Sun blazes over Paris. Spring rushes in early. Leaves burst on trees. Thermometer climbs. I should be thrilled. But melancholy grips me tight. Morning mail: another rejection letter. Job interview last month? ‘Undeniable qualities, but…’ Bullshit. Unbearable.
I descend from my apartment. Place des Abbesses buzzes. People smile, shedding winter’s gray. Warm colors bloom. Terraces overflow with beautiful faces. I feel ugly. Gotta snap out of it.
The Fever
Corner of Rue Lepic: my favorite lingerie shop opens. Vendeuse smiles, knows me. ‘New arrivals for you.’ Lingerie hits like a drug. Euphoric. Arousing. White lace thong, sheer. Balconette bra, garter belt to match. 230 euros. Worth it.
Dressing room mirror: my metro-ticket bush gleams. Esthetician nailed it. Banker won’t see this show, but my overdraft deserves it.
Home. Change fast. Too-short skirt. Sheer blouse. Nude stockings. Beige suede heels. Heart lightens. Excitement surges. Life pulses. Back down. Toward Place du Tertre, Sacré-Cœur. Cobbles and stairs punish heels. Tourists in sneakers envy-proof. Stockings whisper against thighs. Heat builds.
Sit on steps. Paris sprawls below. Magic view. Warm breeze teases under skirt. Light outfit registers. Male stares linger. Don’t care. Feel good. Too good. Sex thoughts flood.
Steps below: pro photographer shoots Sacré-Cœur from below. Pro gear. Dream job. Watch him. Angle shifts to my skirt. My thong. Not subtle. Amuses me. Should rage. Can’t. Play along. Part thighs slight. Skirt rides up. Lace garters flash. Insane. But needed. Attention hits. Thong dampens.
He nears. Lens swap. Dark cropped hair. Blue eyes. Tanned skin. Three-day stubble. Artist rogue. My type. Closer. Stares.
‘Hi, Enrique Povera. Photographer. Mind if I sit?’
‘Please.’
‘You caught me. Not focused on tourist gig. Montmartre series. Light’s meh. Your legs… mesmerizing.’
‘Really?’ Heart races. Skin heats.
‘Photos?’
Hesitates. Hands camera. Scroll. Not legs. Thong. Garter hint. Bush clear. Sharp. Blush burns.
‘Tourist office does erotica?’
Laughs. ‘Personal collection. Never often. This stair’s spot. Studio work: fashion, nudes. Avenue Junot. Nearby. Book?’
Laugh. ‘Sneak shots then hit on me?’
‘Photo passion. Shared. Sorry.’ Eyes drop. Childlike. Spanish accent lilts. Irresistible.
‘No talent for it.’
‘Come see.’
The Blaze
Studio: top floor, Art Deco. Killer Paris view.
‘Chablis?’
‘Yes.’ Walls: stunning B&W women portraits.
‘Like?’
‘Love. Talent.’
‘Just work. You could too.’
Private book. Sits close. Intimate B&W: pussies veiled, bare. All types. Young, old. Smooth, hairy.
Trouble stirs. Sip wine. Heart pounds.
‘Gêné?’
‘Unexpected.’
‘Add you? Erotic vibe.’
Scarlet. Speechless. Hand on thigh. Pulse hammers. Smile disarms. Return it. Surrender.
Kiss soft. Natural. Tongues dance. Fingers trace hair. Hand climbs stockings. Belly ignites. Head spins. Day’s start to this? Life’s wild. Palm cups pussy. Part thighs. Fingers tease clit through lace. Moan escapes.
‘Hmmmmm.’
‘Let go. So beautiful.’
Kneels. Skirt up. Kisses stockings, lace tops, thighs. Guide head. Tongue traces lips. Shoves thong aside. Sucks clit gentle. Soaked. Tongue plunges. Hot breath explodes. Orgasm builds. Push away? No. Locks mouth. Lightning cracks. Belly twists. Wave crashes.
‘Yessssssss…’
Shocked by force. Crush thighs on head. Holds me. Recovers. Reads me perfect.