April in Paris

by Sylvia Lowry

  Title Page

  April in Paris

  The Erotic Travels of April Jones, Vol. 1

  Sylvia Lowry

  Publisher Information

  April in Paris

  published in 2014 by House of Erotica

  an imprint of Andrews UK Limited

  www.houseoferoticabooks.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Sylvia Lowry 2014

  The right of Sylvia Lowry to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Paris Sizzles

  I love Paris when it sizzles.

  It was actually a mild evening in spring, but that line from the old Cole Porter song was in my head as I walked down the Boulevard St. Germain in Paris on the first weekend of April 1959. Regardless of season, the City of Lights did seem to radiate something distinctly erotic. I first imagined that love was in the air, but then the cliché of romance in the City of Lights, implanted in my naive American mind, vanished: Jazz echoed from La Bar Vert, Truffault’s 400 Blows was showing at L’Odeon, a fog of cigarette smoke emerged from the cafes and clubs, and voices cried out in a feverish chorus of pure, joyful lust. I could feel an unmistakable aura of sexual abandon.

  I knew the date because it was inscribed on a telegram from Buffy Dunlap and a group of college acquaintences who had intended to visit me, or at least requested my presence at the Café L’Orange that day. The telegram was signed with the inane conclusion “Dear April, I hope all is swell,” but I was eager to avoid all clean-cut memories of repressed middle America: tailfins, poodle skirts, glee clubs, bobby socks, the cloistered world of Wilton College, and the inanities of Wilbur Springs, Iowa. I tossed the offending message in a dustbin in front of St. Sulpice.

  On this evening, I had a much more important mission and maternally hugged the manuscript of my novel as I walked to a party at the apartment of publisher Pierre Fournier. As I walked along the Left Bank quai, I contemplated the inscrutable waters of the Seine as I passed the dramatic contours of Notre Dame, now ascending under stark illumination, then navigating the grand Boulevard Saint Michel as I contemplating a row of cheap dress shops, steel roll doors covering their facades, the flamboyant realm of the modern surrendering to a medieval calm as I passed the ruins of Gallo-Roman baths and their promises of ancient decadence. And then, like the journey’s end from a feverish dream, I had arrived at Fournier’s magnificent apartment with its teeming, baroque façade.

  He greeted me with enthusiasm at the door.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Jones! Quel plaisir! Hurry inside! Tout de suite!” Pierre supported himself on his magnificently carved doorway, leaning forward to kiss me chivalrously on both cheeks before leading me into the crowd beyond. “The street is dead...living dead, maybe. But here we have life!” I scanned the multitude of guests uneasily, lost in a crescendo of voices as a Johnny Halliday record played in the background.

  “You’re younger than I imagined, Mr. Fournier.” He appeared to be in his early 30s with an appealing layer of light stubble; I furtively admired his jacket, an enigmatic shade of brown decorated with impish pinstripes, as I shook his hand.

  “And you are as American as I anticipated, Ms. Jones. So radiant, so eager to conquer the old world with the energies of the new, glowing with excitement and ambition.”

  “ ‘Conquer,’ perhaps, is the right word.” I smiled. “It is the space age, Mr. Fournier. If my country can launch a satellite into space, who knows what other mischief we’re capable of.”

  A serveur passed with a tray of drinks and Pierre retrieved two, insistently handing one to me. “Come, let us discuss this manuscript of yours. When I receive a letter from my colleague Jacques Delange it interests me, even if he has decided to teach at Wilton College in the conformist heart of America.” He gestured towards his library, and I seated myself on a green velvet chaise as I contemplated the surrounding bookshelves. Pierre sat across from me in an inquisitorial posture. “You were Jacques’ student?”

  “Yes. His student and more, if I may be so indecent...” I smiled capriciously, allowing my silence to communicate a dirty inference. “Jacques encouraged me to write the novel and also got me my current job at Franco-American magazine.” I removed the papers from my purse and handed them to Fournier, sipping my wine apprehensively as he surveyed the cover the manuscript. “I write puff pieces on Paris for American philistines for a living.”

