Jay Lawrence
(10/11/06)
I. La Femme Rouge
The room resembled a painting by Matisse, all bold lines and bright, primary colors. I was eighteen and almost, if not quite a virgin.
"Come here, dear. Don't be shy."
The woman looked incredible, as unnatural yet gorgeous as a seventeenth century dandy. There was something about her which almost made me wonder if she had always been a she; something angular, a little firm about the jawbone. Her hair was waist length and fire-engine red. If her hair had had a voice it would have screamed at the top of its lungs.
"Advance, cherie. I do not bite."
I wasn't betting on that. Slowly, like a sleepwalker, I moved towards the harlot on the couch. I hated my friends, who were no doubt laughing and jeering at some nearby bar. They were wrong -- I didn't need my cherry popped. They could have saved their francs for a good meal and a gallon of vin ordinaire. Did I really look like a virgin?
My pale, frightened features in a gilt-edged mirror confirmed my friends' diagnosis. The whore reclined on a gold chaise longue, playing with her strident hair. I watched her twist thick meaty-looking tendrils about her long thin fingers. She looked like a cobra and I felt like a rabbit, mesmerized by her ferocious, hungry glare.
"This is your first time, dear?"
She smiled, revealing two bright rows of small, white, vulpine teeth. I shook my head, furious at my ineptitude.
I should fuck her just to prove a point.
The thought seemed to reverberate around my mind, clanging discordantly against my wine-soaked brain cells. My cock was infuriatingly limp, the result of sheer fear and an excess of vin de table. It had been red wine too, a little harsh at first but the third and fourth glasses slipped down easier than the first…
"You are a good looking boy. Your mother must be proud."
That's right -- mention my fucking mother and give me a limp dick to die for!
I stiffened but, alas, not in the right places. There was a war going on in my head. First, I hadn't wanted to. Then I decided I would -- but I couldn't. The red woman writhed in pale green lingerie. I could see the dark curls of her pubic hair beneath her fine chiffon panties. Her underwear looked expensive, the apartment looked expensive, she looked expensive in an outré Rive Gauche, arty, Bohemian way. Damn the bitch -- I had to fuck her! It was a matter of honor. My friends had paid too much for me to fail on my mission. My cock twitched and I looked the courtesan in the eye. She smiled as if she knew my thoughts.
"I want to feel you inside me, David."
My heart skipped a beat when she said my name. Somehow it sounded childish in the big, dramatic room. The colors, the textures, even the damned smell of the apartment, which was a strong spicy musky scent, seemed to conspire to make me feel small, young, inexperienced, inept. But something in me knew that that wasn't so, that I could fuck the whore, would fuck the redhead with the lean, almost masculine body and the fancy pistachio green lingerie. I knew that she knew it too. She was breathing differently, as if she was almost interested in the boy of the hour. I appraised her body. After all, it had been bought and paid for.
"Nice tits."
My voice still sounded squeaky but I tried not to think about its echo in the big bright room. I watched the yellow lamplight illuminate the woman's modest curves. Her tits were lovely, what I could see of them through the pale green bra. They were quite small but very firm and round and the nipples were pressing against the fine filmy cloth of the bra as if they were desperate to get out. My whore smiled with her scarlet lips and flicked at her nipples with long sharp-looking nails. She wore a green ribbon in her hair and I wondered why. Did she think it might make her look frivolous and girly? For some odd reason, the ribbon bothered me more than the screaming hair. Her earrings were much more apropos -- they resembled golden spearheads.
"I want you to dance for me. I want you to dance like a whore. Put some music on. Loud, hard music."
