. He added a third and began to move his fingers in and out, spreading them as he withdrew, massaging the walls of her pussy. She began to flex her back, pressing against his hand. Her mouth fell over his cock again, as she pulled back her tongue pressed to the underside of his shaft, milking him. He tuck his thumb in and pushed his fingers deep enough to wet it, then pulled his hand back and began to rub her bottom, mostly circling but pressing a bit as well. As he did so the hand fondling his balls clenched and he groaned. The hand relaxed and her mouth left him. "Sorry, did I hurt you?" "Don't be sorry. It felt good. I don't mind." He hesitated. "You can do it a little harder. The tugging too. I'll tell if you if it is too much." "You sure?" She sounded nervous. He was rushing. He knew that but they only had a few days. "Uh huh, a little ache, a little pain, makes cumming more intense. I'm not into serious pain." He hesitated again, then pressed a little harder with his thumb. "What about you? This okay? Rather I not?" "A couple hours ago I would have said 'no' but earlier didn't bother me, so okay, but slow." "Of course baby," another pause, "you want to shift over, straddle my head? I'll keep my mouth away from your sex. I'll behave. Promise." For such a passionate woman she was reserved, formal even, when it came to talking about sex or their bodies. He had never heard her say 'pussy' or 'dick' much less 'cock'. She did not use those words so he tried to avoid them as well. He moved his hand from her sex and pushed against the insider of her right leg once more. "It's not you I'm worried about." She whispered but she inched closer and threw her right leg over his head. Her glistening pussy hovered above him and he wondered if he could keep his promise. Clear liquid flowed from her labia onto the inside of her legs. He decide to concentrate on that and raised his head enough to lick along the inside of her right leg. He moved upward until his nose parted her labia and pressed against her clit. He dropped is head back to the pillow. "Too close?" he whispered. She didn't respond except with a shake of her head that he could not see. He took her silence as assent. He licked her other leg as she took him back into her mouth. He kissed and nipped at the inside of her legs until a fresh rivulet would make its way to his waiting tongue. He repeated the process several times. One advantage of having a few years under his belt was that he lasted much longer these days. Twenty years ago he'd have probably cum already and been back to sleep. He stopped and enjoyed the sensations she provided. The feel of her mouth, the swirl of her tongue around the crown, the squeeze and twist of her hand, all felt glorious. All the while her other hand tugged and squeezed. She encircle his scrotum with her thumb and first finger and pulled down. "Oh, uh huh, like that, harder, harder, a little more. Oh fuck that's it; stop there. Keep doing that once in a while baby. Perfect." God, she was driving him insane. His mouth found her thighs. He retained enough control to remember not to leave any marks. As he licked toward her pussy he tilted his head slightly, dragging his tongue between the engorged and glistening lips and her equally glistening thigh, reaching higher until his nose passed her pussy and pressed into her ass crack. He held himself there and wrapped one arm over her lower back, the other hand found its way back into her pussy. He decided to risk it and pulled her down with his arm, scooting upward as he did so. This put more pressure on his balls and the ache in his belly moved past "a little". He didn't care. His mouth found her ass. - I had rolled away from him in my sleep. The light that filters through the sheers over the window is still bright. Dust motes dance in the light. I cannot have slept long. I experience none of the disorientation I usually feel when I wake in a hotel room .I know exactly where I am. And I knew whose leg my naked butt nestles against. I yawn and have to stifle a giggle. The place is awash in the smell of sex. I sit on the edge of the bed and stretch. I turn to survey the lover I see far too infrequently yet far too often. It is a paradox I have never been able to unlock; so I ignore it. He is rolled slightly toward me, one hand over his head resting atop the panties I had been tied with. When he'd started "tying" me up I was not sure I wanted to play that game. Then the feather. I hate being tickled but the feather had not tickled. Somehow it managed to tease and torment and arouse, all without tickling. The other sensations: cold tongue, warm fur, caressing tongue, the feel of him finally filling me and the teasing thrusts before he got down to business, cascade through my mind as I watch the slow rise and fall of my sleeping lover's chest. His lips are parted and wet and I want to feel them against my own but resist the urge. His chest hair is matted in spots. I try, and fail, to recall if there had been the smattering of grey on his chest the last time I saw him. Lower, on his belly and around his penis the hair is as dark and as thick and as curly as it had been twenty years ago. I shake my head at the little lie I am telling myself. Twenty years ago my fingers had told me how thick and curly the hair under his jeans was but I had not seen it. I did not see him naked until years later, long after it should have been acceptable. I refuse to go over, yet again, how it had happened. It no longer