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?
I decided I needed a Sauterne wine to go with the foie gras. I felt stupid I had not bought one earlier when I was out, but alas, I had not. It just hadn't occurred to me to buy one. I threw on a coat; I'd just make it to the wine store before it closed. I wasn't properly dressed for Paris, not wearing a bra nor panties and wearing quite a revealing dress, but nobody would know, due to my winter coat covering me up from my neck to just below my knees.
I got my wine just before the store closed, and I was happy as I strolled back to my apartment. A block away, walking right towards me, were the two men from the museum. Like most Americans in Paris, they spoke loudly, thinking nobody understood them. "It's her! Your dream Frenchie from the museum!" guy one said to guy two. "You've got to ask her. Use your French."
Guy two approached me, followed closely by guy one. Guy two spoke in horribly accented, broken French, and asked me if I knew of a good restaurant in the neighborhood. I was impressed, because he knew to say 'quartier,' which is the correct French term for neighborhood.
Feeling mischievous, I answered him in French. When it was clear he didn't understand at all what I said, I switched to English, but feigned a heavy French accent. They didn't understand my directions, so I l went a little out of my way in order to lead them to the little restaurant I had in mind. They followed me, whispering to each other constantly.
"We're tourists," they said, "And we would be honored if you would let us treat you to dinner. We think we saw you at the museum earlier today, and Mark here has a crush on you," guy one, who introduced himself as Rick, said to me.
"Yes, I remember you. You liked my ass, as I recall?" I said, and both men blushed a deep red, endearing them both to me. I was still pretending to be French. I decided to live on the edge and accepted their invitation to dinner.
I had forgotten about how I was dressed under my coat! The maître d' took my coat as we entered, and I heard both Mark and Rick inhale deeply as they took in the sight of my long legs and deep cleavage. I blushed at my exposure. Even the maître d' of the restaurant raised an appreciative eyebrow. I worried I looked like a hussy, or maybe a paid escort or something.
My 'stunning outfit' came up as a topic of conversation, and I prevaricated that I had dressed for a hot date tonight, but the man called at the last minute as I was buying some Sauterne, and cancelled. "Now instead I have two dates!" I added, brightly, and both men smiled. We drank to that. We had a nice dinner, and the red wine flowed smoothly and abundantly, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I even let the two men pay for my dinner.
The two men gallantly walked me home, and I let them. At the door to the building they asked for a kiss goodnight, and I invited them into the foyer, explaining that women in France do not kiss men, let alone two men, on the street in plain view of the neighbors. Someone was coming into the foyer, too, however, so we went to my apartment. I invited them in, for a nightcap, even though all I had was red wine and my new bottle of Sauterne.
I once had a Jewish boyfriend, David. He had explained that for Jews, holidays began at sundown the evening before, and ended at sundown the next day. Valentine's Day was most definitely not a Jewish holiday, but if I applied Jewish logic, then these two men could serve as my Valentine's Day dates. David would have called it erev Valentine's Day.
I smiled as I thought of David. I loved him so much! He was handsome, sweet, and to top it all off, he was so, so good in bed! So why wasn't I still with David? There's one reason, and it's name is Rebecca. She was my friend, too, the bitch; she's no longer my friend, and she never will be again! I still miss David horribly.
Memories of David aside, however, I knew it was cheating, to be using this twist on a Jewish tradition to sneak a Valentine's Day date in. Cheating or not, nevertheless, it made me feel better.
Rick however asked straightaway for his kiss goodnight, and I gave him a little peck on each cheek in the classic French style. He looked so disappointed, I internally giggled.
"That's not how we kiss goodnight in America," Mark said.