Who was it that spoke? It didn't seem to be me, David. I was playing a role on my mission, in order to succeed, but it felt as if the character was taking over. A substantial part of me, though still a little scared, really meant it. The prostitute nodded, swayed across the room to an expensive sound system, retrieved a CD and slipped it into the machine. There was a pause in which it seemed that we both held our breath, then a suitably cardiac pounding began. To this day, I don't know what the music was but it throbbed through me like a fever, like a pain that was half pleasure, half I don't know what.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me went the music. I stood over the woman with the streaming, screaming scarlet hair and I unfastened my jeans and I pulled out my cock. The music helped. The deafening pounding carried me away, like a trip. I watched my whore dance for me on her gold chaise longue.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me throbbed the hard, biting music as the redhead writhed upon the low velvet couch. She undulated like a snake. I fully expected her to hiss, to show me twin fangs poised to descend upon my unwary throat. Her trim, boyish hips thrust against the gold pillows, setting up a devilish rhythm. The serpent could fuck like a bunny. She could fuck this frightened little rabbit to death. My cock pulsed in time with the beat.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me went the music, as my whore wet her thickly rouged mouth with her fat wriggling tongue and pretended to fellate me as she ground her hips and played with her nipples. I watched the muscles on the insides of her lean thighs flex as she spread her legs wide and bumped her pussy at me. I could see her mound through the skimpy, filmy panties, the dark curls which, at close quarters, were actually dyed the same red as her hair. I could see a faint moist stain, evidence of her slick, hungry cunt. She danced horizontally with an animalistic, tribal, primitive style. I was trapped in the beat. We both were, I think. My harlot squirmed and moaned and tossed her wild mane until the little girl ribbon fell to the floor. She pushed her fingers through her hair and arched her sweat-stained spine and gasped. My cock was reaching the point of no return. Carried by the beat, I straddled the whore, pulled her panties aside and thrust myself deep inside her hot wet cunt. My orgasm was like white light, an explosion in my head, then I died with the music, a few beats further on.
"No condom. Naughty!"
She was wagging her finger at me like a schoolmistress. I looked at her, shipwrecked in the mass of her noisy hair. I was in love. Oh God, I was in love!
II. Le Metro
On Le Metro, the Paris Underground, it is relatively easy to have sex during rush hours. If one is subtle, voyeuristic, a little exhibitionist, one can go far (farther than the terminus at Porte de Clignancourt). Each morning and each late afternoon, I go a little farther, astounded by my own audacity. After all, who would suspect me of such a "crime"? Look at me. I am a very conservative, respectable middle-aged man. When the weather is inclement, I wear a long gray raincoat and carry a small umbrella, tightly furled, along with my pristine issue of Le Monde. In the warmer months, I am never to be spotted without a jacket or lowering myself to wear an open-necked, tie-less shirt. My cologne is understated, a mere hint of vetiver. My hair (such as it is, alas) is always clipped short and my eyeglasses are plain gold wire. In short, a quiet unassuming man. Oh, isn't it always the quiet unassuming man who hides a heart as fierce as a panther!
I like the little gamine girls. No, don't take me for a pervert of the worst degree, I don't mean a true child, but young women who exude a particular pseudo-innocent air. There was one the other day, got on in the crush just after Hotel de Ville. Hair dyed black -- what they call a Gothic girl, with twin fat bunches tied up with scarlet ribbon, a snub nose, a pouty little rosebud mouth daubed in harlot red. Her small white thighs were clad in fishnet tights and her short shiny black skirt just covered her pert round bottom. She looked as if she didn't care when I tried her with my "look". Some glance away, some challenge, some submit. I looked into her round black eyes, which reminded me of jet buttons, and saw her smirk and push her tits against her top. Her tiny shirt read "The Cure". I couldn't have put it better myself. Her breasts were perfectly convex, sublimely therapeutic. Without saying a word nor looking at me again, she turned to strap-hang and thus show me them in profile, so I could observe how her naked nipples pushed against the thin white cotton of her cropped T-shirt like two ripe firm cherries. I imagined her beneath a shower on a stage at a strip-joint in the Place Pigalle, that skimpy top rendered semi-transparent by a coursing stream of warm water. In my mind's eye, I saw her crawling on all fours, dry-humping her tight little hips before two hundred baying, roaring men. Her smooth white buttocks would rise and fall in the red light of the stage, undulating for money, fucking thin air to the jungle beat of a popular song. Her perfect round tits would jiggle in the face of a corpulent businessman as she threw her arms round his neck and giggled, head thrown back in abandon, eyes closed, her sweet honey-musk pussy juices soaking the tiny G-string she'd press against his pinstriped lap. At these thoughts, my cock swells hard and I rub it against the greasy metal pole of the subway train, imagining my girl with her sweet baby bunches bumping and grinding round another brassier pole.