matters. It had. Then it had happened again. Now here I am, yet again. Third times the charm perhaps. I hope I will leave Paris with the part of me that lusts and craves his body sated while the rest of me retains the love, friendship and memories. The way my eyes fix on his erection makes me wonder if there is any hope of that happening. It is hypnotizing, the way his penis bobs with each heartbeat. For the moment it seems the embodiment of his aliveness, his presence here in the world. In isolation an erect penis is a ridiculous thing. But attach it to someone you love and enfold it in desire and it becomes, if not a work of art, an object of great desire. The hair around his penis is matted as well. That is my doing, mostly anyway. He had ejaculated on my belly and breasts, another thing that in isolation I would have turned my nose up at, but when it happened earlier it had caused my own orgasm to reach new heights. No, his semen is not inside me. It is dried on my chest and on his. The fluid that matts his pubic hair is mine. The shiny patches and the duller dried patches on his erection had been part of me as well. Looking at the imprint my body has left on my lover's starts to make me feel wet again. I can feel my nipples crinkle and harden. I swing my legs into the bed, feet toward the head. I lean over my legs and blow on his penis. It twitches. I smile. I blow again, another twitch, another smile. I lower my head until his hair is tickling my nose. I breathe in, deeply, as if checking the bouquet of a particularly beautiful rose. I can smell myself. I can smell my lover. His scent is, not stronger, but richer, more, well, musky. I have never paid much attention to my own scent I am glad he took the time to bathe me, especially after he'd started playing around "back there". I can't bring myself to think "around my anus". That is another thing I would never have imagined enjoying. "Don't just sit here," I hiss to myself. Given my current position the easiest thing to do is to take him in my mouth. I don't care that he is covered in my own drying secretions. I don't want him to get up and wash. I want him; I need him, now. I'm curious to see how long it will take him to wake up. The answer is: not long. Once he is awake and I am less concerned about leaning on him, I start to use my hands. When he presses against my leg I know what he wants. I long to give it to him but I can't. I need to keep part of myself out of this, untainted. It is a silly rationalization, and seems ludicrous when my whole body is screaming for him to plant his mouth on my sex, but silly or not I cling to it. With one hand I begin to stroke him as I move my mouth up and down. I love the strange combination of soft yet hard of his erection. With my other hand I began to fondle his scrotum. I had been blindfolded earlier. This was my first good look at this part of his body. His scrotum is shaved and I'm distracted for a moment wondering if that was true when last we meet. When I feel his touch "back there" I stiffen. In my surprise I pulled, hard, on his scrotum and I hear him groan. All desire leaves me. What am I doing? I hurt him. In the span of a single breath I go from being consumed with desire for him to wanting to run from the room, embarrassed by my inexperience and incompetence. I pull away from him. "Sorry, did I hurt you?" I whisper. "Don't be sorry. It felt good. I don't mind." As I attempt to process what he means he adds, "You can do it a little harder. The tugging too. I'll tell if you if it is too much." How do I feel about that? I am not sure. I hardly consider myself a shrinking violet. I have made love under the stars as rain drops started to patter against my naked back. I made love, very quietly and quickly in the basement, with my parents sitting upstairs. But this is beyond me. He wants me to hurt him? I'm not that naïve. I know there are people into bondage and pain but I have never imagine this man beside me would be into that sort of thing. At least not until he "tied" me up. That was bondage. Or was it? I wasn't really tied. He told me over and over I could free myself at anytime. He'd teased me but there had been no pain, except the ache of my desire for release. I suppose it isn't that crazy. It isn't as if there isn't a bit of pain with having my nipples played with. And I love to have my nipples played with. I am caught off guard again when he asks about touching my bottom. I reply, without too much hesitation, "a couple hours ago I would have said 'no' but earlier didn't bother me, so okay, but slow." When he asks me to straddle his head it is my own willpower that causes me to pause. This is something I've done and loved, just not with him. I know how badly I want to feel his mouth on me. I have trusted myself this far, so I do as he asks, and, truth be told, as I want. The feel of his tongue licking up my leg, licking up my wetness is almost more than a can stand. With his nose pressing against me, a trifling tilt of my hips would press my clitoris against his mouth. How wonderful that would feel, how desperate I am to feel his mouth and tongue but I keep control of the desire. When he asks me to pull on his testicles I do, though it seemed impossible to me that I am not hurting him. His panted words sound convincing enough. He licks higher. I get ready to leave his head, thinking he needs time to get control but his tongue skirts past the forbidden zone and moves on to a place I would never have