This is the continuation of Part 1, based on a true story, in which my lover dared me to walk through the streets of Paris dressed to thrill… It’ll make most sense if you read Part 1 first.
So there I was in the café, dressed in my ‘follow me, fuck me’ boots, my black thigh-highs, my lovely thigh-length leather jacket, and my red silk scarf. And that’s it.
Two buttons on the jacket undone, and a slightly salivating voyeur at the table on my left.
Time to move on. I summoned the fat greasy waiter, and asked for the bill, noticing as I did so how his eyes drifted down to the bare skin of my neck, the hint of the curve of my breasts…
Then I stood slowly, stretching up to run my hands through my hair as though refreshing myself, knowing as I did so that my hapless voyeur was watching as the jacket slowwwwly rose to the top of the thigh-highs… just enough to give him the merest glimpse of bare thigh… and set his pulse (and more) racing, no doubt. Turning to give him my best winning smile, I left the café and headed out into the cool colonnades of the Place des Vosges. Next stop: Beaubourg.
The sun was fully out as I strolled along the narrow streets, heading west through the Marais. Walking, my jacket held my modesty, the open neck just a little more revealing than normal, the red scarf, loosely tied and pointing south suggestively towards my still concealed breasts. But the sensation of walking along naked beneath the jacket sent a constant thrill coursing through me… my breasts bare against the leather, the warm air circulating freely down my chest, over my thighs, across my…cunt.
(I do love that word, I thought, as I wound my way past a couple of market stalls, brushing past the shoppers… the thought of my cunt, naked beneath the jacket… there on the streets… I even murmured the word under my breath a couple of times, strolling past coffee drinkers at their pavement tables… “cunt…cunt…”. One man looked up sharply – had he heard? Surely not. Maybe he just picked up the scent of my arousal. I looked back over my shoulder and he was still looking at me, so I winked, and walked on.)
Eventually I came to the foot of the massive multicoloured cliff face of the Pompidou Centre, and was wondering whether to go in, when my phone rang again… The screen showed a picture of a smiling, strong featured, bald headed, 55 year-old man… my lover, my sexual inspiration…
“Hello darling!”
“Hi ‘Rina… I see you’ve reached Beaubourg…”
“You have been watching me, you bastard!” Laughing, despite the words…
“Of course…”
“So how am I doing?”
“Ohh, very well, very well… now – are you ready for the next step?”
