Paris Bound

It isn't the light that wakes me this time. It is jet lag, jet lag and his snores. I roll up on an elbow and watch him sleep. He's sprawled on his back, legs akimbo. His snores are not so much snores as deep sighs, if I wasn't trying to sleep in the wrong time zone such a soft rumble would never have woke me. The arm opposite me is tossed over his head. His hair is a mess. His other hand rests on my knee.

I'm tired but I can tell I am done with sleep. The light from the room's sole window is waning and soon color will begin to fade from the world. Sleep has fled but I'm not ready to get up. I snuggle closer and lay my head on his chest. His breathing slows for a moment but he does not wake.

He smells like sex. The whole room smells of semen and, my mind resists for a moment before adding, "and pussy." In the recesses of my mind I distinctly hear my mother's gasp and once more I struggle not to laugh. It is quite possible that it would have been the use of the word "pussy" that caused her the most trouble, at least until she realized I had used it lying nude with a man I wasn't married to, who some unknown minutes ago had caused me to have an orgasm via a combination of manual stimulation of my vagina and oral stimulation of my anus.

I refuse to revisit the other dimensions of what I'm doing. That will keep me occupied on the flight home. I tilt my head so I can look at his face. It is a little rounder than it was at eighteen. There are a few more lines around the mouth and corners of his eyes. His hair is a little greyer, almost white in one stop. I look closer and this time I do chuckle. He has dried semen, cum I force my mind to say, in his hair.

The chuckle gives way to embarrassment. Had I really squatted over his head while furiously playing with my clitoris? Had I really look back between my gaping legs to watch his semen drip out of me and onto his face, into his mouth? Told him not to miss? The answer was of course yes, but I had no idea that a "me" existed who would enjoy doing such things. Where had that woman been all these years? How does she fit into the life I will return to in a little more than 72 hours?

I sigh in frustration. I don't do frustration very well. If asked, I would say my greatest gift is the ability to deal with life. I find it almost always a fascinating glorious experience. It isn't that I don't get angry but rather that I find anger does little good. If it isn't important, I drop it and look at the clouds. I am a terrific "stop and smell the roses" type of person. But the last few hours are straining even my ability to keep my head balanced.

This line of thought is not helping. I brush my hand across my lovers belly, smell him, and myself, in the hairs of his chest and climb out of bed. I cross to the sheer paneled window. There are no lights on in the building across the narrow alley. The light is fading quickly now. I open the panels and lean forward. The alley might just as well been in New York or Chicago. It is lined with rows of rusting dumpsters, some regurgitating their contents onto the pavement. One difference is I don't see any homeless, staking out claims with battered shopping carts and appliance cartons, settling in for the night.

There is enough light to read if I sit by the window. I stretch and a yawn escapes me, more bellow than yawn. From the bed I hear a hitch in his breathing, a mumble and then the sound of his body rolling onto his side, presenting me with his naked, and extremely white, ass.

The sheets are a disaster. The bottom sheet is pulled off on three sides and the top sheet has disappeared under the comforter the combine mass of which spills off the bench at the foot of the bed, blocking the narrow path between the bench and desk. I pick the comforter up and pile it back on the bench. As I do so my bent frame brings me that much closer to his bare butt.

I feel the flush begin roll over my chest and neck again, as I recall his tongue and fingers on my own bottom. Does he expect me to do the same? Can I?

I make my way past the bed to where I had dropped my bag near the door. Things had moved very quickly. I feel the heat in my neck and face rise as I recall Sam standing there, totally nude, when the door opened.

I start to pick up my bag but realize the bench is covered in comforter. I don't feel like making up the room, so I squat and unzip the bag. My book and my toiletries bag are on top. I set them aside, closed the bag and set it inside the closet. When I close the closet door I get a look at myself in the mirror.

Holy hell I'm a total disaster. I suppose, on the right body, the well-fucked look can be sexy but I don't feel sexy. My hair, where it is not standing straight up, is tangled and matted. There are whitish flakes of dried sex on my belly and chest. My pubic hair is dusted with dried semen.