envision having to label as off limits. I try to concentrate on his erection, try to coordinate the movement of my mouth and my hands. His tongue darting all around my backside is making that more and more difficult. Why this should feel so good is something I will think about later. For the moment I am content to enjoy the sensation. His cheek and jaw are pressing against my sex as his tongue continues to dance and play. Reaching past his chin his thumb begins to slide over and around my clitoris. His touch tears a moan from my chest and I push myself harder against his face and mouth. I felt more than I hear his matching groan. I let the head of his penis pop in and out of my mouth, my lips hugging the ridge of the crown. I am squeezing and pulling at his testicles harder than before. I hadn't realized I was doing so, it is simply a reaction to my own excitement. Well, he said he'd tell me if it was too much. I squeeze a little harder and his fingers close, tugging gently at my clitoris. At first I imagine he's triggered my orgasm. I feel myself twitching under his fingertips. Waves of contractions ripple through my belly but unlike an orgasm the ripples don't stop. His hips begin to buck, I am able to take him entirely within my mouth but slowly, not like this and I struggle not to gag. My hand tugs harder as my back arches. His mouth leaves my bottom and I hear him moan, "oh fuck yeah". His other hand moves to my butt.I feel his thumb pushing against my bottom only this time he keeps pushing. Instead of pulling away I push against the pressure and then he is inside me, pressing against the other thumb in my vagina. The ripples coalesce and explode out of my belly. I would scream but for the fact he is pushing himself deep into my mouth, his own explosion echoes mine, as spasms shake my body. - When she begins to really jerk and squeeze his scrotum he loses it. He pulls his mouth from her ass and very nearly plunges his face into her pussy but some shred of control turnshis mouth away to find the inside of her leg. He feels his orgasm building and begins to thrust into her mouth. Part of him worries that this is too aggressive but another part of his brain is raving, "fuck her mouth." His right hand finds her pussy and his thumb slips easily inside. He longs to use his fingers but the position is awkward. She is literally dripping onto his face. He presses his other thumb against her tight sphincter, intending to simply caress her but when she pushes against him he feels her relax and without any resistance his thumb enters her ass. Thumb meets thumb and press against the wall of her pussy as his hand moves faster and harder now. A last thrust, a last painful tug and he is emptying himself deep inside her mouth as her body collapses on top of his leg. She is shaking and he fears she is weeping. He slides from under her and swivels on the bed to lie facing her. He brushes the hair away from her face. Her eyes are closed. She is not crying and he relaxes. His cum is on her chin. He lowers his head and begins to lick her chin. His lips find her mouth and he kisses her frantically. He sucks her tongue into his mouth. This is new for him, tasting himself on a woman's tongue. His cock stops softening and his mind roars in triumph. It has been years since he's stayed hard after cumming. He scrambles on top of her, rolling her onto her back and dangerously close to the edge of the bed. He pulls her legs over the top of his own and uses one had to spread her pussy. Her juice runs down her slit and into the crack of her ass. He pushes his fingers inside her and she moans. He rubs her pussy juice over his cock, scoots forward and pushes into her and begins to fuck her. He is slamming into her, loving the sound of his legs slapping against her ass. Her eyes are closed and she is panting. "Look at me babe." Her eyes open. "Play with your breasts." He pauses. "Play with your tits baby, pinch your nipples love." And she does. Her fingers find her nipples and begin to roll and tug at them and they grow long and firm under her touch. "Oh perfect baby. I love your nipples. Make 'em hard for me. Suck on them like you did before." She pulls her left breast to her mouth and bends her head forward. She can just reach her nipple with her tongue. He fucks her harder, rocking her breast toward her mouth, where she tries to catch it between her lips. He hears himself panting encouragement and wonders how embarrassed he'll be later but at the moment he doesn't care. He pulls his cock from her and grabs it with one hand. He uses it to slap her clit, softly then a little harder. "You like that baby?" She nods. "You like it?" She whispers "yes". "Really? You don't sound sure. Do you like it?" As he asks he stops, stops the slapping motion of his cock, stops squeezing her leg with his other hand, stops everything. She whimpers. "Don't stop. I like it. Okay. I like it." The last is almost a shout. "Okay sweetheart." He bangs the head of his cock against her engorged clit a few more times, wondering if he is punishing her for not letting him take her throbbing nub into his mouth. He pulls back and lets his cock slide down her slit then shoves his way back inside her. "Sweetheart, you are so hot and so fucking wet." He leans forward, resting on his left elbow and grabs her left breast with his right hand and drops his mouth over her nipple. He plucks at it with his lips, flicking it with his tongue as he does so. He presses and pulls with his lips