Touching down at Charles de Gaulle airport, four thousand miles from our hometown of Philly. Lola, my hot redhead bride, kisses my neck in the window seat. Gorgeous weather in late April, the perfect start to a two-week honeymoon in Paris. Plenty of time to live out our kinky French sex fantasies. We're just a pair of clueless hedonistic one-percenter Americans, loaded with cash from our posh jobs at Greenberg and Goldberg (a division of Ambulance Chasers, Incorporated.)
Lola gets a fat wad of Euros from an ATM machine in Terminal 2B, and I rent a bitchin' Porsche. I wouldn't touch those crappy French cars with a ten-meter pole. We hop into that little German rocket and cruise through the suburbs, gradually reaching the historical core of Paris. Paleo-gothic churches, pretentious
Belle Époque
coffee houses, and Eurotrash night clubs galore. So many
chic
chicks are promenading on the
Champs-Élysées
. Lola gets that familiar naughty look in her big green eyes, and she strokes my right thigh as I try to maneuver through the insane traffic circle that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe. Just like the one in London that Clark Griswold got stuck in.
"All these medieval buildings are getting me in a real medieval mood," she murmurs. "Let's go right to the hotel and get down to business."
"I dunno, babe. The jet lag is kicking in, so why don't we 'get down to business' tomorrow?"
"Ah-ah, Jerry. Remember what you said on our wedding night?"
"Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets."
"And little man, little Lola wants you."
I snicker at her insatiable appetite while crossing an ancient stone bridge over the Seine river. We enter the Île de la Cité
,
pass the burned-out shell of Notre Dame, and finally arrive at the luxurious Hotel Fauborg across the street. Our penthouse suite on the sixth floor has an awesome view of the Hunchback's cathedral, three years into the rebuilding process.
"That church is like a metaphor for modern society," I muse while gazing out a picture window at the temporary metal roof and scaffolding. "We keep playing with fire, and we keep getting burned, but somehow we're still standing."
"Yeah, yeah," Lola mutters while opening a bottle of $300 vintage red wine. Jean Foillard Morgon Cote du Py, 2006 vintage. "Take off that stuffy lawyer suit, and show me that that big lawyer dick."
Lola is a legal eagle with a penchant for domination, in the courtroom and in the bedroom. I fell for her so fucking hard, like Bill for Hillary. My clothes are soon draped across a red velvet Louis XVI sofa. She tosses her flaming red hair and takes a sip while admiring my nine inch nail.
"Damn, this shit is like the nectar of the gods," she moans.
"Wine is the only thing the French are good at anymore."
"Drink up, Jerry-boy," she orders sternly. I also fall in love at first sip, and drain the glass real quick. Lola plays some smooth jazz on her iPhone to set the mood for our honeymoon. I hate every form of jazz, being a former metalhead who sold his soul to "The Man."
"You better follow my orders to the letter, boy," she says sternly.
"Yes, mistress."
"Get in the bathroom and sit down in the tub."
"Ooh, a little water bondage to get this
soiree
started."
I obey her order with a smirk on my face and pep in my step. The luxurious retro bathroom has a marble clawfoot tub that's big enough for a hippopotamus. Lola grabs a bag of kinky goodies from one of her suitcases and sets it down on a big marble sink.
"You're my husband now, and I'm making damn sure you'll
stay
my husband. Cutting your macho ego down to size. Get your hands up in the fucking air!"
I surrender to my fate, and she fastens the cuffs nice and tight around my wrists. Then she grabs a long thin metal chain, wraps it around the cuffs and the white lion claws beneath the bathtub, and forms a tight bond with a padlock. Goose bumps cover my body on a crisp Parisian evening.
"There you go, all chained-up and emasculated. That gets me so fucking hot," she murmurs throatily while stroking her clit through a purple Givenchy dress. "I think I'll go over to the Red Light District to do a little shopping. I'll bring back something real special."
She turns around and struts toward the front door, showing me an ass worth killing for.
"Seriously? You're just leaving me here in bondage?"
"I won't be gone too long."
"What if you get hit by a car? Those French drivers don't give a shit!"
"Neither do I. Just chill out and enjoy the groovy tunes."
She grabs her loaded purse and struts away. I growl in utter frustration.
"You're a crazy fucking bitch, Lola. You know that?"
"Yak, yak, yak.
Au revoir!
" she beams while exiting the penthouse suite. Leaving me butt-ass-naked in a ridiculous bathtub, listening to the tinny guitar licks of "Right Down Broadway" by Chuck Loeb. With my kind of luck, she
will
get hit by a clunky Peugeout 508 sedan, and fall into a coma, leaving me stuck here for god knows how long. The Paris police will eventually figure out where her husband is, and they'll find me babbling incoherently right here, stewing in my own piss and shit.
You're getting the trouble you asked for, Jerry-boy. You knew how crazy she was when you said "I do," and now you're just hanging on tight and enjoying the ride. You rejected the illusory concepts of "true love" and "romance" during your hazy Harvard days, and it's been one big kink-fest ever since. You've made plenty of dough off other people's misery at Greenberg and Goldberg, but money can't buy happiness. (But it
can
buy plenty of genuine leather whips, harnesses, stockades, and glory hole milking tables.)
