0 comments/ 45795 views/ 9 favorites A Dance With the Green Fairy By: dtiverson Another story I have reimaged from one of my books. I could have just as easily put it in the supernatural, or non-consent category but our heroes have been living in LW and so I think I will keep it here. If you like these I have a couple more I can share. Tom Millie suggested that we spend November 30th at L'Hotel Paris, in honor of Oscar Wilde's death. She's always been fascinatingly quirky that way. And as far as I'm concerned, the opportunity to stay in a boutique Paris five star is worth any excuse we can manufacture. So, I booked us first class on the Eurostar for the two and a half hour trip from St. Pancras to Paris Nord. Back in the day that used to be a full day's journey; train to Dover, Ferry to Calais, Train to Paris. Now we were able to leave London in the morning travel in total uninterrupted comfort and have lunch in the Sixth Arrondissement. I knew that it would give Millie the opportunity to plunder the shops along the Champs Elysees. More important, it would give me the chance to hang out at Les Deux Magots and pretend that I was Hemingway. The weather sucked of course. But it is hard to work yourself up into a "Movable Feast" kind of mood without taking up boxing, or "manfully" enduring cold and rainy weather. I had even dropped by Shakespeare and Company earlier that day, hoping to run into F. Scott, or Cole, or Gertrude, but none of them showed up. So I bought a book instead. The voice in my head reminded me that the essence of manhood was "perseverance". He didn't bother to point out that the building itself wasn't even the same one that the "Lost Generation" hung out in in the 1920s. I already knew that. Paris is romantic no matter the time of year. So as I walked the three and a half blocks up the Rue Bonaparte, I could only imagine the energy that it had in the Lost Generation years. And what it must have felt like to be there. This was all happening as the cold rain ran off my manly slouch fedora and down onto my manly leather coat. It was getting dark when I arrived back at the l'Hotel itself. At that time of the year, the sun sets before dinner and the headlights of the passing cars were making bright streaks in the pavement in front of the hotel entrance. The entrance itself is not as impressive as some of the hotels over in the 17th near the Champs Elysees. In fact in Wilde's days it was a fleabag that only a down and out writer, on the run from his many indiscretions, could afford. Millie was in the bathroom when I let myself into the room. I learned a long time ago that it is best NOT to disturb the female of the species when she is preparing herself for public display. So I found a chair next to the window and looked over the first printing edition of "The Sun Also Rises" that I had just bought at Shakespeare. It was autographed by Papa himself, 1929. It was for Millie. Unlike me, she is a voracious reader of all kinds of books and I planned to give this to her as an anniversary gift tonight. They had a "Farewell to Arms" too but Hemingway didn't write that in his Paris heyday so the choice was easy. She will normally not let me buy her anything. And with the money she makes there is no need to make a federal case about that. But she will make exceptions for things like birthdays and anniversaries. I had taken one of l'Hotel's "apartments", we would call them "suites" in the U.S. An apartment there costs 900 Euros per night, but those rooms look out over the rooftops and I knew that that view would be romantic. I don't need romance to get thoroughly and expertly fucked by Millie but this was our quasi-anniversary and I wanted her to understand how much I loved being married to her. It is hard to keep the extreme feelings of the chase and capture going through seventeen years of marriage but we had managed to do that. And it was very important to me that she understand how much I treasured our life together. She came out of the bathroom in a bra and a garterbelt contraption with dark hose that screamed "French Maid". I was seriously considering taking a whack at playing the "Master". But I wanted tonight to be special and I thought that starting it out by chasing her around the room might ruin the mood. So I settled for squashing those fabulous bra encased tits on my chest and looking leeringly into that beautiful oval face. She was wearing minimal makeup. She has the sort of features that don't need help that way and she radiates totally fit and healthy woman even though she is now over forty. Most women pluck their eyebrows into fashionably thin lines. Millie keeps hers "natural look", which gives her open and intelligent eyes even more impact and expression. She also has a brush of freckles across her cheekbones that make her look more like the farmer's daughter than the American blue blood that she actually is. Her wide mouth was lightly made up and she had some kind of perfume on that only Millie could afford. She probably had it whipped up in one of the perfumeries this afternoon. Wherever she got it, it was seriously testing my resolve to NOT ravage her until after dinner. I DID run my hand up that flat stomach and fondle her left tit for a delicious moment. It is always important to pay proper respect to things that magnificent. She responded with a slight moan and firm pressure of her pussy against my now bulging crotch. We looked into each other's eyes and smiled. I