until he hears her groan. He moves his mouth to hers and fucks it with his tongue, no longer recognizing himself in his actions. He moves to her right breast, back to her mouth, the side of her neck, her mouth, then leans forward on both hands, his body forcing her legs up. "You like this?" "Uh-huh, yes." Her hands are working both her breasts. "What do you like?" She looks at him, unsure and her hands stop working her breasts. He speaks one word at a time, punctuating each with a thrust and the sound of their bodies colliding. "What. I. Am. I. Doing. To. You. Say. It. Say. It. Or. I'll. Stop." He can see her face scrunch. He's gone too far. He slows intending to crawl up her body, cradle her face and beg her to forgive him, make her realize he lost his mind for a moment. Paris Bound Ch. 02 Her eyes fly open. "Fucking me. You're fucking me. Hard. Do it." He smiles at her, slows for a moment and whispers, "I love you babe." Her hands squeeze her tits and his face sets as he begins to piston in and out of her. "This what you want? Want me to fuck you?" "Yes. Fuck me." "How baby? How should I fuck you?" "Hard. Please. Fuck me hard." "You got it babe." They are silent, the room echoing with the sounds of flesh on flesh. "Where should I fuck you babe?" He is curious but not really expecting a response but she surprises him. "Fuck my pussy. Is that what you want to hear? Pussy? Fuck my soaking pussy? That better? Come on then, baby, fuck my pussy, fuck it hard." Her words grip him and his hips begin to move faster. Sweat is flying from his face and landing on her chest and belly. Inspiration hits her, she hesitates, what if he takes her up on it? She decides to risk it. "Or is it my ass you want?" She is rewarded with a groan and a look of surprise overlaid with lust. "You want to fuck my ass? Want to shove your hard penis in my ass." A small part of her conscious mind snickers at her. "Penis? Ass, is okay? Pussy is okay but you can't say dick or cock? Hilarious." Before she can laugh at herself he jerks upright and encircles her legs, pulling her to his body. He tenses. She can feel his "cock", she makes herself think the word, pulsing inside her. She swallows a moan of disappointment. She is so close herself, so close. She stretches a hand toward her clitoris as he relaxes. He leans back and she feels him slip out of her and her disappointment grows. She wonders if perhaps a little payback is in order. "Lay on your back." She snaps. Lost in the haze of his orgasm he stares at her. "Do it. Lay on your back." She demands again. He looks confused but complies. Her glare confuses him even more. She locks eyes with him as she begins to shift position. "The rule stands. Don't put your mouth on me, on my pussy. Clear?" He nods. She turns toward his feet. He doesn't realize what she is doing until she is once more straddling his head. "What's the matter?" She whispers as she begins to nuzzle his softening cock with her nose. "Out of gas? That's not very nice. If you get to fuck me, get to make me ask you to fuck me, shouldn't I at least get an orgasm out of it? Don't you think?" He says nothing, not imagining a reply is really expected. She bites him. Bites him on the top of his leg hard enough to hurt. As she does a drop of cum falls from her pussy and lands on his cheek. "Don't you think I should get to have an orgasm?" She asks in a chiding voice. "Yes. You should. I want you to." His eyes are fixed on her pussy. He can see how wet she is, can see his cum running down her slit to cling to her clitoris and lips. She surprises him by taking his wet and nearly flaccid dick into her mouth. She tugs at it a few times. Then lets it flop onto his belly. "That doesn't seem to be working, does it?" He is staring at her sloppy pussy and doesn't answer fast enough. She bites him harder this time, lower on the inside of his leg. He yelps and jerks in surprise. "No. I wish it would. I'm sorry. I'm surprised I stayed hard for as long as I did." "Yes," she growls. "You did stay hard but not long enough." She leans forward resting her chest on his belly and reaches between her legs and begins to rub herself. Another dollop of cum detaches itself and lands on his neck. She is looking at him, looking between her legs at him. "You missed." "Huh?" He responds but knowing what she means. "You," she reaches back further, takes her fingers away from her clit and rubs them across his lips, "missed. You ejaculated in my mouth. What's good for the goose..." She leaves the rest unsaid. She inches back and lowers her hips. If he raises his head his outstretched tongue would reach the spot she has forbidden him. Her eyes catch his. "Don't touch me with your mouth," and after a pause, "don't miss." Her fingers begin to dance circles around and over her clit. As she does more of their combined juices begin to drip on his face and into his mouth. His mind responds even if his cock cannot. It becomes hard to resist pulling her down on his mouth and sucking her dry. "Fuck me with your fingers baby. Please. She has stopped dripping on his face otherwise he would not have moved. "Roll on your back then." He suggests. She throws her leg over his head and collapses on the bed. He kneels between her legs and puts four fingers inside her. She begins to move her hips and her fingers move faster. He pulls his fingers from her. She opens her eyes. "Don't stop." She pleads. He smiles at her and one by one put his fingers in his mouths and licked them. "Only way I can eat