Time crawls by painfully slow, with so much mind-numbing "music" blaring from her stupid "smart" phone. Like saxophone slurry oozing out of a plastic pipe.
Oh shit, now I gotta take a piss. Damn that tomboy bitch for making me drink all that vintage wine from the flowery hills of Provence. The toilet is just four feet away from the tub, but impossible to reach in my current state of bondage. It's one of those classic European models with the upper tank hanging a few feet above the lower bowl, for more flushing power. Makes a lot more sense that way, for clearing out all those pesky micro-turds. Right next to it is something else you never see in the USA: a
bidet.
For rinsing your ass crack to clean off all the doo-doo. Why the hell do Americans love having skid marks on their skivvies?
My bladder gets closer and closer to the breaking point. Twenty minutes later, it finally explodes in a pseudo-orgasmic rush of relief, drenching my legs with soothing warmth. A very familiar sensation; having been pissed on by dozens of women over the years (and doing the honors on them just as often.) The warm urine soon turns cold and sticky, and I get royally pissed-off. Lola is taking her sweet time at those stupid Red Light sex shops, drawing out the suspense like a master showgirl.
An hour later, the front door finally opens, and I hear the sweet voice of Lola McCarren singing
"Le dernier jour de disco"
(The last day of disco,) a recent euro-pop hit by Julliette Armanet. She croons the lyrics in fluent French; having mastered that freaky language at Harvard. It makes everyone sound like my grandmother after her third stroke.
The last day of disco
I want to hear it in stereo
And tell you there is nothing more beautiful . . .
Lola lingers out of sight for a minute, then she struts into the bathroom, and my jaw drops open in pleasant shock. I assumed she was shopping for a cliché form-fitting black leather dominatrix suit with a Nazi hat and a big braided bullwhip. . . but she actually bought a vintage French maid costume, right out of those fluffy 1920's burlesque shows. A tight black mini-dress with a lacy white apron, a lacy black-and-white maid cap, lacy black fishnet stockings and garters, and black stilleto heels. A white feather duster is like icing on a retro redhead fetish cake.
"God damn, that's the sexiest thing I ever saw."
"
Bon soir, monsieur,
" she beams in a convincingly native accent. "I am Lo-la
zee
maid, at your service."
"There must be a mistake. I didn't order a maid."
"No mistake, monsieur. This
salon
ees a pig sty, needing expert touch of
femme domestique
." She dusts off the marble sink and Louis Quatorze vanity cabinet, wiggling her lacy ass oh-so-cutely. She wiggles over to the tub, and gasps at the mess.
"
Oh mon dieu,
you naughty boy! Tinkling yourself in
le bain!
I must clean up this
dieu horrible bordel!"
I understand the Merovingian words quite well, thanks to four years of French classes at William Penn High School. Thank god I didn't do the sensible thing and learn Spanish instead, so I could flirt with border-crashing Mexican maids in Philly. She grabs a stainless steel shower wad, turns the
froide
dial, and blasts me with icy cold water.
"Hey, what the fuck!" I shout while thrashing against the chains. She laughs giddily while giving me the cold shower treatment, like a nineteenth century sanitarium inmate.
"
Une douche froide
is just what doctor orders for hothead."
"Cut it out, you fucking cunt! You want me to get hypothermia?"
Lola laughs again, then mercifully turns off the water. She goes to her bag of tricks and pulls out a high end genuine leather riding crop. Designed for real horses, not porn stars with fake tits. A french maid domme? This lady never runs out of surprises. Hard to believe she was in a Philadelphia courtroom two days ago, getting ten million dollars for a guy who slipped on a grape in a grocery store.
"A good french maid tolerates no dirt, and no dirty men."
She whips me five times, nice and hard on my erect nipples. It hurts twice as much when you're wet, and three times as much when you're cold and wet. Of course I love it, but I pretend I don't.
"What the
fuck?
What kind of maid service you workin' for?"
"The best maid service in
Gay Par-ee,
you closet
homosexuel!
"
"I'm not a faggot, you fucking dyke-domme."
"Shut
zee
fuck up!"
She whips me ten more times on my chest, turning my white pecs a nice solid pink. These love/hate role-playing games drive me mad with desire. Masochistic pleasure in the haze of nostalgic hedonism that wafts throughout Paris.
"I am sick and tired of dirty greedy
hommes
like you. I whip them all in shape, and make France
chic
again."
She aims lower and hits the bullseye, right on my pee-hole. My whole body convulses against the stainless steel and Carrera marble, yet I beg for more.
"Fuck yeah, turn that big dick fucking red!"
She gladly obeys my order, lashing every centimeter of my
bitte
in a blur of black leather. Then she gives my big balls equally painful attention. The pressure builds and builds in my prostate.
Thwack, thwack, thwack!
"Put down that fucking crop and make me cum, bitch!"
She slaps my face hard with her free hand.
"Do not call me a bitch, you
putain du trou de cul!
" (Fucking asshole.) I chortle under my breath, and she slaps the other cheek just as hard.
"Apologize to your maid mistress!"
"Sorry, maid mistress," I mutter, and she slaps me again.
"Louder, you
baiuseur de cochon!
"
Pig fucker? That's a new one.
"Sorry, maid mistress!"
