Paris Nights

PARIS NIGHTS

by

TRISTAN TROTSKY & BIGBOOBBABE

It's evening in Montmartre, sky paling over the poet's garrets and louche artist studios above the maze of narrow cobbled Paris streets. Evening light slants down through the casements, rippling the long lace drapes of this high bordello bedroom, in the aroma of scented air and previous lovers.

You and I. I wear a formal suit, white shirt, tie looped into a bohemian flourish.

You are naked but for your black pull-up stockings.

My eyes follow your every move. I selected you. I paid the concierge. You are my courtesan, at least for these few snatched hours.

You pace softly across the thick-pile rug to the mahogany étagère, my attention transfixed by the way your dimpled bare derrière ripples. You retrieve two engraved glass flutes in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other, it says Moët & Chandon on the label, although I suspect it may be an imposter. Just as we are temporary imposters, lovers in a shared fantasy of our own contriving.

You hand me a glass and pour the sparkling golden flow to the brim. We sip champagne from different sides of the same glass. Taste each other on the rim of the glass. I watch your tongue. I watch the way your breasts sway as you lift the glass to the shiny wetness of your lips.

You refill the glass and pass it to me, then you lie back on the counterpane of the four-poster bed. You know you're enticing me. You slowly part your legs, as though languorous, yet knowing the skin-crawling effect you have on me. My breath quickens, my collar is suddenly too tight around my throat as I swallow.

I stand and lean over you, trickling a slight trail of champagne across the beautiful swell of your breasts, then dip my head to lap it from your smooth skin, licking in and around the delicious valley of your décolletage, then up around the curve to the pigmentation of your areola. You arch your back and smile down at me as your nipples firm in response to the attentions of my tongue.

Then I trickle a stream of champagne down into the dark tangle of your pubic hair. Some beautifully inviting tongue-space in there... A pussy well-ripe for the exploration and titillation of an enthusiastic tongue...

I glance questioning up at your face, your eyes highlighted by kohl. 'May I?'

'Mais oui,' you say, 'bien sûr.'

I bend to lick my way around the indentation of your navel, then my tongue travels a moist journey down into your groin where your pubic hair is plastered wet with wine. I taste the wine. Feel the warmth of your skin. Catch the tantalising woman aroma of you. Drawn by sexual gravitation beyond human resisting to the mons veneris, where the upper opening of your pussy lips part to the insistent penetration of my tongue. You gasp involuntarily. I taste champagne. I taste the more subtle wine of your vagina, tracing a deeper path into the wonderful mystery of your delightful vulva.

I kiss your pussy. As I straighten you laugh in coquettish flirtation, reach out to the front of my trousers, your fingers outline the hard shape there, as if checking my state of arousal, and find it firm. You unbuckle my belt, unfasten the fly buttons one by one, then shrug my pants and shorts down in a single movement, so that my erect penis springs free for your appraisal. You make a low approving murmuring sound in your throat.

Your fingers circle the shaft of my cock in a way that makes me gasp. You hold the glass of champagne in your right hand, and my cock in the left. You draw my cock down so the arrowhead of my glans dips into the champagne, making it pulse and sending tingling sensations up my body. Then you dip your head, take the head of my cock between your lips, into the exciting liquid warmth of your mouth, and you suck the champagne away. For a long eternal moment, you hold my cock between your white teeth. Then you repeat the action, dipping my cock in wine, swishing it around, lifting it dripping to your mouth and sucking it clean.

You lie back, legs parted wide, as though impatient. 'Baise-moi, Monsieur,' looking up at me, your eyes burning lustrous holes in my soul. 'Hurry.'

Fumbling my clothes off in my eagerness. Stumbling as my shorts tangle around my ankles, causing you to laugh with the sound of a cascade of freshly minted franc coins. Crawling in between your parted legs, targeting my cock with my hand as you lift your hips to receive me. Blood pounding in my temples, heart beating so loud surely all of Paris must hear it? Flesh to flesh. Nuzzling into the tightness of your cunt-mouth, and sliding inexorably into you...

'What is your name?' I manage through the dryness of my throat. 'What do I call you?'

You smile as I sink my cock deeper into the deliciously tight clasp of you... 'Je m'appelle, Ophelia.' That's got to be an assumed joke, surely? A feel-of-you? But I'm grateful I asked her name early. I fear I will no longer know it when this session is through.

'And what shall I call you, monster?' Deliberately mangling 'Monsieur'. The words, barely a whisper as each thrust pushes the air from her lungs.

In a huge slanting mahogany mirror our reflections fuck each other, altering perspective, switching us until you become me, and I become you, male to female, female to male, fucker to fuckee...

I fuck. You are fucked... no, we fuck each other. I thrust, you devour. The golden mean. The equal and opposite meeting of matching hungers. I hear your mind. I taste your thoughts.

She's thinking 'I've never been so thoroughly taken and I'm loving every moment. My eyes melt into the back of my head as my body begins to shudder. My legs raise and clamp around your waist. I'm holding on as if riding my African Grey bareback. But that's wrong. My British God is riding me. Bareback. Feeling every mmmm of his flesh encased in mine. We both know the rules. Courtesans demand condoms at all times. Barriers from disease and unwanted pregnancy are required. And yet, the need to feel your hardness and flesh inside me is greater. The need to feel the warm slickness of your cock-head wrapped inside a most precious place brings me to lose all my inhibitions.

We both know there's a risk you'll leave me to swell with your child. For this moment, it is a risk I'm willing to chance to have a part of you within me.

I'm coming down from my orgasm as I feel your body shift. I feel you tense and tighten. I feel your pulsing cock harden. A deep, guttural growl is building within you.

As I feel you take your release deep inside me, your beast has been set free. Your growl emanates from your groin, through your diaphragm and out your mouth. The roar of a lion mixed with the call of the wild. I ride your wave of pleasure with a release of my own. Feeling my body go limp as your weight gently collapses down onto mine. Together we share the spasms as aftershocks rumble through us.

As our heart rates and breath returns to normal, I feel your cock slipping from my folds. I feel the combination of our love juices follow, trickling down toward my ass.

Your body slides off me, pressing into my side as I hear the chime on the alarm. Has it been three hours already? That chime tells me you have fifteen minutes to clean and collect yourself.

I feel you slide from the bed. But you scoop me up, kiss me, and carry me to the shower.

You are so crazy. As if you can't bear to miss a moment where we are touching. And I am not complaining.

We soap each other, kissing, and rinse off. You dry every part of me with a huge white towel, crouching as I lift my feet in turn as you dry each toe, then you wrap my robe around me and I watch you dress.

When will I see you again, Monsieur Monster?

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY & BIGBOOBBABE