that hot pussy of yours love." He lays between her legs and begins to lick and nip the inside of her legs, as he returns his fingers to her dripping pussy. When he feels her tensing, he pushes against her legs, rolling her up off the bed just a little. Her orgasm roars through her as his tongue works in and out of her ass. Paris Bound Ch. 03 It isn't the light that wakes me this time. It is jet lag, jet lag and his snores. I roll up on an elbow and watch him sleep. He's sprawled on his back, legs akimbo. His snores are not so much snores as deep sighs, if I wasn't trying to sleep in the wrong time zone such a soft rumble would never have woke me. The arm opposite me is tossed over his head. His hair is a mess. His other hand rests on my knee. I'm tired but I can tell I am done with sleep. The light from the room's sole window is waning and soon color will begin to fade from the world. Sleep has fled but I'm not ready to get up. I snuggle closer and lay my head on his chest. His breathing slows for a moment but he does not wake. He smells like sex. The whole room smells of semen and, my mind resists for a moment before adding, "and pussy." In the recesses of my mind I distinctly hear my mother's gasp and once more I struggle not to laugh. It is quite possible that it would have been the use of the word "pussy" that caused her the most trouble, at least until she realized I had used it lying nude with a man I wasn't married to, who some unknown minutes ago had caused me to have an orgasm via a combination of manual stimulation of my vagina and oral stimulation of my anus. I refuse to revisit the other dimensions of what I'm doing. That will keep me occupied on the flight home. I tilt my head so I can look at his face. It is a little rounder than it was at eighteen. There are a few more lines around the mouth and corners of his eyes. His hair is a little greyer, almost white in one stop. I look closer and this time I do chuckle. He has dried semen, cum I force my mind to say, in his hair. The chuckle gives way to embarrassment. Had I really squatted over his head while furiously playing with my clitoris? Had I really look back between my gaping legs to watch his semen drip out of me and onto his face, into his mouth? Told him not to miss? The answer was of course yes, but I had no idea that a "me" existed who would enjoy doing such things. Where had that woman been all these years? How does she fit into the life I will return to in a little more than 72 hours? I sigh in frustration. I don't do frustration very well. If asked, I would say my greatest gift is the ability to deal with life. I find it almost always a fascinating glorious experience. It isn't that I don't get angry but rather that I find anger does little good. If it isn't important, I drop it and look at the clouds. I am a terrific "stop and smell the roses" type of person. But the last few hours are straining even my ability to keep my head balanced. This line of thought is not helping. I brush my hand across my lovers belly, smell him, and myself, in the hairs of his chest and climb out of bed. I cross to the sheer paneled window. There are no lights on in the building across the narrow alley. The light is fading quickly now. I open the panels and lean forward. The alley might just as well been in New York or Chicago. It is lined with rows of rusting dumpsters, some regurgitating their contents onto the pavement. One difference is I don't see any homeless, staking out claims with battered shopping carts and appliance cartons, settling in for the night. There is enough light to read if I sit by the window. I stretch and a yawn escapes me, more bellow than yawn. From the bed I hear a hitch in his breathing, a mumble and then the sound of his body rolling onto his side, presenting me with his naked, and extremely white, ass. The sheets are a disaster. The bottom sheet is pulled off on three sides and the top sheet has disappeared under the comforter the combine mass of which spills off the bench at the foot of the bed, blocking the narrow path between the bench and desk. I pick the comforter up and pile it back on the bench. As I do so my bent frame brings me that much closer to his bare butt. I feel the flush begin roll over my chest and neck again, as I recall his tongue and fingers on my own bottom. Does he expect me to do the same? Can I? I make my way past the bed to where I had dropped my bag near the door. Things had moved very quickly. I feel the heat in my neck and face rise as I recall Sam standing there, totally nude, when the door opened. I start to pick up my bag but realize the bench is covered in comforter. I don't feel like making up the room, so I squat and unzip the bag. My book and my toiletries bag are on top. I set them aside, closed the bag and set it inside the closet. When I close the closet door I get a look at myself in the mirror. Holy hell I'm a total disaster. I suppose, on the right body, the well-fucked look can be sexy but I don't feel sexy. My hair, where it is not standing straight up, is tangled and matted. There are whitish flakes of dried sex on my belly and chest. My pubic hair is dusted with dried semen. I stare at myself. My fingers begin to brush through my pubic hair. I shift my hips and feel that I'm still wet. Perhaps I should give the well-fucked look a second chance. Perhaps, but something has to be done about my hair. I take the brush into the bathroom and with a great deal of tugging I restore a semblance of