I also like big, vulgar women. The tarty ones with enormous motherly breasts. Never let it be said I am biased. Yes, also give me the ones who dress as the cheapest of whores, yet try to banish you with their "how dare you" looks when your eyes unsurprisingly alight on their broad expanses of meaty faux tanned flesh as moths to a candle. Oh, there was one woman, not young (this type peaks at forty-five, I've found), who tottered on at Les Halles, (once the most famous of meat markets), in six inch heels and a short red dress the neckline of which plunged all the way down to her plump, creased middle-aged navel. Jiggle jiggle went her fulsome tits in the delightfully unsatisfactory harness of the scarlet dress. It was indecent, verging on the obscene. I adored it. Of course, she glared when I tried to catch her eye (that type usually do, the prick-teases) so I contented myself with dreaming of suckling at those mountains of tit. Her nipples would be like great swollen strawberries and I'd lie beneath her crushing weight and open my mouth like a baby and she'd feed me, insinuating acres of warm, cheaply-perfumed flesh between my willing, greedy lips. She'd squat over me, like a primitive fertility statue, all breasts and bottom, oozing out in all directions like a cream-filled pastry or a ripe Brie. I'd suckle and blink like an infant, gazing adoringly up at Maman, with her pancake make-up and her false eyelashes and her outdated bleached blonde curls.
As I said, it's easy to have sex on the Metro, when one is subtle and voyeuristic and just a little exhibitionist. Best of all, I savor the moment someone catches me rubbing my cock against the pole. Like the handsome young black guy in the fringed leather jacket, eye to eye (as it were) with my pulsing protuberance, who blew me a kiss as he left at Gare St Lazare. Every trip is a revelation for the mild mannered man on the Metro, whose umbrella is always tightly furled, daily newspaper neatly folded under one arm.
III. La Tour Eiffel
"There are 1,665 steps to the top but you can only walk up to the second floor."
The American tourist shielded his eyes against the bright spring sunshine and squinted up at the Eiffel Tower. I watched his wife inwardly sigh with relief as she replied that, in that case, they might as well take the elevator all the way.
"What a marvel!"
Immediately behind me, a polite British voice added its opinion.
Around me a crowd of visitors swarmed, faces of all colors, accents of every hue. I was accustomed to the crush and even quite enjoyed it, but my real love was la Tour Eiffel itself, that incredible iron monument which crouches like a metallic dinosaur skeleton high above the Parisian rooftops. My name is Jean-Paul and I am a freelance photographer. I specialize in artistic images of the buildings and monuments of Paris. On the day in question, I was staring upwards with all the awe and enthusiasm of the visitors that surrounded me, when my curiosity was piqued by a snippet of conversation.
"Is this skirt too outrageous?"
"It's supposed to be."
Automatically, I turned, to witness two girls, both Parisian natives by their accents, making their way to the base of the tower. Both were dressed in fetish wear -- latex, to be precise. It was too much of a temptation. I left the crowd of tourists and followed the girls to the foot of the first flight of iron stairs. They had climbed to the first little landing and were leaning against the criss-cross of metalwork which rather resembled a cage or some giant Meccano set.
"Good morning, ladies."
The taller girl smirked at my salutation. She was perhaps the more striking of the two -- rather on the thin side with narrow hips, long slender thighs and very little in the way of breasts or bottom. She was poured into a skintight latex bodysuit of a startling cherry red with a black over-corset and wore knee-high lace-up boots with high but rather chunky heels. The shorter girl had a fuller figure, quite a broad set of hips. She wore a black latex mini-skirt and matching halter top. Her large breasts presented me with a fine view of wobbling cleavage as she bent forwards to adjust the strap of one high-heeled shoe.
"Good morning to you."
It was the tall thin one who spoke, half-teasing, half-defiant. Her legs looked like bright shiny nutcrackers, the type of legs you see on plastic teen dolls like Barbie, straight up and down, no curves. I gestured to my camera and put on my friendliest photographer smile.
"Would you girls be interested in a little shoot? You both look quite stunning against the tower."
The small plump girl giggled and my cock twitched involuntarily as her soft boobs shivered like shaken jelly.
"What kind of a photo shoot?"
The tall girl had a knowing look on her sharp features and I suspected she'd done plenty of clandestine portrait sessions. I tried to look innocent.
"Anything you like. Nothing heavy. I am Jean-Paul. What are your names?"
The plump girl smiled and suddenly looked quite pretty.
"I'm Chloe. I like having my picture taken. This is Zaz. She likes to be suspicious, on principle."
We all laughed, the ice was broken. I wondered how many tourists ventured up the Eiffel Tower's stairs and, if they did, how far they got before giving up. It seemed the higher, the better for what I had in mind. Something told me that Chloe and Zaz would not object to a little risqué shoot, high above the roofs and parks of Paris.
"Smile please, dear ladies!"