ran a finger of the hand that had been pulling her to me down her back. She shivered and moaned a lot louder. There was heat emanating from the place where we were pressed closely together. I looked into those fathomless eyes and I could see hunger there. I began to lower my face to those lips and she opened her mouth to receive me. Our tongues slid back and forth for a few seconds and she moaned loudly again. This was getting very hot indeed. But I absolutely wanted to make this night special for her and starting it out by fucking her in the room just didn't seem very romantic. So in order to break the mood, I pulled my face back and whispered in my most seductive Pepe Le Pew leer, "How about a quickie before dinner my leeetle desert flower?" That did it. She smacked me on the arm and spun away to put on her dress. She is a dancer 24 hours a day and that graceful little pirouette was performed with feline grace. Sitting on the bed and pulling on her 5 inch heels she was in a totally sexual pose, huge tits tightly constrained while she leaned over, the sides of her couture dress stretched tightly across her full womanly hips and ass with one marvelous muscular leg raised across the other as she slipped on her shoe. The little devil that sits on my left shoulder was muttering, "Fuck-her, fuck-her, fuck-her!", while the angel on my right was lecturing me about respect for my wife. I listened to the little guy on the right but it was a very close call. We were in for something special tonight. It was close enough to our anniversary that we planned to celebrate at the Restaurant de L'Hotel downstairs. In that respect and in honor of Paris's literary tradition I had bought a bottle of vintage absinthe. This wasn't the tame stuff that they sell in the States. It was the genuine wormwood laden article bottled in la belle epoch. Since it was almost 120 years old it cost me a fortune. But it was Wilde's drink of choice and I was working on a theme that night. For a sizable "gift" the waiter who did the serving brought it to us fully prepared complete with the sugar cubes and spidery glasses. Millie was her usual understated elegant self. She was wearing a simple cream colored Gaultier silk dress that she must have picked up that afternoon. It was accented by a thin gold Tiffany necklace that I had given her on our last anniversary. The dress showed off her beautiful face but it also couldn't disguise that exceptional body. She had planned on being a professional dancer until her rapidly expanding chest put an end to that dream. But she still has those long beautiful legs, with a dancer's calves. In 5 inch heels those calves looked like little cannon balls on her basically tiny frame. Her real attraction of course is her intelligence, quick wit, sensuality and spunk. She is a very clear and analytic thinker, which leads to her sarcastic manner. That wit is something special. It would have been a match for Dorothy Parker, a Paris doyenne who Millie especially admires. Tonight she was "confessing". She does that every anniversary and I think she is doing it because she wants no secerts between her and me, even if her past love life has nothing to do with me. It is like she is trying to "explain" how the most initmate parts of her soul were formed. So that particular evening in that magical city, me and my beautiful wife sat, talked, confessed and regrettably killed a bottle of absinthe. ~ Millie I don't know why I feel compelled to tell Tom about my past lovers. I swear that I am not trying to make him jealous. It is just that I want nothing between him and me. So each anniversary I "confess" about the men who formed my sexuality. These are all men I knew long before I met Tom. I don't know whether other women feel compelled to clear the air about their previous lovers but I do. It feels like by talking about them I remove them from between Tom and me and we get closer. He doesn't seem to mind. And he never does that with me. But I suspect that is because he has had so many more lovers than I have had that he doesn't remember them all. The sly little lady in my head also thinks that it has something to do with my performances when he makes love to me. She keeps reminding me that; with the all-out way I fuck Tom, I ought to be concerned that he'll think that I perfected those talents with whole crews of aircraft carriers. In fact, probably thanks to my dad, I have always had way too high an opinion of myself to just give it away to any man. Every one of the few men I have ever been with has had some distinctive feature that I saw as exceptional. And I see my experiences with them as combining to create the person that I now give exclusively to Tom now. Like anybody I had to learn how to be a proper lover. For a woman, the act itself can involve a lot of different, sometimes conflicting, things; from self-loathing, to ignorance, lust, dominance, and manipulation. It can also be a true act of giving. What it is depends as much on your personal motives and how you channel them, as it does the man who you are with. I had experienced ignorance, lust and manipulation prior to having my first actual lover, which was my Swiss Boarding School tutor Jacques. He didn't love me. We were way too far apart in age. I was 19 and he was 54. But he taught me how to love. We would meet in his little home-away-from-home every evening after school. He would gently and knowledgably bring me to experiences I had never felt