First of all a warning!! This is a graphic story of a sexual liaison between two consenting adults. If you are prudish or underage, then read no further. For those of you who enjoy a little erotic entertainment to pass the time, please read on.
My story is based in Paris, the city built around art, food, romance and sex, and it has never failed to disappoint me in any of those categories. This was one such visit. No excuses for it being a marathon tale, it did after all span a whole weekend, and more! So please take time out whether you are reading alone, maybe in bed with your partner, or even reading it out loud to him or her! If you're not into a lot of dialogue, and that's what successful relationships are all about, then this is not for you. Once again, out of consideration to the majority of my female friends, the "c" word is not used, although the ancient variant "cunny, derivative.. cunnilingus" being affectionate and more acceptable, does appear where appropriate.
Those of you who have read "24 HOURS" will recall my reference at the beginning to Lisa the air stewardess, the girl who dumped me in favour of an apparently larger appendage? Although Sue is my current partner, Lisa and I remain friends, and since reading "24 Hours" she has suggested that I tell you how we two actually met and our vibrant weekend together. Since it was such a particularly memorable time, and even Sue hasn't heard all of it, here goes. To protect both the innocent and the less so, some names are changed but the times and locations are spot on; only the sex is expanded a little. Enjoy in your usual way, and do please take time to vote if you have the stamina to get to the end! Thank you.
*
Friday
She was checking out.
I was checking in.
If you search hard enough within the steep southern slopes of La Butte you will discover the small Hotel Cecile tucked away in a leafy square. To Francophiles this is the hill that commands northern Paris and which houses at its top the touristy district of Montmartre; all of which are overpowered by the huge white domed Basilica Sacre Coeur. Conveniently at hand on the lower slopes is the notorious Pigalle district where man may venture astray, at considerable cost, if an accommodating vagina is not available by any other means. Such solution I have never, touch wood, found to be necessary.
The upper floors of this 27 room ivy covered hideaway are blessed with bijou balconies which overlook a myriad of zinc rooftops that make up the central part of the city; the evenly conserved roofline only broken by Mr. Eiffel's 900 foot pile of scaffolding and the nearby grim office block edifice called Tour Montparnasse. For those of you not brave enough to mingle with the hordes of multinational tourists, the latter has some good points. You will find the view from its huge flat roof just as expansive as the Eiffel Tower, much quieter and vastly cheaper. Also, as I was to discover that weekend, a good place for some private outdoor foreplay, private that is from anyone without binoculars!
As usual for the final week of the Tour de France, Paris was full, bursting at the seams; everyone in Europe it seems wants to see dozens of cyclists hurtle twice down the Champs Elysees in little or no time at all, and then all get drunk. I was in town for a different reason, the architectural practice that wisely employs me at an extravagant wage wanted me to spend a week in their Paris office, interviewing and training new staff, for which there were five applicants, also to update the branch software. There was one potential female recruit who, from her application photo, looked appealing and, always the optimistic one, I was hoping I might get to spend some quality time with her in activities where language is never a barrier! My decision to travel today was in order to get the initial interviews out of the way and enjoy a free weekend in this my favourite city.
It was around noon on this humid rainy day in July and I had, despite my regular patronage of this hostelry, just been presented with the customary detailed check-in form to complete, requesting all my personal particulars except inside leg measurement. Margitte, the attractive blonde receptionist I recognised from previous travels, possessed an inside leg that was definitely worth writing about, especially as most of it was in view where she sat cross-legged in short skirt on the other side of the glass counter. Carelessly dropping the pen on the floor revealed a tantalising view of her colour of the day! My previous attempts to date her had been fruitless, so I concentrated my attention on the conversation being carried out to my immediate left. To the best of my memory it went something like this:
"But it's only a few hours more," pleaded the slim red-haired guest in a faint Californian accent, her curls tied back severely into a tight ponytail.
"I am very sorry, but the room is booked." The manager M. Plonkere (real name!) shrugged his shoulders.
"But you said they are not arriving until 7.00."
"Mademoiselle, the room has to be cleaned, and the cleaners leave at 4.00."
"Surely you must have another room, for emergencies like this?"
"We are only a small hotel, we don't have provisions for emergencies as you call it, however…" he shrugged his shoulders and turned to his beloved computer screen, "… I will try our sister hotels to see if they have any rooms, but please don't expect anything."
I half studied the girl while I pretended to complete my form, a scandalous idea already forming in my head, she was without doubt the most delightful female I had seen since leaving London, and she wasn't even French!
With an exaggerated sigh I tore up my form and beckoned Margitte. "Je regret, I have made a mess of my form, can you give me another please?" She sighed in that bored Parisian style and produced two sheets just in case; meanwhile I continued to absorb the distinctly sexy persona of my neighbour. Although out of her traditional red uniform she displayed around her neck a corded badge proclaiming her to be Virgin Atlantic aircrew, and by the name of one Lisa Andrews. I put her at about 26 and 5'3" tall. I was amazed to learn later she was actually 35.
Drumming her fingers on the counter top she turned to me, frowned and mimicked the manager's shrug. "Merde!"
"Shit happens," was all I could come up with, caught in the act of an admiring approval of her slender figure.
"Tell me about it, this fucking city is driving me nuts."
"That's unfair, it's a lovely city… Lisa isn't it?" I pretended to notice her ID for the first time.
She nodded. "I'll just be glad to get back to normal that's all."
"I didn't know Virgin flew to France?"
"We don't, thank God. We put down here yesterday because of that terrorist thing at Gatwick and now all the others are shut down. I was lucky to get a room last night." She stared at me with a puzzled expression as I looked at her blankly. "Have you been on another planet?"
M. Plonkere was tut-tutting at his computer, making a great show of pretending to be helpful. Absently I noted his oversize feet, perhaps that was where Margitte was getting it.
"When I can, I always take the train in Europe and try to avoid the news when I can. So what's happened this time?"
"Oh, a silly woman got through security with a nail file or something, and because she is related to some Afghan terrorist, the whole bloody world comes to a halt."
"I think it's daft confiscating things like that because you can buy them again in Boots on the other side."
"Tell me about it; and glass bottles which are even worse. Silly old world isn't it?"
"So what happens now, with you I mean?"
"We are supposed to be leaving here tonight, all I was wanting was to stay in my room to shower and change. Is that too much to ask in this civilised age?" She sighed heavily and held her arms out talking loudly to no one in particular, then glared at me as if expecting a solution. I had one, but I smiled and shrugged back, my imagination now centred on her showering and changing.
"C'est la vie," seemed the appropriate response.
By now Little Tommy was hinting that the answer to her problem was standing right next to her. I patted his head inside my pocket, reassuring him that the situation was about to be under control, just leave it to Big Tom!
I completed my questionnaire without further errors and Margitte took it with a relieved smile. "Monsieur Graham, your room won't be ready for a few minutes, perhaps you would like to wait in the bar?" She indicated the little room immediately behind me, a place very familiar from previous romantic interludes.