  “But this novel is your real work? ‘The Triumph of Eros.’ A very naughty subject for such a clean-cut American girl. It is erotic fiction, as the title suggests?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Unashamedly.”

  “Of course.” He opened the manuscript. “Yes - I am looking for this type of material. He read intently for several minutes as I gazed towards the ceiling, clenching my fists in anxiety; it was one of those intensely elongated, purgatorial moments when a writer awaits a connoisseur’s verdict on her labors.

  He finally looked up and smiled. “And are you writing more?”

  “Well, I’ve begun a volume of sexual confessions. Non-fiction, from my personal experience. But it’s a...work in progress.”

  “I’m impressed. “ He took the bound manuscript and placed it on a nearby table. “Your fiction is exceptional, and I love the idea that you are writing these...confessions. I sincerely believe that an author of the erotic must be an adventurer in life as well on the page, Ms. Jones. But are they completely unashamed like Rousseau’s Confessions?”

  “Yes. I omit no detail when I’m describing a first-class fuck, if I may be so indelicate.”

  “Of course. I encourage indelicacy. Picasso himself says, ‘Where it is chaste, it is not art.’ ” Fournier seated himself beside me. “But if I am to publish, I like to know my authors well. Very well. How can you convince me of your commitment to this project?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of expressing my dedication.” I shook my hair capriciously. “But perhaps a mutual demonstration is required.”

  “Oui?”

  “I’m a little travel-weary and my shoulder require a little massage, s’il vous plaît. Let’s consider that an expression of mutual trust.” I arched my back, and without delay his hands emerged over the crest of my shoulders, inspiring me to capriciously lean over to suck on two errant fingers, which trembled in nervous response as I salivated over their length, imagining the contours of a surrogate cock. My skin trembled delectably as I leaned towards his ear.

  I murmured, “Let’s be clear...seduction is a mutual enterprise.”

  “Oui?” is voice trembled half-intrigued, half-cowed by my intrepid thoughts.

  “With mutual benefits.” I winked. “It means that you obey my suggestions as well...”

  “Maintenant, quoi?”

  “I’d like to suggest that you take off your clothes, Mr. Fournier.” In issuing the command, my voice was hoarse and trembling, but I commanded an immediate response. In the quiet and ominous darkness of the library, the sounds of festivity in the background, I watched him pull off his shirt, jacket and trousers in rapid succession. During this hurried and wordless performance, a beautiful and lyrical interlude, I could see h
is cock swelling as he liberated it from his briefs, the shaft pulsing with ardent arousal.

  “Bonjour. I’m delighted with what I see.” I surveyed the sublime organ before turning back to Fournier; my tone was gentle, but resolute. “Now put your hand on that nice French cock and play with it.” He obeyed, and encircled his shaft gently with his hand, mildly hesitant at first, and then more steadfast as he began to masturbate with greater fervor, increasing his cadence as his scrotum tightened convulsively. “Very nice work. Think of my fine American ass while you do that.”

  “Une question, April...” He looked down, endearingly subservient.

  I laughed, but my tone was gentle and conspiratorial. “Who needs questions? Let’s focus on your cock. Jack if off it while you look at me.” I smiled in reassurance. “It fucking turns me on to watch.” I’d always relished the sight of a man masturbating, the thrill of seeing a cock stroked into shuddering fullness, the shaft hardening valiantly, trembling with fervent excitement. I blew Fournier a grateful, dirty kiss in encouragement. “Imagine me writing that dirty book and compiling all my wicked fantasies.”

  “Oui.”

  “Let’s fantasize, dear. Pretend you’re rubbing that hard cock against the curve of my ass. I haven’t let you enter me yet. We’re both lost in the exquisite tease of the moment, the glorious frottage of skin on skin.”

  “Oui.” Pierre panted with a restrained, Parisian civility.