before, including my first true screaming orgasm. I have to admit that I couldn't get enough of what he did to me. And as a result I was totally devoted to him. It was almost like coming off a narcotic drug when I had to leave him and come home to the States. He had a wife of course. So my departure was a given. And perhaps it was that foregone conclusion that freed both of us to be so passionate. But it was Jacques who gave me the ability to understand and accept my sexuality. And it was that understanding that guided me through all of the rest of my life until I met Tom. ~ Tom Chalk killing an entire bottle of absinthe up to sheer ignorance. While it has never been proven that absinthe is actually hallucinogenic, they don't call it the "Green Fairy" because it makes you MORE lucid. And Millie weighs over 100 pounds less than I do. So by the time I had dropped 300 Euros on the table she was looking like Shaun of the Dead and I was beginning to understand how absinthe had killed the likes of Toulouse-Lautrec and Wilde himself. We barely made it up the elevator and into the room when she sagged against me and passed out completely. The problem with boutique hotels is that they are from another era. Meaning rooms are small and designed to be easily heated with a fireplace. I was pretty sure that if I tried to swing her up and carry her Fabio style, I was going to either fracture her foot, her skull or one of the room's pricy antiques in the dark. So I grabbed her under her armpits. I had to use armpits because given the size and liquidity of her boobs I would have dropped her if I had grabbed her around the chest. My best option seemed to be just to walk her over to the bed like a puppet holding her out in front of me. Unfortunately, in order to walk her that way, I found that my crotch was inevitably embedded between her big rock hard butt cheeks. The last thing I wanted to have happen while trying to NOT drop my dead wife was what immediately sprang to life in my pants. Worse, as I walked her toward the bed the twitching of those marvelous buns made the little fellow grow disproportionately in size. And then to then make matters even naughtier she started to moan like she liked it. So by the time I got her to her side of the four-poster I felt like we should have a post-coital cigarette. I eased her down on the pillow and her feet up onto the bed. She was out cold and I considered just leaving her that way since I was just on the sober side of seeing the green fairy, myself. But she had gone to a lot of trouble to dress up for me and frankly I didn't want her to wake up in her finery. So I unstrapped her fashionably high heels and eased them off her feet. Millie was a dancer for a lot of years which explained her magnificent hard body. It also explained her feet which are the price a dancer pays for that body. Looking at them I couldn't help but give the poor things a quick massage and I got a long contented sigh for my efforts. Getting the rest of her finery off, which included her very sexy garter belt contraption, took a little wrestling. But I finally had her stripped naked and under the covers. Of course being the good husband I am, I had to carefully examine her body while doing so in order to check for any – ummmm – damage? I marveled at how totally female she was. Meanwhile, Millie was snoring like a lumberjack and mumbling something in her sleep about ducks. Forty five minutes and one shower later, with both of us tucked under the duvet, I turned out the light. I expected the room to spin but I actually knocked out right away. Then, an indeterminate period of time later something awakened me. The light from the Avenue Beau Arts was shining in through the tall window and there was almost no traffic at whatever hour it was. The rain had stopped but I could hear the wind picking up. Just then the chimes of nearby Notre Dame told me it was 3 AM. I started to drift back off. Then I heard it again! It was Millie very faintly moaning in her sleep. I turned my head to my left to make sure she was alright. She had pushed the duvet down to her ankles, which was understandable given the alcohol she had to metabolize. However she was lying on her back with her knees drawn up as if there was somebody lying between them. As I watched in wonder, she began to take long, slow, loud breaths, occasionally punctuated by gasps and groans, and she began to moan much more loudly. As that took place, her hips elevated, her legs began to move restlessly in their spreadeagled position and she started to make slow elaborate bucking motions. The smell of her arousal as well as her rock hard, very erect nipples made it clear to me that she wasn't just having one of her standard "adrift in the arms of the young Cary Grant" dreams. ~ Millie The waiter did a full presentation of the absinthe, complete with the dainty absinthe glasses and the sugar cubes. Tom told me that this kind of absinthe had been illegal in France for 100 years and now that they make it again, it is still not the same thing as the absinthe that stoked the creative fires of the likes of Van Gough and Verlaine. He had to do a lot of hunting to find a "legal" bottle, one that was bottled before it was banned for good in 1915. The absinthe itself turns almost bright green once you added the water through the sugar. It tasted very sharp and anise like, exactly like Pernod Pastis which happens to be my favorite liquor. We talked and sipped and pretty