order to my hair. The more circumscribed view in the bathroom mirror is not as overwhelming as the floor length mirror. In the bathroom mirror the dried splotches across my breasts actually do look sort of hot. I wet my finger and rub one of the spots and it becomes slick. I taste it. It tastes of me, of my lover, of us. My stomach growls. I paid a ridiculous amount of money for a "snack box" on the flight over. How many hours ago was that? I lean back to look out into the bedroom. The bedside clock reads 5:45. I do the math in my head. It is quarter to 11 in the morning in Chicago. As far as my body is concerned, my in-flight snack was at 3 in the morning. My stomach tells me I skipped breakfast and my head tells me I should be wide-awake cross checking billing and census data. It is too early for dinner. My stomach growls louder, telling me it doesn't care. It wants food and soon. I give my hair a last, purely ceremonial, brush, and cross the room to the desk, bringing my book with me. I tilt the desk lamp lower and turn it on. I scan the desk and spot the information folder. I flip through, surprised to discover I can read most of it. My high school and college French has not entirely deserted me. I make a note to write Sue, we meet in ninth grade French class. She lives half a continent away but we write often, always in French. The hotel boasted a small bistro but it does not open until 7pm. There is a limited 24-hour a day room service selection. I shake my head in irritation. I can't order room service, not without spending an hour cleaning up the room and showering. My stomach growls another protest and the wild woman I discovered hiding inside me speaks up. "Why can't you order room service? You have a robe. People have sex in hotels all the time. What's the big deal?" I find myself entering an internal debate. "But the room, it stinks of sex." "Again, so?" "But it will be obvious what we've been doing." "Again, SO? You throw on a robe, open the door, and take the tray, end of story." The wilder I sounds, or is it the wilder me? I wouldn't say "me sounds" so it must be I. The wilder I sounds perfectly reasonable. What is the big deal? It isn't as if I'll be seeing any of these people again. Plus, I'm starving. I scan the menu again. Cheese plate, fruit, hummus, wine. I don't drink I remind myself, then I remind myself I use to drink on occasion and that I am in Paris after all. I tap a fingernail against my teeth, still unsure. The rumble from my midsection seals the deal. I pick up the phone and press the button for room service. I keep my voice low, not wanting to wake Sam. I'm nervous; writing French to an old friend does not help one practice pronunciation. My French must be okay. The slightly tired sounding voice on the phone repeats the order and has it correct. The voice asks if that will be all and instead of saying "yes thank you" I find myself ordering a bottle of Chenin blanc while the wilder me claps her hands in delight. That surprises me less than the sound of my voice telling room service my husband is sleeping, that the door will be open, please come on in. - The voice on the other end of the line gives me my total, "gratuity included madam", do I wish to charge it to the room, please do. I can pay Sam later. I set the phone down and immediately snatch it back up, intending to call and cancel the order. My finger hovers over the room service button long enough for the receiver to begin making a "wa wa" sound of protest. I hang the phone up. I tug one of the robes from underneath the pile of bedclothes heaped on the bench. It takes me longer to find one of the sashes. I thread the sash through the thread loops and belt it around my waist. Sam sleeps blissfully on. I'm nervous, so I pick up my book, The Starboard Sea, and try to read. I never sleep well on planes and I was able to make a big dent in the novel. I found it hard to relate to any of the characters, all too rich, but I was enjoying it. Was. Not so much now. I can't concentrate. I am nervous, chiding myself for being if not stupid, silly. I will only embarrass myself. I should lock the door. I scurry across the room. Part of me knows this is silly. The door is locked. It is locked and the "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs from the door handle. I stand there for several minutes, mind racing from one extreme to another. As if in a trance I watch my hand open the door and remove the plastic tag hanging from the door. I flip the metal bar used to secure the door over the jam and ease the door closed. The bar holds the door open a fraction of an inch. I realize I've lost my mind when I correct myself. This is France. The bar holds the door open a couple of centimeters. I make my way back to the desk, stopping several times to listen to the voice telling me to turn around and lock the door. Forget being embarrassed, how about being robbed, how about being murdered, or raped and murdered an inner voice rages at me. The voice sounds like my mother. I love the woman dearly but even now, that put upon exasperated voice she occasionally uses inspires the urge to resist. So I do. The door remains open and I resume sitting at the desk. Sam remains unaware. I peer at him for a moment until I'm sure his chest is moving. I pick up my book and read a page, turn a page and can make no sense of the next paragraph. I have retained not a single byte of information from what I've just read. I turn the page back and force myself to