Paris was our garden of ecstasies.
One evening we find a girl-bar in Rue Mouffetard, a lesbian cellar, dank, dark, noisy, crowded with university students. older butches in full drag, baby dykes with rings in their nostrils, a drummer and two guitarists on a small stage, women of course, the musicians wearing tight striped tank-tops that barely cover their shaking breasts.
Your eyes are wide as you take it all in. Does it turn you on? Of course it does, I can see it in your face, the way your tongue passes over your lips. Do you want one of these gougnottes in your bed? Not possible, darling, you belong to me. No one gets to rattle your bones except Katherine.
But after a while in this dyke bedlam I'm as turned on as you are and I drag you across the room to a long crowded corridor with a sour smell, to what passes for a restroom in a place like this. Too many women in the corridor, too much noise, too much smoke from those lousy French cigarettes, a Gaulois stink in the air. I stand behind you in line and caress your hips and ass with my hands.
When our turn arrives, we slide into the bathroom and I immediately urge you into one of the stalls, nudging you forward as we slip inside. You laugh, maybe uneasy, and when you turn to face me I kiss you hard and with passion. While I work my tongue in your ear, I tell you we must be quick about it. Do you understand me?
You rub against my crotch, against my leg as I pull you closer. I squeeze your ass, knead your cheeks. I'm sure you're soaked; I know you. I open your blouse, pull up your bra and begin sucking your breasts while I grind your clit with my leg. You grasp the back of my head with both hands, forcing one of your little tits further into my mouth and throat. I quickly get under your skirt and slide your panties down and pull them off your feet. Immediately you spread your legs and begin riding my bent knee. I plunge two fingers into your dripping cunt, sliding them in and out and over your clitoris. Then I find your anus, caress it, spread your ass wide open with the other hand, then quickly push one finger into the tight hole.
In a whisper, you beg for more. So I bend on my knees and begin sucking your clitoris, two fingers now in your rectum, turning, sliding in and out, fucking you there. You groan. You're coming. Your orgasm explodes. When we're both still, my head is still buried in your crotch. Then I rise, quickly kiss your mouth and lick your lips. "Now you've had it," I say. "You've been fucked in a Parisian toilet."
You abandon your panties on the floor in the stall. We leave the restroom and walk through the crowd and out of the cellar and into the damp air in Rue Mouffetard.
In the street, I slide my arm around your waist and you lean against me. "I'm hungry," you say. "Can't we go somewhere?"
* * *
We find a clean restaurant in Odeon and we order a salad, capers, olives, a sweet onion and a bottle of white wine. It's all a miracle, of course. We're defying the Fates and other assorted harpies who cackle at us that it can't be done. I still have the scent of your cunt on my fingers. You and I, we do as we please.
We don't talk much, just sit there gazing at each other, eating, sipping the chilled white wine. I suppose anyone who looks at us can tell we're lovers by the way we gaze at each other.
What they don't know is what we're telling each other with our eyes. Eyes only. Unfortunately, you're on the other side of the small table, so I can't touch you with my hands. Which is frustrating because I want my hands on you again.
Later we'll go back to our hotel. The word "later" is there between us, back and forth between our eyes, in silence. The place is a bit too noisy, but between us there is the profound silence of love.
Finally, this part of the evening is finished, and I pay the check and we rise together and leave. People look at us. A dykey- looking woman in her forties with a beautiful feminine younger woman. As usual, some find it annoying, others find it disgusting. (But always a few women look at us with intense interest.)
We don't care what anyone thinks, but I do restrain myself; I want to put my hand on your ass as we walk out, but instead I restrain myself.
We ride a taxi to our hotel in Rue Bonaparte. As we sit beside each other in the taxi, I put my hand on your thigh and find a garter strap with my fingers. I tug at the strap through your skirt, teasing you by repeatedly tugging at it.
In the creaking elevator up to our room we need to remain apart because we're not alone. More frustration. The sexual tension is building again. I remember the toilet, your cunt riding on my thigh.
