April in Paris

by Sylvia Lowry

  “April Jones, I presume?” Frédéric kissed me on both cheeks. “We are so relieved you came. We”ve been very distressed by this situation, to which we are also victims of deception.”

  “Yes, so relieved, dahling.” Greta uttered an endearingly sonorous Nordic monotone, straightening her beret as she gently touched my arm and led me inside. And now I could see why Preston paused as he evoked her name: her mere presence demanded respect, even veneration, just as the sublimity of a majestic fjord would have earned my mortal awe. She was ample in buttocks and breasts, and radiated an air of brazen, abundant sensuality. When she poured me a glass of wine, I imagined that I had been offered the milk of the goddess Freja’s breasts, magnificent in their abundance.

  “First we discuss business, April.” Frédéric made a toast and settled back into a leather Corbousier sofa. “Talking to Preston, I have invalidated my contract with Pierre Fournier. I will publish the book under the name of April Jones, and you will receive all proceeds, if this contract is acceptable.” He handed me a document and I quickly reviewed its terms.

  “On cursory review, these are acceptable. Actually, sublimely generous.” Aglow with unexpected good fortune, I raised my glass. “To a new venture. And new friends.” We all drank at once. “But what inspired this generosity?”

  Frédéric leaned forwards. “We believe in ethics, April. We are inspired, in particular by the English philosopher Jeremy Bentham. Have you heard of the ‘Felicific Calculus’? The calculus of pleasure?”

  I shook my head. “No, only more conventional notions of Calculus, I imagine.”

  “Well, it is a method to determine how much pleasure is bound to result from a single event or action. Bentham believed the moral rightness or wrongness of an action to be a function of the amount of pleasure or pain that it produced. A beautiful system. A true one.”

  I expressed a suppressed, if cautious interest. “And how does this system pertain to your decision?”

  “All parties will gain pleasure.” Greta straightened her beret again. “Bentham says ‘Intense, long, certain, speedy, fruitful, pure - Such marks in pleasures endure.’”

  “Explain more.”

  “The decision is ethical, but it also brings us together. We love your work, April.” Greta sat up excitedly. “Its liberated spirit, its wild embrace of sexuality.” She looked me unwaveringly in the eye. “I became very aroused as I read it and felt compelled to masturbate.”

  “Yes?” I sat upright, surprised and delighted at the audacious confession.

  She laughed, and the outburst sounded almost innocent. “Mon dieu, I was fucking wet. Truly inspired by your stories.”

  “Thank you.” I blushed for a moment. “That is, perhaps, the ultimate tribute to my work.”

  Greta looked at Fredeic nervously. “As I said, this unites us. We were so...inspired that we wished to know you better.” She glanced furtively at Frédéric. “Can I ask something intimate, even brazen? Or, to put it differently, may I put Bentham’s theory to a test?”

  “Certainly.” I smiled tentatively. “You must know that I am not easily offended.”

  “I would adore it you would...” She nervously straightened her beret again; an errant strand of long, blond hair wafted into her eye; she puckered her lips and defiantly blew it out of the way.

  Frédéric leaned forward. “Darling, there’s no shame in it. Ask her!”

  “April, dear.” She smiled and looked into her drink. “I would like you have intercourse with my husband.”

  “Intercourse?” I smiled at her charmingly formal word choice, but tingled at the thought of the request.

  “Yes. I would really very much like to watch.” She winked languidly. “He can fuck marvellously. In Bentham’s words, it would certainly be Intense, long, certain, speedy, fruitful, and pure. Or at least I hope... Qu’en penses-tu?”

  I glanced at them both and nodded. “I approve.” Admittedly, I felt a thrill at the overture, and felt seduced Greta and Frédéric’s blithe aura of kindness and charitability. I sipped another glass of wine, the full glow of decadence descending upon me as the three of us stood in the living room, smiling with genial awkwardness. “Where should we go to consummate this delicious act?” I sipped my wine fitfully.

  Greta smiled. “Where else, but the boudoir?” She patted my shoulder. “If we’re going to be supremely vulgar, we might as well be civilized about it.” She sipped her wine confidently, “We’ll have a lovely time.” We all raised our glasses and made silent toast to the guiltless pleasures of our approaching fuck.

  “Veuillez entrer!” Greta led us to a large breezy room that inspired me with a sense of luminous comfort and repose; walls were lined with wood bookcases, with the surfaces painted an endearingly luminous salmon color, all surrounding a massive bed covered, improbably, in a quilt with a giant image Théophile Steinlen’s 1896 iconic Le Chat Noir poster, the image that I had seen decorating so many Midwestern dorm rooms in wishful, naive tribute to the City of Light.

  “Bon chat, bon rat...” I muttered as I lay down on the soft surface, luxuriating in the pleasant afternoon. A breeze entered the window and I could hear the adjacent vineyard whisper in the wind, as if we had been transported to the Montmartre of Picasso. Rolling onto my back, I whispered to Frédéric “Unzip me, bon ami, s’il vous plait.”

  “Mais oui” I felt my dress open and I peeled off the offending garment, lying down face first on the restful surface as I luxuriated in my liberated nakedness, spreading out like a diver as I felt Frédéric’s hands gently caress my back.

  “Maintenant quoi? Now what?” whispered Greta, seating next to the bed. “Sex is but a ritual, non?”