The first image was simply a warm-up shot, nothing artificial or posed. The girls stood on the little landing, their backs against the iron framework of the stairway cage, smiling broadly, two friends having a lark in the April sun. I pressed the button and grinned.
"Shall we go up?"
Deliberately, I walked just behind them, savoring the delicious effect of two very different behinds squirming onwards in flesh-hugging latex. Zaz's rear looked as tight as a drum, not one ounce of excess fat, but Chloe's rolled and jiggled. I began to get quite hard between the legs.
"Right, now! Look down and observe the lovely Trocadero Gardens, my dears. Turn to the left a little, give me some profile. Lovely!"
We had reached another landing and I began to manipulate their stance, gaining pleasure from their obvious enjoyment of my stage-management. Was it my imagination or had Chloe's boobs eased a little out of their tight latex cradle? It seemed that the outlines of her big fat nipples were perilously close to the edge of the top. I pointed my Leica at the divine crevasse.
"Mmm. Excellent."
The plump girl giggled again and a minor earthquake wobbled through her tits. I really had to get them out for an airing but the fetish angle had to come first. Their contrasting asses in latex made an image fit for a kinky king.
"Look right over the edge. Turn away from me. Bend forwards a little, both of you. Yes. That's excellent."
Click, click, click.
My cock was as rigid as the tower. I'd always viewed it as the ultimate phallic symbol.
Chloe couldn't stop giggling. I snapped her round shiny latex-coated bottom as it wobbled with mirth above her sturdy thighs. It reminded me of a double scoop of ice cream dipped in darkest chocolate. I realized that my tongue was protruding slightly from my mouth.
"Are we giving you what you want, Jean-Paul?"
It was Zaz who inquired, with a teasing intonation. I felt like telling them to get on their knees to suck off my cock but we had only just been introduced. I nodded and clicked, intent on the job at hand. If Chloe's boobs bounced at me again I'd come in my jeans.
Up the stairs we went, round and round, higher and higher, beginning to stagger slightly with the effort and the repetitive spiral motion. I think we all felt high in every sense of the word. Finally, with the silver band of the great river Seine beneath us, we stopped at a final landing.
"We can't go any further without an elevator. I need a rest to catch my breath."
Chloe was breathing heavily and I watched her magnificent chest rise and fall with undisguised admiration. Zaz saw me leering and suddenly clasped her friend about the waist.
"Why don't you take a picture of Chloe's tits? There's no one around."
Chloe blushed a little but I could tell she was excited. I could almost imagine I could see her heart beating, making her luscious boobs pulse to the beat. A little dribble of pre-come soaked into my underpants. Zaz moved behind her shorter friend, placing her long slender hands over the plump girl's swollen chest.
"I bet you'll come in your jeans when you see Chloe's boobs. They're the second marvel of Paris!"
Zaz didn't know how close I was to coming in my jeans, anyway. I gritted my teeth and raised the camera.
"Ready?"
"Oh, yes!"
Never did I say a truer word. My eyes were glued to Chloe's cleavage via the lens of my camera. Slowly, tormentingly, Zaz eased the warm black latex from the ample contours of her little friend's breasts. The top was so tight that it had to be gradually peeled back, like a diver's wetsuit. Gradually, the most magnificent tits in Paris appeared before my desperate gaze.
Click, click, click.
Click, click, click.
"Oh, that's stupendous! Raise your arms, Chloe. Zaz, cup Chloe's tits in your hands."
I babbled my orders, clicking like a madman, as my cock began to reach the point of no return. I was going to come in my jeans, just as Zaz had predicted. By God, it was worth it, though. Chloe's boobs were vast but beautifully shaped, like a pair of ripe, fragrant cantaloupes. Her skin was pale honey gold and the aureoles of her fat brown nipples swelled like a pair of soft-edged saucers, taking up a good part of the surface area of her tits. I thought of spreading chocolate sauce all over those wonderful tits and slowly, slowly licking it off. As I licked, in my mind, drawing her juicy nipples into my hot wet mouth, my cock finally erupted, spurting warm semen into my jeans.
I have no idea how many shots we took. Later, multiple images of the two girls in latex, one slender and red, one plump and black, decorated my Montmartre apartment. The pictures were fun, nothing special in composition or quality, two friends having a lark on a fine April day. But in my bedroom, safely tucked inside my night table drawer, there is an Ali Baba stash of Chloe's bountiful, beautiful boobs. Some of the pictures are rather out of focus, and the best ones are stained with creamy evidence of my cock's desire.