re-read the page, with all the pleasure of correcting a poorly written action plan. Page finished I review the information, checking myself. I have the information but as I turn the page I realize I don't care, don't recall why or if the information imparted is important. It must be important. This has not been a novel given to wasting ink on unimportant words. "This is absurd," I whisper to myself. "Just go lock the door, meet him, or her, smile, mutter an apology and take the tray." "You're thinking too much, relax, get in the right mood, the right frame of mind." My inner wildling advises. "Right mood?" I silently reply, closing my book around one finger. "What right mood?" "Horny, silly. Horny, Cate, that's the right mood," my wildling whispers. "Horny? How do I do that," I wonder. That question is too much for the inner wild woman. She throws up her hands in disgust and walks away trailing a snort of derision. I find that the hand not holding my book is inside my robe, where it cups my left breast. That might work I decide and lay the book aside. My fingers pull at my nipple and it hardens between my fingers. Mmm. I pull a little further than normal, pull until the sensation hovers between discomfort and pain. I pinch a little harder and roll my fingertips. I am unable to tell if the soft gasp this elicits is from the pain or from the way the pain resonates in my belly. I move my fingers to the right nipple and repeat the process. I push the robe open and reach inside with both hands. Each tug, each pinch is just a little harder than the last. I remember, early in my career when I was more physician than administrator, sending pregnant women for fetal stress monitoring. The poor patient's belly was strapped with fetal monitors and then she would be harangued to stimulate her nipples. That would cause her uterus to contract and that would irritate, stress, the baby. I am not pregnant. That will never happen again, but all this pinching and pulling is stressing or at least doing something in my pelvis. As the pain makes its way from my nipples to my belly the sensation is amplified. Some bodily alchemy is going on, a mysterious neural servo system is turning a relatively small tug of a nipple into a deepening ache and tightness in my belly. I can feel a growing wetness between my legs. I swivel the chair away from the desk and rest one foot on the chair, letting my knee fall to rest on the arm. With some reluctance, my fingers release my right nipple and move south. I flip one side of the robe over my thigh and my fingers find the already firm nub of my clitoris. I move one finger up and down its rigid little body, fascinated, as always by the fact it is basically a little penis, a little cock I add, the voice of my mother has swooned and can no longer comment. My clitoris even has its own version of a foreskin. I continue to stroke myself, enjoying the friction, as my other hand continues to play with one nipple, then the other. I hook my fingers inside my wetness, and press against the front wall of my pussy, seeking the rougher firmer patch of my G spot, the place were all the aches have congregated. I massage the area then pull my fingers out and begin to rub my lubrication over my clit. My finger slides easily now and I begin to press harder. That's when I hear the soft knock on the door. Inside, my inner wildling collapses, rocking from side to side warms wrapped around her ribs, laughing hysterically. - I bolt upright in the chair, a chair that once it is swiveled away from the desk has my crotch pointed straight at the door. I am jerking my hand from between my legs and from my breast as the door opens. I am not sure what he has seen but his eyes clearly widen and his soft "puis-je entrer?" dies after the first syllable. We both freeze for a moment. I decide at this point I can either run for the bathroom or brazen it out. As I force myself to rise as he stammers a "pardon". My mind is mush. I mumble, "pas de problem" hoping I am telling him it is not a problem as I walk toward him and reach for the tray. We both notice the fingers of my right hand are wet at the same moment. The heat from my face feels like it could singe his clothes and I drop both my hands and my face. "On the desk please," I whisper in English. He understands and moves toward me. There is not enough room between the desk and bench at the foot of the bed for both of us. I step back toward the desk to give him room. The movement of my breasts makes it apparent that my hasty efforts to close the robe were not entirely successful. In a strange way this realization frees me from embarrassment. What would be the point now? Hadn't I envisioned something along these lines when I left the door open? What I had imagined was an order of magnitude or so less dramatic but still. I resist the urge to yank the robe close. As he calmly puts the tray on the desk, I pulled the robe closed and tug the sash tighter. When I look up he is smiling. I study his face for a moment. Thank God he isn't young enough to be my son, but I imagine he is a least ten years my junior. It is not a mocking smile or a cruel one. It seems genuine and friendly enough. "Forgive me, I was lost in thought," I offer, or hope I offer in French. I add, "and forgive my mangling of your lovely language." "Do not be silly madam. Your French is quite good." He is being kind. His English is much better than my French. I decide to stick to English. "Shall I open the wine for madam?" He asks