soon we had killed the bottle. That is pretty much the last thing I recall until the Musketeer began fucking me. I clearly remember opening my eyes and finding myself naked, lying in our hotel bed next to Tom. I was hyper rationale. I knew that I had had too much absinthe, my head was totally clear and I didn't feel any effects from the alcohol. It was just that there was an extremely handsome man standing next to the bed wearing the full regalia of a body guard of Louis Quatorze. He proceeded to slowly strip off mantle, sword belt and his pants, revealing that he was hugely interested in me. He reached across the bed and slowly and gently spread my legs. I was totally immobile and unable to speak. He eased himself onto the bed between my legs. I was begging him with my eyes, "No please don't do this, I'm married!!!" But without paying the slightest attention to me he rubbed himself in my rapidly pooling juices and shoved that enormous thing slowly up into me. I was helpless. As he hit bottom I moaned and rocked my hips up to meet him. He began the slow primal motion of fucking me and I was so totally overwhelmed by sensation that I could do nothing but move with him, moaning and gasping as I did. The little lady in my head was fanning herself and muttering, "I know what you think, but this is really not happening". ~ Tom A thought proceeded to drop on me like one of those cartoon safes. Although I could turn my head and see, try as I might I couldn't move. I was actually lucid enough to recognize that not being able to move was a sign that I was in the middle of a dream. However, it was the female apparition standing over me that added a wholly new feature to that landscape – damned absinth!! I saw that it was a woman of exotic beauty, hungry green cat eyes in a beautiful heart shaped classically French face, with incredibly sensual red lips over perfect teeth. Her crown of red hair was thick and full and hung down to her waist and the completely naked body underneath was as ripe and luscious as Millie's. But the apparition's skin was milky white while Millie's is smooth and dusky. Her nipples were small and bright pink rather than brown and she was bushy natural down there, as if she had never heard of any of modern women's ideas about pubic hair. The ghost or whatever it was approached the bed on my side. I felt the duvet slide off. Then my phantom visitor climbed slowly on the bed. Meanwhile Millie was lying next to me wildly bucking and yelling things like "Yesses!", "Fuck me... Don't stop!" and making a few other choice suggestions that I didn't know she even knew about. The fact that there was nobody actually between her legs was puzzling in the extreme. But I really didn't have the time or concentration to think about what was going on with Millie, since at that point the entity straddled me and popped old Lucifer into the tightest, wettest hottest hole I had ever fucked. Millie is perfect that way but this dream girl was from another world, probably literally. As she impaled herself fully she let out a loud groan and then began a slow grinding motion. Her smell was intoxicating. As she gyrated she began to make an animal purring sound down deep in her chest. A Dance With the Green Fairy It was a sound that was as fundamentally sexual as anything I have ever heard. Something inside me snapped. Forget infidelity! I had to fuck this bitch like I had never fucked anybody in my life. I reared up in bed, turned our position around and slammed her onto her back pounding her wet pussy like a man possessed, which I guess I was in more ways than one. She shot her long legs straight up in the air, scratched my back and began to wail loudly. In between those cries she was shrieking and gasping like she had totally lost control of her rational mind. I wasn't going to last long at that pace and if I was going to fuck my first succubus I wanted to experience every angle. So I flipped her onto her hands and knees and pounded her soft,round, full ass while playing with her huge hanging tits. Her nipples were rock hard and the ripples from the impact on her butt were getting me quickly to where I was inevitably headed, which was a spectacular orgasm. She ground wildly on my cock, her pussy clenching and unclenching, just shrieking. I grabbed her hips and with one last thrust I buried myself in her and began shooting. I was locked on her in that elemental breeding posture for I don't know how long. And during that time she never stopped shrieking in ecstasy and bucking. In the meantime her pussy was milking my cock like she would never let go of it. Finally, when the last drop had been squeezed out of both of us we collapsed on the bed and I drifted back to sleep almost immediately. Even while I heard Millie's carnal cries and felt her violently bucking hips rocking the bed. ~ Millie The lady in my head was repeating over and over, "This isn't happening" while my body was going absolutely berserk under his pounding. I had never felt such sheer animal lust in my life. My insides were churning out of control. My breathing and heart rate had gotten way beyond critical and I listened to my disembodied voice begging him to fuck me in ways I had only read about in books. My consciousness had retreated to the safe room that all women have, where you can wait things out no matter what kind of nuclear holocaust is going on inside you. It kept telling me that the fucking I was getting was not real, even though