Chapter 227 - Lovers meet for a secret sėxuȧŀ rendez-vous

She arrives five minutes early. I've been waiting for an hour. I hear her before I see her—that signature clip of stilettos on paving stones. Small, hurried, excited steps.

I turn to watch her. Jacket, pencil skirt, white blouse, slim folio case and serious sandals. Her gaze flits across the street, and I relish these seconds where I can just observe her. When she finally sets eyes on me her business face melts into a broad smile. Her steps quicken and she flings herself at me, arms wide open.

"You managed to get away?" We grip each other perhaps tighter than is appropriate for a public setting and break away quickly… too quickly… that fizzy anticipation causing unnecessary nerves.

"Naturellement," she replies, in a playful French accent. "Would I let you down? Pas moi."

She never lets me down. Ever. She gets precious few opportunities to slip away from her husband so when one presents itself, she always sends a message well in advance to give me time to make my own plans to be with her.

But this was her—my—most audacious rendez-vous yet: Paris. For her—a conference (that was one hundred per cent genuine). For me—a meeting with a client. Well, probably about fifty per cent genuine. But my wife believed it all right.

So here we are in the most romantic of cities with two whole afternoons and two glorious nights ahead of us. We've never had a whole night to ourselves before. Now there's no need to rush. There's time to do what we want, when we want.

"Rodin?" I ask

She turns to the museum behind us.

"One of the most sensual of sculptors." I continue. "Famous for The Kiss. His work was deemed so explicit that many of his pieces were covered in cloth so as not to offend. He came to define French ėrȯtɨċa…"

She cuts my guidebook narrative short.

"I know we said it would be great to see the exhibition, but if I'm honest I'd rather have something to eat. Then enjoy a bit of legendary French ėrȯtɨċa back at my hotel." She squeezes my buŧŧȯċks. "My room is fab. You've got to see the view. And I know just the place to eat."

"Oh really?" I say, casting my gaze to her brėȧsts, then her mound which is beautifully encased in that skirt… "Me too."

She rolls her eyes and bats at my upper arm playfully and tuts, knowing exactly what I'm getting at.

"When I was a nanny in my gap year I always headed to a particular bistro." She nudges me along. "Looks like a bit of a dive on the outside, but the food is to die for."

"Sounds good to me. Is it far?"

"Just round the corner."

Le Bistrot

We walk, her hand tucked through my arm in true continental style though she is doing the leading. A tug and we turn sharp right between two small shops. Only locals would know the location of that opening.

The moment we are engulfed by the darkness of the alleyway, she pushes me against the wall. I feel that she wants me every bit as much as I want her. I inhale her perfume as she pins my head back against the rough stone and kisses me deeply.

A French kiss in France. And it is some kiss. Her tongue searches out mine, her hands pull my head into her. I'm being consumed… deliciously so.

"Fuck, I needed that." She exhales.

Her hɨps press against mine and my ċȯċk responds with a throb. Her fingers trace the edges of my erection through my trousers.

"And I also need this, too," She whispers in my ear.

"God, I've missed seeing you," I reply, "These two days have been the only thing I've thought about for the past six weeks."

"Me too," she replies. There is a slight pause as we both look into each others' eyes. We smile simultaneously as if a similar thought is bouncing between us. "First, food," she declares, "then we fuċk."

"D'accord." Now it is me trying out my French.

She takes my hand and leads me further down the alley before we emerge into a classic Parisian side street. The scene could be taken from a 1950s black and white film set. A soft-top Citroen is parked on the kerb, a flower shop's colourful contents flood the pavement, and a tatty little bistro with a red awning perches on the corner.

It's spring. It's warm. She chooses a table outside, pulls out a chair and takes my hand as she sits.

"Paris. Just us." Her excitement has a tinge of the child within. "Now what are you going to have?" she asks, grabbing a menu.

As we look at the handwritten sheet a waiter arrives.

"We've got to have champagne," she declares and the waiter, hearing this and no doubt anticipating a sizable tip, turns before he even reaches our table.

"No expenses spared," she announces.

"Absolutely," I concur. "Your expenses?"

"Of course! You have to have some perks when you join the board of directors."

Hors d'Oevures

I screw up my face as she holds the escargot on her fork and laughs.

"Not tempted?" she teases, dangling it in front of her mouth.

"I can't," I say, shaking my head.

"Oh be brave," she urges and offers it to me. "You are missing a treat. It tastes magnifique. France is all about flavours. Rich and new and tempting." My face remains distorted. "OK. OK. As a little reward, if you swallow this new and exciting morsel, I will give you the most amazing blow job when we get to the hotel."

"All your blow jobs are amazing."

"Thank you," she says. "But this one will be especially good. I will lick that gloriously fat dɨċk of yours until you are on the brink of coming. I will take it deep into my mouth until you are yearning to thrust. I will milk all your early juices and savour your exquisite flavour."

"Well, that's quite an offer," I reply. "All right then. What do they say? When in Paris…" I open my mouth and bite onto the soft escargot, which is actually rather like a scallop in texture. The taste of garlic is overwhelming.