sotto voce. He has already retrieved the bottle from the marble bottle holder, condensation runs down the side of the bottle. My mind fills with vision of perspiration running down Sam's chest and they way if flew off his body as he thrust between my legs. The image is so powerful my hand slips under my robe, checking to see if my chest is still wet. "Madam?" I blush when I see his smile now threatens to cleave the lower half of his face from his head. I stare, having no idea what he asked. "Madam, the wine? Shall I open?" I nod, "s'il vous plait," I croak. "My pleasure madam," he replies and I wonder if it is his English or did he stress the word "my". The corkscrew is simple, a screw and a well-worn wooden handle. He takes his time. As he twists the corkscrew his eyes never leave mine. His smile diminishes in size yet seems more intense. My hand is still inside the robe, almost against my will I feel my fingers begin to flex. The corkscrew is seated. He wraps the bottle in a towel. I try to be shocked when he puts the bottle between his legs but my shock is lost in the sight of the impressive bulge in his trousers. His erection lies along the inside of his left leg, straining against the cloth. I feel a flush of pleasure that it is me, me and my aging body, that has caused his arousal. The cork gives with a pop and I jump, emitting a startled yip. This causes some of the heat in his smile to be replaced with a glimmer of humor. "Would madam like a taste?" His voice is low and soft, but not the softness of someone straining not to disturb. Quite the opposite, this is the softness of seduction. I nodded and his smile grows wide once more. He picks up a glass and decants a small sip of wine. He swirls it and then hands it to me. His hand lingers on the glass, and on my fingers, as I reach for it. "I'm afraid the delicate aroma of this vintage will be overwhelmed by the, ah, in French we would say, 'cassolette' of madam." "Casserole?" His blush surprises me but comforts me as well. I feel less over matched. "Uh, in how do you say, slang, it refers to the aroma of a woman's body. Pardon, I meant no offense; it is consider a delightful scent. Will that be all?" He looks more surprised when I chuckle. "I am not offended. One of my hopes was to expand my French while in Paris. Though it seems unlikely I will have many opportunities to practice using that slang." He still holds the glass. He slides his fingers slowly across mine as he releases the glass. "Oh? I would not imagine opportunities for this to be so rare madam." I hold the glass to my nose and inhale. He's right of course. All I smell is sex. A mischievous thought races across my mind. I pull my left hand from under my robe. I feel the robe fall open slightly as I do so but make no move to correct the situation. I transfer the glass to my left hand, the hand with the fingers not tacky from having recently lodging themselves in my sex. I inhale from the glass again, looking at him as I do so. "Ah," I sigh, "that's better. It is a delicate bouquet. Lovely." As I sip the wine he very deliberately reaches down, bends at the hips slightly and adjusts his erection so that it is no longer trapped in his pant leg. It is free to tent the front of his trousers. Both of us jump when a voice from the bed asks, "may I have a glass?" - Sam is up on one elbow. I don't think I could be more mortified if my real husband had walked in on us. What is wrong with me? I feel a sob building in my chest. Sam must see the horror in my face. He shakes his head at me; a warm smile occupies his mouth. Paris Bound Ch. 03 "No worries love," he offers. My new acquaintance stammers a "pardon monsieur" but Sam waves it off with his free hand. He answers in excellent French and surprise replaces part of my mortification. "It is off no concern. I lay claim to madam's affection but not to all her desires. I am pleased that she is confident enough to see to her needs. But come, is there another glass garcon?" The man is still nervous but his voice, while remaining a tad bit squeaky is steadier. "Oui, monsieur." He turns and fills a glass. When he turns back Sam is sliding to the foot of the bed, evidently totally unconcerned about his nudity or his erection. When he reaches the end of the bed he flips the loose bottom sheet over his lap as he reaches for the glass. He raises his glass and pauses. "Would you care to join us?" He inquires, sounding innocent, but with a wicked grin. I nearly drop my glass. The server glances at me, then back at Sam. He manages a smile. "No, monsieur, duty calls and drinking is not allowed during duty hours, but perhaps, how you say, a rainy day?" "Ah, very close, a 'rain check', my friend, perhaps another day then for a glass of wine or something." Sam hands me his wine glass and stretches across the bed, reaching for the bedside stand. He fumbles open the drawer, retrieve his wallet and removes a five Euro note. My jaw nearly drops when he stands to hand it to the server, his erection bobbing until it reaches equilibrium. As he hands the man the note, his free hand rests lightly on the man's shoulder. "Many thanks, ah..." he does an exaggerated search for a name tag. "Henri," the server replies, adding "merci beaucoup" and with a quick nod and "madam" to me he turns and leaves. Sam follows him and locks the door. I am not sure but I imagine I hear a whispered exchange before the door closes. When Sam turns he finds me sitting at the desk, head in my hands, trembling.