I stare at myself. My fingers begin to brush through my pubic hair. I shift my hips and feel that I'm still wet. Perhaps I should give the well-fucked look a second chance. Perhaps, but something has to be done about my hair. I take the brush into the bathroom and with a great deal of tugging I restore a semblance of order to my hair.

The more circumscribed view in the bathroom mirror is not as overwhelming as the floor length mirror. In the bathroom mirror the dried splotches across my breasts actually do look sort of hot. I wet my finger and rub one of the spots and it becomes slick. I taste it. It tastes of me, of my lover, of us.

My stomach growls. I paid a ridiculous amount of money for a "snack box" on the flight over. How many hours ago was that? I lean back to look out into the bedroom. The bedside clock reads 5:45. I do the math in my head. It is quarter to 11 in the morning in Chicago. As far as my body is concerned, my in-flight snack was at 3 in the morning. My stomach tells me I skipped breakfast and my head tells me I should be wide-awake cross checking billing and census data.

It is too early for dinner. My stomach growls louder, telling me it doesn't care. It wants food and soon.

I give my hair a last, purely ceremonial, brush, and cross the room to the desk, bringing my book with me. I tilt the desk lamp lower and turn it on. I scan the desk and spot the information folder. I flip through, surprised to discover I can read most of it. My high school and college French has not entirely deserted me. I make a note to write Sue, we meet in ninth grade French class. She lives half a continent away but we write often, always in French.

The hotel boasted a small bistro but it does not open until 7pm. There is a limited 24-hour a day room service selection. I shake my head in irritation. I can't order room service, not without spending an hour cleaning up the room and showering.

My stomach growls another protest and the wild woman I discovered hiding inside me speaks up.

"Why can't you order room service? You have a robe. People have sex in hotels all the time. What's the big deal?"

I find myself entering an internal debate.

"But the room, it stinks of sex."

"Again, so?"

"But it will be obvious what we've been doing."

"Again, SO? You throw on a robe, open the door, and take the tray, end of story."

The wilder I sounds, or is it the wilder me? I wouldn't say "me sounds" so it must be I. The wilder I sounds perfectly reasonable. What is the big deal? It isn't as if I'll be seeing any of these people again. Plus, I'm starving.

I scan the menu again. Cheese plate, fruit, hummus, wine. I don't drink I remind myself, then I remind myself I use to drink on occasion and that I am in Paris after all.

I tap a fingernail against my teeth, still unsure. The rumble from my midsection seals the deal.

I pick up the phone and press the button for room service. I keep my voice low, not wanting to wake Sam. I'm nervous; writing French to an old friend does not help one practice pronunciation. My French must be okay. The slightly tired sounding voice on the phone repeats the order and has it correct. The voice asks if that will be all and instead of saying "yes thank you" I find myself ordering a bottle of Chenin blanc while the wilder me claps her hands in delight.

That surprises me less than the sound of my voice telling room service my husband is sleeping, that the door will be open, please come on in.

-

The voice on the other end of the line gives me my total, "gratuity included madam", do I wish to charge it to the room, please do. I can pay Sam later.

I set the phone down and immediately snatch it back up, intending to call and cancel the order. My finger hovers over the room service button long enough for the receiver to begin making a "wa wa" sound of protest. I hang the phone up.

I tug one of the robes from underneath the pile of bedclothes heaped on the bench. It takes me longer to find one of the sashes. I thread the sash through the thread loops and belt it around my waist. Sam sleeps blissfully on.

I'm nervous, so I pick up my book, The Starboard Sea, and try to read. I never sleep well on planes and I was able to make a big dent in the novel. I found it hard to relate to any of the characters, all too rich, but I was enjoying it. Was. Not so much now. I can't concentrate. I am nervous, chiding myself for being if not stupid, silly. I will only embarrass myself. I should lock the door.

I scurry across the room. Part of me knows this is silly. The door is locked. It is locked and the "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs from the door handle. I stand there for several minutes, mind racing from one extreme to another. As if in a trance I watch my hand open the door and remove the plastic tag hanging from the door. I flip the metal bar used to secure the door over the jam and ease the door closed. The bar holds the door open a fraction of an inch. I realize I've lost my mind when I correct myself. This is France. The bar holds the door open a couple of centimeters.