  I licked my lips demonstratively and Pierre watched my tongue as it performed its evocative gesture. “Then think of my ripe American pussy being penetrated by that delectable French cock. Let’s image that it’s sliding in ever so gently...the friction is delicious. Your shaft is caressing my swollen clit as...”

  “Yes...I can imagine...oh, merde...” He halted his efforts briefly, startled by the sudden convulsion of his cock; I could see a quivering, errant drop of semen emerge from the tip, glistening in the dim light of the room.

  “What’s this?” I leaned forward to observe his sudden emission. “Damn, delightful reaction, Fournier. That exquisite little droplet erupting out of your cock proves you’re receptive to suggestion!” I relished the image of his hand as it continued to gently caress his shaft, imagining that we were submerged in the silent language that can only be shared by intimates, compelling me to communicate through pure physicality.

  “I have to confess that your cock is turning me on. Any objections if I masturbate while I admire your body?”

  “Non, non...” I could detect a crescendo of fevered respiration from my willing quarry, inspiring me to my skirt and strategically slide my panties away from my glistening, sodden vagina. I stroked my pussy in tandem with Fournier’s energetic motions as I insistently stimulated my clit, my gratification enhanced by the vision of his cock, stirring into a state of delicious hardness.

  “I have to confess that just looking at your cock makes my clit swollen.” I probed myself more deeply and sensed a teasing sensation shudder through my nipples. “It’s fantastically responsive. I love playing with my pussy while I admire your body - it gets me off.” I slapped my pussy before reinserting my fingers, inspired by the fearsome expression radiating from Pierre’s eyes I could perceive a delightful fusion of terror and arousal. “Fuck, that feels good. You like watching me play with myself? Seeing that nice innocent American girl masturbate while she contemplates fucking you?”

  “Oui, oui, beaucoup.” In his voice, I detected a singular erotic state, that excruciating and wholly exploitable condition where bonds of propriety are desperately straining for release, a mood that inspired me to fondle myself with greater speed and intensity. I could feel my nipples and cunt dynamized by the tremulous force of an emerging orgasm as my ass puckered delectably.

  I shuddered and staggered forward. “Shit, I almost made myself come.” I threw my head backwards and laughed impetuously. “It felt fucking great. Now why don’t you suck on my nipples while I play with my pussy?” I opened my blouse and removed my bullet bra, casting the infernal garment to the carpet below. Jettisoning all of my past insecurities, I offered my tits freely to Pierre, who first regarded them incredulously.

  “Come on, mon ami.” He paused for a moment in indecision, before I tenderly reached out and seized a lock of his hair to hasten his reply, gradually guiding his mouth towards my cleavage and then downward to my nipples, which he eagerly licked, abandoned to a childlike rapture.

  “Mmm. Ils sont magnifiques.” He bit lightly, provoking a delicious sensation, startling in its intensity, which cascaded through my pussy, emerging fervently through my neck. I stroked my clit harder, feeling increasingly damp, probing the interior of my moistening snatch, my other hand slowly making deliberate progress towards his cock.

  “Pierre, may I make an awkward confession?”

  “Naturellement.” I smiled at his mannered response; he looked at the book shelves for a moment in a distracted, effete gesture as my hand advanced up his thigh towards his defenseless erection.

  “I’ve never sucked a French cock.” His gaze became enthralled by the relentless advancement of my fingers as I whispered, “Which gives me an indecent craving to gulp it down. I want that French cock to slide across my tongue.”

  “Oui?” He looked back, startled by my bravado.

  “I want to salivate over every fucking inch.” I winked “Or, more accurately, should I say ‘centimeter’?” In a rapid, nearly acrobatic ambush, I leaned downwards and began to lick the contours of his swollen cock, sensing its hardening form rise, running my fingers along its length, gazing into his eyes as I drooled playfully on the head. I then proceeded to encircle the engorged member with my tongue, savoring its delectable form, salivating sloppily across its quivering surface. I could sense the member thicken further on response, proof of my emerging authority, inspiring me to ingest it fully. Inhaling deeply as I gripped the base, I finally expelled the tumescent cock in a valiant gesture. He moaned like a beast in response.

