All participants are over the age of twenty five.
This is a little fantasy about our first meeting. It hasn't happened yet but wouldn't it be fun if it did? You might know who you are, I do hope so!
It's high summer in central France and I'm grateful for the shade of the building behind me. Parasols just never seem quite the same, in fact it sometimes seems to get even hotter under them, but a building always works.
The passers by take no notice of yet another man, sitting at a café table, taking his time over a coffee. The French love that, taking their time. I notice everyone who passes, particularly the ladies. Some wear jeans, jeans in this heat! Others wear flowing dresses and my mind wanders as I wonder if one of them might be you.
All those ideas we have discussed run through my mind as I wonder exactly what each one is wearing under her dress, blouse or skirt. Sometimes it is quite obvious as the unmistakable bounce of unrestrained breasts reveals the owner is comfortable bra less, and buttocks cleft by a thong have a uniquely sexy wobble all of their own, particularly under a flowing summer dress.
We are both authors. Well, we like to think that we are but we really specialise in writing erotica and that's how we met: on the internet. Actually we have never met, we just started to comment on each other's work and things moved on from there.
You specialise in stories that I find particularly stimulating and I often write about massage, which is a subject I know quite a bit about and it's an easy subject to work into an erotic encounter. Having been a masseur, it is easy to let your imagination wander during a massage and sometimes it doesn't need to wander. We learn quite a bit from each other's writing and communicate regularly.
As this was entirely anonymous, in that we were never planning to meet, we started to open up to one another about our personal likes and dislikes both erotically and sexually. I have told you details about my sex life that no other living soul knows and I know many details of yours.
It is, as the French say, bizarre. I know how you like to masturbate, how you can use your hairbrush to pleasure yourself, your preferences in oral sex, your favourite position to get a great orgasm, but I don't know your hair colour or have the slightest idea what you look like. The same is true for you, you know all about my erotic fantasies and my preference for being ridden to orgasm, cow girl style, but we would pass each other in the street.
That is why I'm sitting here, James Bond style, with my copy of an english news paper, the recognition sign for you. As each female approaches I wonder if she might be you. Suddenly I am taken by surprise.
"Paul?" Said the voice. I looked up and I think my facial expression must have changed.
"Marise?"
"Bien sure! You look surprised."
"Sorry," I managed to stammer as I stood to great her. We kissed cheeks in the traditional French fashion. "Delighted to meet you at last." The reason for my surprise was I was not expecting what I saw, not at all. I don't know why but the imagination conjures up an expectation and mine had let me down massively.
You are tall, very tall. I am about six feet, or whatever that is in metric these days but you are a good two inches taller. To say you are striking would be to gloss over the reality. Apart from being tall your skin is the colour of polished ebony, this was the first of many details my imagination had failed to even consider, ridiculous really but it had never even occurred to me.
Your head is framed in those very long, tight, plats often worn by black girls and you look stunning. Tall and slender with smallish breasts, the longest legs I have ever seen in my life, a flat stomach and a deliciously developed bum.
"You were not expecting une noire, hein?" I don't know why but I wasn't and I was certainly not expecting such an apparition of statuesque loveliness.
We size each other up, chat about more mundane things than our sexual preferences, trying to work out if we want to take things further and after a while had decide we do. The coffee gives way to a glass of white wine, a rather fine sauvignon blanc, to bolster our conviction, and we check in to a very ordinary, standard business hotel. Not sleazy, but definitely not the Ritz. You know the ones with a bathroom on one side as you come through the door, a sort of unisex dressing table, a TV and a chair.