I make my way back to the desk, stopping several times to listen to the voice telling me to turn around and lock the door. Forget being embarrassed, how about being robbed, how about being murdered, or raped and murdered an inner voice rages at me. The voice sounds like my mother. I love the woman dearly but even now, that put upon exasperated voice she occasionally uses inspires the urge to resist. So I do. The door remains open and I resume sitting at the desk. Sam remains unaware. I peer at him for a moment until I'm sure his chest is moving.

I pick up my book and read a page, turn a page and can make no sense of the next paragraph. I have retained not a single byte of information from what I've just read. I turn the page back and force myself to re-read the page, with all the pleasure of correcting a poorly written action plan. Page finished I review the information, checking myself. I have the information but as I turn the page I realize I don't care, don't recall why or if the information imparted is important. It must be important. This has not been a novel given to wasting ink on unimportant words.

"This is absurd," I whisper to myself. "Just go lock the door, meet him, or her, smile, mutter an apology and take the tray."

"You're thinking too much, relax, get in the right mood, the right frame of mind." My inner wildling advises.

"Right mood?" I silently reply, closing my book around one finger. "What right mood?"

"Horny, silly. Horny, Cate, that's the right mood," my wildling whispers.

"Horny? How do I do that," I wonder. That question is too much for the inner wild woman. She throws up her hands in disgust and walks away trailing a snort of derision.

I find that the hand not holding my book is inside my robe, where it cups my left breast. That might work I decide and lay the book aside. My fingers pull at my nipple and it hardens between my fingers. Mmm. I pull a little further than normal, pull until the sensation hovers between discomfort and pain. I pinch a little harder and roll my fingertips. I am unable to tell if the soft gasp this elicits is from the pain or from the way the pain resonates in my belly. I move my fingers to the right nipple and repeat the process.

I push the robe open and reach inside with both hands. Each tug, each pinch is just a little harder than the last. I remember, early in my career when I was more physician than administrator, sending pregnant women for fetal stress monitoring. The poor patient's belly was strapped with fetal monitors and then she would be harangued to stimulate her nipples. That would cause her uterus to contract and that would irritate, stress, the baby.

I am not pregnant. That will never happen again, but all this pinching and pulling is stressing or at least doing something in my pelvis. As the pain makes its way from my nipples to my belly the sensation is amplified. Some bodily alchemy is going on, a mysterious neural servo system is turning a relatively small tug of a nipple into a deepening ache and tightness in my belly.

I can feel a growing wetness between my legs. I swivel the chair away from the desk and rest one foot on the chair, letting my knee fall to rest on the arm. With some reluctance, my fingers release my right nipple and move south. I flip one side of the robe over my thigh and my fingers find the already firm nub of my clitoris.

I move one finger up and down its rigid little body, fascinated, as always by the fact it is basically a little penis, a little cock I add, the voice of my mother has swooned and can no longer comment. My clitoris even has its own version of a foreskin. I continue to stroke myself, enjoying the friction, as my other hand continues to play with one nipple, then the other.

I hook my fingers inside my wetness, and press against the front wall of my pussy, seeking the rougher firmer patch of my G spot, the place were all the aches have congregated. I massage the area then pull my fingers out and begin to rub my lubrication over my clit.

My finger slides easily now and I begin to press harder.

That's when I hear the soft knock on the door. Inside, my inner wildling collapses, rocking from side to side warms wrapped around her ribs, laughing hysterically.

-

I bolt upright in the chair, a chair that once it is swiveled away from the desk has my crotch pointed straight at the door. I am jerking my hand from between my legs and from my breast as the door opens.

I am not sure what he has seen but his eyes clearly widen and his soft "puis-je entrer?" dies after the first syllable.

We both freeze for a moment. I decide at this point I can either run for the bathroom or brazen it out. As I force myself to rise as he stammers a "pardon".

My mind is mush. I mumble, "pas de problem" hoping I am telling him it is not a problem as I walk toward him and reach for the tray.

We both notice the fingers of my right hand are wet at the same moment. The heat from my face feels like it could singe his clothes and I drop both my hands and my face.