  “Yum.” I winked rapaciously. “It must be sublime, feeling my eager American lips tightening around your cock.” In the depths of my oral rapture, I had forgotten about the activity in the hallway outside, and as I heard the passing voices of the partygoers, conversations dangerously hovering outside the door, their hazardous proximity inspired me to suck Pierre’s cock with greater intensity, my heart racing, my clit pulsing with encouragement as I pulled my panties tightly against my pussy, relishing the lovely friction of the stiff lace against my cunt. I imagined summoning the untamed urban energies of Paris in every stroke, glancing my manuscript sitting on a nearby table and briefly remembered my original mission. But now there was an equally rousing task at hand.

  “Now slide your tongue into my American pussy.” I laughed impishly, lying backwards, smacking my clit through my lingerie, sliding the garment to further the side in invitation, and smelling my emergent wetness. “Imagine you’re licking a nice canelé.” Closing my eyes, reclining further, I could feel Pierre’s tongue invade my snatch, lapping voraciously as I leaned backwards and closed my eyes, imagining an insistent wet cock sliding inwards, ravishing its sodden depths.

  He accelerated the cadence of his lovely tongue-fuck and I could feel an emerging, tingling sensation, imagining that I had somehow become immersed in the feral world of the Parisian demimonde, a realm of teeming sensation and delicious animal lust: In my mind’s eye, the buttresses of Notre Dame rose briefly before transposing into the curvature of a tongue, lifting upward in a medieval arc as Pierre sucked on my pulsing clit.

  “Lovely, lovely, lovely. Damn, I’m about to come on your fucking face.” As his tongue plumbed me, I gripped his scalp, encouraging him wordlessly to continue licking, impelling my ass and pussy to tremble convulsively. Agonized by the mounting tension, I was desperate to consummate the fuck that fate had promised me, discarding my panties and casting them against a nearby formation of bo
oks. The negligee lingered on the spines.

  “I’m ready, cheri. I have an indecent craving to let the French invasion begin.” I grasped the base of Pierre’s erection, easing him towards me, rubbing its extended length against my swollen clit, teasing myself in a brief prelude. “In English, that means I want your cock inside me. I want to feel that firm shaft caressing my clit.”

  “Oui.”

  “Fabulous! Welcome to America, darling.” He followed my suggestion agreeably, and I could feel his pulsing head enter me slightly at first, a transcendent first moment of penetration. It was a minor but delicious incursion.

  But then, a delectably perilous event occurred...

  “Oops! Don’t slip out!” A feverish combination of sweat, eagerness and the exceeding wetness of my pussy caused Fournier’s cock to capriciously deflect upwards, skirting the heavenly gates. “Whoa, that pussy’s slippery. Délicieux!” I looked downwards at his damp and distended erection. “I can see my fucking juices running all over your cock.”

  He nodded frenetically, perhaps out of aroused bewilderment.

  “Let’s try again? Shall we? Yes, yes...mmm.” The second attempt was a smashing success, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes as Pierre’s shaft incrementally penetrated me, eliciting a fabulous sensation of frottage against my clit. He slowly increased the depth of his strokes, his cock quivering with arousal. “Welcome inside Ms. Jones. I wasn’t about to let you get away, ami.”

  “Mon dieu, April. You’re so goddamn wet.” His observation was accompanied by a feverish thrust and an endearing little groan of contentment.

  “Mmm, consider it my happy greeting.” I savored his rigid form as it slid further inside me, slapping my clit to augment the concentrated intensity of his increasing penetration. “Beautiful. Fill me up with that cock.” In concert with my plea, I propelled Pierre’s swollen erection inside me, grabbing his taut ass to draw his body forwards as I vigorously fucked him, sighing as the contours of the head caressed my pussy walls, relishing its distended outline as it continued its unfathomable journey inwards.