Pauline is lonely in Paris, until she is picked up by two men.
Warning:
This is an exhibitionism story, but it also contains scenes of group sex (a threesome).
This is my entry into the Valentine's Day Contest of 2020. Please vote!
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I was really excited! I was being transferred to Paris for six months! This wasn't going to be one of those quick and dirty tourist trips where you've got a checklist of everything to see and to do. No, I would be a Parisian, working in Paris. I would belong. I could pretend I'm French!
My ace in the hole was all those years studying French. That was one of the reasons they chose me for the assignment; I could speak fluent French. They even had an apartment they'd rented for me. This was going to be fucking fantastic!
Well, my boyfriend Gary didn't share my enthusiasm. That was okay; I was no longer that enthusiastic about Gary, anyway. We had a huge fight, and we broke up. By the time my plane left for Paris on January 15, I was single again and ready for whatever France threw at me. So, off I went to Paris, a hot-to-trot 26-year-old single woman, ready for anything!
Well, let me tell you, it's quite different being a working woman in Paris. It took me oh, I'd guess, around 15 seconds to realize I had all the wrong clothes when I entered my job the first day, in designer jeans and a light, V-neck sweater. The other women looked like they were getting ready to walk the runway in a fashion show!
There's two big fashion department stores in Paris: Galleries Lafayette on the right bank, and Bon Marché on the left bank. 'Bon Marché' means inexpensive in the French language, and boy oh boy is that a misnomer in the case of that department store! Luckily, though, it was January, and there were after Christmas sales, so I made out like a bandit.
French women in general are very reserved, and very modest, except when they're not. For example, they're happy to go topless on the beach in the summer (or so I hear), and when they're just among other women in a department store, they're more casual about the changing rooms than American women are. I kind of liked the attitude, the ambiance, if you will.
At work, however, French women are stylish and perhaps sexy, but not in the ways American women are. No skin, no low cut blouses, no much too short skirts are to found adorning the French female workforce. Everything below the neck is correct. It's the eyes, nose and mouth where French women show how sexy they are. You have to watch them to know.
I made casual shopping friends easily, and a few women helped me pick out nice outfits for work that made me look pretty and sexy, but not cheap or tawdry. As it turns out, before that experience in Bon Marché, I thought looking sexy was equivalent to looking cheap and tawdry and showing maximal skin. Not so with the French. I began to realize subtlety was ultimately sexier than looking one step removed from a total slut.
The women also told me to stay away from my male colleagues at work, unless I wanted to be manipulated into situations where I would have little choice but to be molested by my boss. I told them my boss must have been 60 and overweight and balding, as well as married, and their reply was, "Et alors?" which meant, loosely translated, "Yeah, and so what?" Message received!
Well, this meant the obvious happy hunting ground for a new paramour was ruled out. I realized finding a new man to replace Gary, even if only for the three months I was in Paris, was not going to be easy. It was depressing, because I thought it might be fun to have a French lover, you know?
I began to think perhaps it would not be so bad to have a lovely, if chaste, time in Paris. I began to make a list of the museums and exhibits I wanted to see, all the French movies I wanted to see, the operas I wanted to attend, the monuments and architecture, everything. The list was super long, and intimidating.
The big drag was meals. Single women just did not go to restaurants in Paris, and after feeling hyper awkward the first couple of times, I realized the only place a single woman could eat out without feeling strange was in a café/brasserie. Even two women going out to eat was unusual, unless it was two tourists. I needed a man to enjoy Paris fully. But how to get one? Ah, there's the rub.
The weekends were lonely. My social life had been reduced to my colleagues at the workplace, and I was alone. There was another problem looming ahead of me: Valentine's Day. I knew it came from the ancient Roman holiday of Lupercalia, which celebrated the coming of Spring and it included fertility rites and the pairing off of women with men by lottery. Ah, those Romans were kinky little devils, weren't they?
I learned about the origins of Valentine's Day at a young age, thanks to the Internet, and I naturally assumed the holiday was all about sex and reproduction. I liked the first part, but the second could wait, and in our modern age we had birth control, at least for the moment, politics being what they are these days.
The point is, I always had to have a date on Valentine's Day, and I did whatever it took to get one. My freshman year in college was fine, as my high school boyfriend came to my school and took me out. He just wanted to get laid one more time, because shortly after that, we broke up. My sophomore year I had a boyfriend, but my junior year I was alone. I told some girlfriends that I'd fuck or suck or do anything to or for any guy who would take me out for a romantic date on Valentine's Day, and I kept my word. Luckily the guy just wanted vanilla sex and boy, did he get it! We continued dating for two months.
Since college I've been lucky, and had steady boyfriends, the last one being Gary, of course. Now here I was, in Paris, alone and with no prospects. By the time you're 26, offering sex is no longer such an allure; all women provide sex at that age. Besides, I had no girlfriends to confide in. It looked as if I was going to have to power through Valentine's Day alone for the first time, and cry in my Calvados.
Valentine's Day was just around the corner, too, coming up this very Friday. I had no prospects, and did not have the time to develop any. I was doomed. At least, however, I was in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. It is, too, if you have a man. If you don't, being in the most romantic city in the world just makes you feel all the lonelier.
The day before Valentine's Day I left work early and I went to an out of the way museum with a strange name (Jacquemart André) that had a good exhibit, and I was wandering around, enjoying the art, when I heard genuine American English, as one man said to another, "Check out the ass on that babe. If only we spoke French!"
Curious as to whose ass the two men were ogling, I looked around, and I realized it had to be my ass. No other asses were in sight. Well, there was an almost 80-year-old woman slowly walking around, but I figured it was my ass, rather than hers, the two men were discussing. I gave myself a secret smile, and suddenly I felt hot once again. It felt good.
As I continued to stroll around the museum, I realized I probably did look French. I was dressed in French clothes, and even the museum brochure I was carrying was the French version. The two men had the English version. The men continued to ogle me, and at one point I even unbuttoned my blouse a bit, to give them a little cleavage to enjoy; I then bent over to adjust my shoe, and both men took the look down my blouse. I had another smile to myself.
That night was a weekday night, a Thursday night, but nevertheless I bought myself some foie gras and also an indulgent dessert at my favorite patisserie. My apartment was great, in that it had huge windows and got a lot of sunlight on those rare days it was actually sunny. Only the bedroom had shades, so I had to do all my changing of clothes in the bedroom and bathroom, which, after all, was only natural. I changed for dinner in my bedroom.
I felt sexually restless, however, after the serendipitous little episode in the museum earlier in the afternoon. I decided to tease myself. In the summer in Paris the sun sets really late, but this was winter and it got dark early, around 5:30PM. Turning on the lights turned my apartment into a fishbowl, and all sorts of people could see in. It was the same with their apartments, as few of my neighbors seemed to have curtains, shades, or blinds. Nevertheless. I don't think many people spent much time spying on their neighbors.
I went to my bedroom and removed my lingerie, becoming nude. Then I put on my green dress, which is low cut and short, so that I was showing off plenty of boob, and most of my legs. No big deal, I was dressing for dinner, but only for myself. I wanted to feel sexy for someone, and the obvious choice, given the circumstances, was myself. Later, if I found myself appealing enough, my fingers might take a walk where they'd do some good, you know?