every muscle, gland and capillary in my body was on fire with flaming desire. I came loudly and wetly. Then I came almost immediately again. I thrashed and moaned and scratched him. I held onto the sheets and fucked back against him like an animal in heat. Then as I felt him shoot gallons of hot sperm deep inside my womb I came loudly one final time. The sensation made me howl with lust. And then I woke up with the bed soaked underneath me and nobody there. I was just starting to sit up to survey the damage when I felt overwhelming sleepiness come over me. ~ Tom I awoke to Paris morning sunshine. Last night's storm had blown over. The covers were off of both of us. There were pools of indeterminate fluids bodily fluids everywhere. I was at an absolute total loss as to what to think or say. I was pretty certain that I had just had otherworldly sex and the evidence was there but the question was, with whom? I looked at Millie who was lying sprawled on her stomach and who had clearly had her brains fucked out, right down to the semen leaking out of her pussy. I gently stroked her back and she began to wake up, but not without pitifully moaning "please, no more!" and "I can't take it!" She startled awake with a gasp sat up confused and then flopped immediately back on the pillow. I looked in her frightened eyes and I could see her processing the same thing. "I just had wild extra-marital sex with somebody and I don't know how, or who?" We both took our times putting ourselves back together, showering and dressing without a word. Then, since there was no point in just sitting in the room we walked wordlessly down to a café on the Quai Voltaire to talk about it. The first words that came out of her mouth over croissants and café American were "I am soooo, soooo sorry – I don't know what came over me. That man just had total power over me. I was helpless." Since she had started before me and finished afterward she was apparently not aware that I had had my own little episode and I was embarrassed to tell her. But given the unsettling situation and my love and respect for our relationship I said "no need to apologize – the same thing happened to me". The look she gave me was more puzzled and disturbed than relieved. ~ Millie I knew that whatever had happened last night had to have a logical explanation. And the finger of suspicion was pointing directly at the absinthe. I had all of the signs of having been given a total physical fucking, from the bodily fluids that I woke up drenched in, all the way down to my very sore and overstretched pussy. But the room was locked all of the time. And I recalled lying paralyzed as if I was asleep during the first part of the experience. But I had very vivid impressions of what happened and whoever I had done it with, which I couldn't reconcile with Tom. For one, the apparition's cock had been bigger than anything I had ever experienced. It had stretched me so much it had almost hurt me. The figure itself was Tom's general size and shape but it had fucked me differently, women know those differences. My responses were different too, as if I was reacting from some place down in the animal body, not my human brain. And I clearly had been inseminated by somebody. Then when Tom told me that he had distinctive memories of fucking somebody too my only thought was, "ghosts". From the minute I woke up I had not felt any sense of betrayal. None of that was going on here. Both of us had had cataclysmic sex last night but the logical emotions just weren't registering anywhere with me. So maybe our sub-conscious knew more about the situation than our conscious mind did. The little lady in my head laughed heartily and said, "You were dreaming dearie, it was just you and your husband celebrating a drunken anniversary last night." That was what I decided had happened. ~ Tom You didn't need to be clairvoyant to paint that picture. Apparently the Fin de Siècle rumors about absinthe were true. It really does pack hallucinogenic properties. But that didn't account for the physical evidence left in my wife and the bed. The only explanation - and it was the only acceptable one - was that we had somehow fucked each other and because of the treacherous effect of the absinthe we had odd dreams of strangers. My mystery lover certainly had Millie's magnificent body. The problem that I had with that explanation, and one which I didn't share with Millie, was that I had a clear memory that she was phantom fucking somebody before and after I got involved with my own ghostly spirit. In the end I chalked that night up to the fact that some things are just unknowable. Paris is an incredibly old city, which has seen more mystery and human intrigue than most other places. Maybe we actually DID have sex with ghosts, or 17th Century Parisians who had fallen through a rift in the space-time continuum. There was nothing to prove or disprove that. But since I don't like fantasy endings I decided not to waste much time considering that. I DID know that I loved Millie and that thanks to our dinner dance with the Green Fairy we had a plausible explanation for the events. Most important of all Millie believed it was true. So as we packed that morning for our cab ride over to the Gare d'Austerlitz and on to Barcelona, I very sincerely hoped that whatever had brought on that particular experience was permanently in the past. Needless to say, from now on I planned to stick strictly to fine wine at dinner.