"So, what do you think?"

"It was OK. I like it."

"You need to be a bit more adventurous in your tastes."

We touch glasses and drink more bubbles. Her foot touches my leg under the table and as she takes her serviette to wipe her mouth. "Have you tasted your own come?" she asks.

Le Plat Principal

As we wait for our mains, she prompts me.

"Well?"

"I've tasted yours." I reply.

"That's not what I asked." She leans forward placing her elbows on the table and cups her chin, staring me down. "Have you tasted your come? Or any other man's come for that matter?"

"No. And no."

"Not tempted?"

"I'm not saying I wouldn't…"

"It's funny isn't it?" She cuts in. "It's almost expected that women taste their own juices. Take that film we watched last time…"

"The one with the three women. Each in the black lingerie?"

She nods. "Did you notice that after she plays with her pussƴ, she licks her fingers, then offers them to one of the other girls who eagerly sucks on them?' Not waiting for my response she continues. "With girls, it's a given that you are going to taste yourself. You offer me your fingers all the time, don't you?"

I nod. "But I thought you liked it?"

"I fuċkɨnġ love it."

I grab the initiative. "To ask the question you asked of me." It's my turn to lean in. "Have you ever tasted the juices of another woman?"

She pauses, takes a sip of champagne and smiles. "Yes," she replies. "That sounds a bit naughty, doesn't it? "

"Who? When? Where?" I have too many questions.

"To answer in reverse. Here in Paris. When I was nannying. My employer."

"Bloody hell. Tell me more."

She empties her glass and orders another bottle. And as she tucks into her fish and I my steak, she tells me of the time when her employer's husband was away on a business trip to London. His wife, the mother of the child she was looking after, opened a bottle after she'd had a particularly hard day nannying and the two of them got talking and how that led to a touch, then a kiss, and then sėx on the sofa.

She continues with a second tale. The evening the husband returned from London the wife cracked open a bottle of fizz to toast his return. The three of them were chatting away until late, then there was a touch from the wife on her cheek, then a touch from the husband, a kiss with each of them, and a threesome in front of the fire.

"So, yes, I have tasted another woman and she has tasted me." She concludes. "But what are we doing talking about past encounters and sėxuȧŀ liaisons? These two days are all about us. And the sėx we are going to have."

"I think the sėx we are going to have after this meal is going to be all the hotter because of what you've just told me."

She smiles, knowingly. "Well, if that's the case let me tell you more about that threesome because it's very relevant to what we've been talking about."

"How so?" I venture, conscious that I am now fully erect, my ċȯċk bent awkwardly under my trousers, pre-come seeping and my brɨėfs distinctly damp.

Le dessert

Two crème caramels arrive and she leans forward to kiss me before picking up her spoon. Her hand has made its way under the tablecloth and finds the bump in my groin.

"Well, you'll have to come a bit closer because it is very, very hot and I wouldn't want any of the other diners to hear." I lean in, our heads nearly touch and she drops her voice to a whisper. "He started by watching while I kissed and played with his wife. Then when his wife went down on me, he joined in. The two of them pussƴ ŀɨċkɨnġ simultaneously…"

"Just like in the film?" I interrupt.

"Absolutely," she murmurs. "Then he started to fuċk his wife and I sat on her face, while kissing him. Then we sort of slid from one position to another. She's suċkɨnġ his ċȯċk. Then I'm suċkɨnġ it. Then we both are. He's inside me, and then inside her. It was just a muddle of the three of us and yet it seemed so natural. Each change of position came so easily.

"I don't know how long it lasted, perhaps an hour. We actually had a break in the middle and she disappeared for five minutes. You'd have loved to see her when she returned. It's just what you like. She was wearing an apron, nothing else apart from her highest heels. She was carrying a tray with bread, cheese, another bottle of champagne and three glasses." As if to emphasise the point she tips her empty glass my way and I pour for her once more before she continues her mesmerising tale. "We sat on the sofa, the three of us right up close in a line, and scoffed the food and downed the fizz. Threesomes make you hungry and so, so thirsty! And when we finished eating, he started to play with her apron, and then lifted it up and beckoned me to go under it and lick her pussƴ."

As she speaks, she rubs me under the table and I'm convinced the whole place must know. I surely have that tremble and tell-tale flush, the same shade colouring her cheeks as she works me.

"Eventually, fuċk knows how he held off so long—we had both come a couple of times by now—he climaxed in her mouth." She stares into my eyes and licks her lips, forcing me to imagine the scene with her delicious pout wet and pursed. "But the really, really hot bit was what happened next. With his come in her mouth and seeping down her chin, she kissed me." The way her eyelids flutter and hood, I know she visits this in her fantasies often. She is visualising every moment of the encounter… "Our tongues met and his spunk flowed between us. Then he kissed me and finally her. His come coating all our mouths." She pulls back and winks. "Fucking horny, eh?"

I kind of just splutter in reply. I have nothing approaching this level of, well—naughtiness—in my sėxuȧŀ background. But the thought of new dishes like this being added to our sėxuȧŀ menu thrills me.