"On the desk please," I whisper in English. He understands and moves toward me. There is not enough room between the desk and bench at the foot of the bed for both of us. I step back toward the desk to give him room. The movement of my breasts makes it apparent that my hasty efforts to close the robe were not entirely successful.

In a strange way this realization frees me from embarrassment. What would be the point now? Hadn't I envisioned something along these lines when I left the door open? What I had imagined was an order of magnitude or so less dramatic but still. I resist the urge to yank the robe close.

As he calmly puts the tray on the desk, I pulled the robe closed and tug the sash tighter. When I look up he is smiling. I study his face for a moment. Thank God he isn't young enough to be my son, but I imagine he is a least ten years my junior. It is not a mocking smile or a cruel one. It seems genuine and friendly enough.

"Forgive me, I was lost in thought," I offer, or hope I offer in French. I add, "and forgive my mangling of your lovely language."

"Do not be silly madam. Your French is quite good."

He is being kind. His English is much better than my French. I decide to stick to English.

"Shall I open the wine for madam?" He asks sotto voce. He has already retrieved the bottle from the marble bottle holder, condensation runs down the side of the bottle. My mind fills with vision of perspiration running down Sam's chest and they way if flew off his body as he thrust between my legs. The image is so powerful my hand slips under my robe, checking to see if my chest is still wet.

"Madam?" I blush when I see his smile now threatens to cleave the lower half of his face from his head.

I stare, having no idea what he asked.

"Madam, the wine? Shall I open?"

I nod, "s'il vous plait," I croak.

"My pleasure madam," he replies and I wonder if it is his English or did he stress the word "my".

The corkscrew is simple, a screw and a well-worn wooden handle. He takes his time. As he twists the corkscrew his eyes never leave mine. His smile diminishes in size yet seems more intense. My hand is still inside the robe, almost against my will I feel my fingers begin to flex.

The corkscrew is seated. He wraps the bottle in a towel. I try to be shocked when he puts the bottle between his legs but my shock is lost in the sight of the impressive bulge in his trousers. His erection lies along the inside of his left leg, straining against the cloth.

I feel a flush of pleasure that it is me, me and my aging body, that has caused his arousal.

The cork gives with a pop and I jump, emitting a startled yip. This causes some of the heat in his smile to be replaced with a glimmer of humor.

"Would madam like a taste?" His voice is low and soft, but not the softness of someone straining not to disturb. Quite the opposite, this is the softness of seduction.

I nodded and his smile grows wide once more. He picks up a glass and decants a small sip of wine. He swirls it and then hands it to me. His hand lingers on the glass, and on my fingers, as I reach for it.

"I'm afraid the delicate aroma of this vintage will be overwhelmed by the, ah, in French we would say, 'cassolette' of madam."

"Casserole?"

His blush surprises me but comforts me as well. I feel less over matched.

"Uh, in how do you say, slang, it refers to the aroma of a woman's body. Pardon, I meant no offense; it is consider a delightful scent. Will that be all?"

He looks more surprised when I chuckle. "I am not offended. One of my hopes was to expand my French while in Paris. Though it seems unlikely I will have many opportunities to practice using that slang."

He still holds the glass. He slides his fingers slowly across mine as he releases the glass.

"Oh? I would not imagine opportunities for this to be so rare madam."

I hold the glass to my nose and inhale. He's right of course. All I smell is sex. A mischievous thought races across my mind. I pull my left hand from under my robe. I feel the robe fall open slightly as I do so but make no move to correct the situation. I transfer the glass to my left hand, the hand with the fingers not tacky from having recently lodging themselves in my sex. I inhale from the glass again, looking at him as I do so.

"Ah," I sigh, "that's better. It is a delicate bouquet. Lovely."

As I sip the wine he very deliberately reaches down, bends at the hips slightly and adjusts his erection so that it is no longer trapped in his pant leg. It is free to tent the front of his trousers.

Both of us jump when a voice from the bed asks, "may I have a glass?"

-

Sam is up on one elbow. I don't think I could be more mortified if my real husband had walked in on us. What is wrong with me? I feel a sob building in my chest. Sam must see the horror in my face. He shakes his head at me; a warm smile occupies his mouth.