"So, when we go back to my hotel room after I have given you that amazing blow job." She says and I can sense a question on her lips. "And after you've enjoyed fuċkɨnġ my pussƴ, are you up for tasting a bit of your come?"

I kiss her. "If that's what you want, darling, of course, I will," I reply.

La Chambre, Hotel Mathilde

Her hotel is only a short walk away and we get there by late afternoon. I am desperate to fuċk her, but—always in control—she makes me wait. She says she needs to change into something more appropriate for our first night in Paris.

I wait in the ensuite and when she is ready, she opens the door. I am not to enter. Yet. Her body language makes that clear.

She sits on the sofa, with a view of Paris through the window behind her. She is wearing the most exquisite black lingerie and I notice metal links on her shoulder straps. I wonder if she's also experimented with a bit of bondage in her past. My curiosity morphs into hope but my thoughts are cut short when I look at her eyes.

They are closed. And this commands my attention. Very slowly she starts to perform. Her fingers ċȧrėss her legs. She plays with the chain straps. She bites her bottom lip and opens her eyes. Her smile invites me towards her and I sit next to her and we start to kiss. There is intimacy rather than an urgency to her mouth and I sense that she wants to take this one real slow.

Tender fingers remove my glasses: a simple act but one of unbelievable intimacy. She pushes me back and sits astride me and I feel her grind against my ċȯċk. She slips a chain strap from her shoulder. I un-cup a brėȧst from her basque and kiss her beautifully pert, soft, welcoming nɨppŀė. She frees the other brėȧst so it can be pŀėȧsurėd my mouth, too.

Purring, she climbs off me and I hear heels clack against the floor, I sense she's going to keep them on while we fuċk. She un-pops my fly buŧŧons and hold my prick in her beautiful hands, and it thickens under her touch. She takes me in her mouth, starting at the helmet, knowing that the spot underneath is where her tongue can work the most magic. Moaning, she holds my shaft in both hands and pumps as she licks.

Making eye contact with me, she moves to my balls and proceeds to draw a line with her tongue right up the length of my shaft. She is skilled in fellatio. Very skilled. Her tongue is always on my frenulum, while she pumps and strokes me. Gradually her movements become bolder and more of my ċȯċk is in her mouth, each nod of her head takes it deeper inside and I feel the warmth and wetness of her cheeks. My ċȯċk has never been fatter; my helmet never more engorged.

The truly awesome blow job over, she moves up my body, we kiss and I taste my ċȯċk on her lips. Without any communication, we both seem to know that now is the time to fuċk. She eases on top of me, pulls her knickers to one side revealing a smooth, bȧrėness and she guides my length into her wet, warm pussƴ.

As I feel her tightness enclose my prick, I remember the deal: I can't come inside her. But heck, how I want to explode in her ċunt right now. What did she say as we left the café? "I want all that glorious spunk over my brėȧsts and ċhėst. I want you to shoot it all over me, because you know what's for le dessert…"

Her fabulous locks brush against my face and ċhėst as she grinds back and forth on my thick dɨċk. Gradually picking up the pace, she rocks herself to the most delightful of ȯrġȧsms. Her aperitif.

Effortlessly, the dynamics shift after she has come. Easing off my jeans, she climbs onto the sofa and offers me her arse. I am going to be in charge of the thrusting now. I am her piston and my thrusts push her to her second ȯrġȧsm, deeper and more visceral than her first. Le plat principal.

We change position and I am on top, our faces meet and this most delicious of fuċk continues. This isn't the intense, fast fuċk that I had been yearning as she told me about that threesome. This is tender and loving.

Yes, loving. I have fallen for her. It's not just the sėx, it's that connection she forges with me. I could never talk to my wife about sėx like she did at the bistro. No-one could start foreplay so far in advance of mȧkɨnġ ŀȯvė. And that is just what we are doing right now—making love.

I feel her pussƴ tighten as I slide my ċȯċk in and out of her. The inevitable happens—her third ȯrġȧsm: le dessert.

And now it's my moment. I've been holding off my own climax for too long. But I have not forgotten the deal. Indeed it was the thought of it that has got me this far. I am up for it. Fuck, am I up for it?

Withdrawing, and with her wetness still clinging to me, I take my ċȯċk in my hand and pump out ribbons of come over her brėȧsts and ċhėst.

Now, this is it and this is something that's very, very difficult to explain to a woman, especially to women who, like my lover, can come more than once. Once a guy shoots his spunk it's pretty much game up. Doing anything hot from this moment onwards is intensely difficult. Something has to push or pull you to carry on.

And what is propelling me forwards is my dėsɨrė to please her. My dėsɨrė to deliver. And my love for her.

She runs her fingers through the pool of spunk on her ċhėst, lifts them to her mouth and licks them. Then we kiss. My come coats our tongues and lips. And it tastes good.

After probably half an hour lying next to each other, she heads for the minibar. And returns with two brandies. We don't talk. We don't need to. The meal, the setting, the sėx had said it all. Content and fulfilled we raised our glasses to each other.

"A taste of things to come?" I suggest.

"Oh, most definitely," she replies smiling.

Ends