  I was not in the mood for woolly, abstract thought, delighting instead in Marcel’s gentle touch as he massaged my back and ass as I stared at a single copy of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal on the facing shelf as I heard him disrobe, the sound of a belt and trousers clattering endearingly to the ground. I always love it when a man undresses, an event that is often stranded between social ceremony and the desperation to hasten the commencement of a heated fuck, but here I sensed a studied tranquility as the toned and naked Frédéric glided into position beside me, parting my hair from my neck as he kissed the nape, inspiring me to quaver in excited response as he paid light attention to my ear. I felt a delicate invasion of his tongue as he whispered a chivalric query: “How do you feel, April? Bon?”

  I looked up with an impish smile. “Sublime darling. I’m your wife for the afternoon.” I hugged myself. “Treat me well.”

  “Indeed.”

  In a feline maneuver, I adroitly surprised Frédéric as I jumped up and grasped his cock, safely ensnaring the distended member in my mouth as I began to leisurely delight in the engorged length of his erection against my tongue, sensing its rigidity grow as I salivated along its length, consuming the shaft, savoring the latent taste of lingering spunk, imagining the volcanic reserves of come lurking inside his scrotum, now tightening like a drumhead as I gently caressed it. I let a generous drop of saliva descend, impelling him to shiver orgasmically.

  “Très doux, April,” cooed Greta, with an undertone of mischievous irony. “Très doux. Be gentle with my husband.”

  I momentarily ejected Frédéric’s cock from my mouth and it sprang back ardently. “Ah, Greta, my intentions are pure.” I paused. “Well, maybe not. I have a supremely dirty idea.” I gently touched Frédéric’s his chest with my forefingers. “Come forward a little, darling. I want to fuck your hard cock with my tits.” Holding my breasts together, he placed his cock between them, the breadth of the shaft visibly pulsing; his scrotum had retracted, shuddering as he thrust forward, his head occasionally emerging through my décolletage.

  Greta nodded in excitement. “He is fucking your tits, April. They are delicious!”

  “Mmm, thank you Greta.
But I can’t resist licking your husband’s cock while he fucks them.” I teasingly leaned forward, first in a mocking, biting motion, then with tongue extended, licking the tip of the head teasingly as it emerged from between my tits, finally gulping it down as the friction of my cleavage impelled him to shiver and groan like a beast. I looked back into Greta’s eyes, the expression deliciously combining anticipation with the highest ecstasy. “I love sucking your husband’s cock, but...” I winked at Frédéric, now enraptured. “But why watch him fuck my mouth and my tits when he can feel what it’s like inside my pussy?”

  “Lovely! I agree.” Greta raised an imperious finger. “But wait, Frédéric, put your cock into her from behind - I want to keep gazing in her American eyes as you fuck her.” I complied and prepared myself, raising my ass as I spread my pussy in invitation.

  Greta glanced at Frederic. “Shall I count down, darling? A countdown to pleasure, if you will?”

  He smiled and nodded impatiently, “Please, dear.” I could feel his hands gripping me with enthusiasm, deliciously sinking into the flesh of my hips.

  “My husband will fuck you on count of three, dear April.” Greta raised a long Nordic finger. “Un...”

  I shivered in anticipation as she raised another digit and smiled. “Deux...”

  I stole a dirty glance back at Frederic. “Mm, I can hardly wait for you, darling.”

  “Trois!” Greta gave a victory sign of three fingers.

  ”Holy shit that’s good.” I gritted my teeth, awash in the luscious sensation of Frédéric’s shaft as it jettisoned inwards. I adore it when a cock enters my pussy for the first time, the sensation of a trembling erection traveling the length of my passage, gradually filling me with its swollen girth, but there was something inexpressibly sublime about Frédéric’s adept act of penetration that almost made me come as he made its grand entrance. My clit was so magnificently engorged that every millisecond of his initial stroke felt like a minute of sheer, unalloyed ecstasy. I muttered filthy banalities as he filled my pussy: “Oh, oh, oh. Shit. Keep it coming.”

  Finally, stunned by the extent of his full incursion, I muttered, “Damn, that’s deep...you like penetrating me in front of your beautiful wife?” I then panted incoherently as he began a barrage of frantic strokes, the gentle slap of his balls announcing their arrival as their tender flesh spanked me with each thrust. I lurched backwards to complement their impact, tenderly asserting my dominance, fucking him as I relished the delectable collision of my ass against his abdomen.

  “God Greta, I love your husband’s cock.” I lurched backwards again, my suspended breasts quivering from my fierce momentum against Frédéric’s magnificent torso. “God, every stroke feels like I’m about to fucking come.”

  And, indeed, there was something endearingly sinful about fucking another woman’s husband with her permission, casting off the rigid moral shackles of rural Iowa, engaging in such a deliciously wicked act of generosity. This fuck was so marvelously inclusive, a gesture of communal generosity - I didn’t feel jealousy, but an ardent elation that another woman had been impaled on this very cock. And I wondered if maybe my friends Marie Jorgensen or Vicki Vanecek in Iowa would like me to fuck their willing mates in their presence; perhaps I could demonstrate my recent erudition and insert some filthy bliss into their tedious Middle-American lives. After all, this was 1959, not 1659.

  Greta nodded furiously again. “Er det godt? Is that good?”

  “Hell, yeah.” I nodded enthusiastically.

  Greta leaned closer, smiling. “April, come on and fuck more, Ja?”

  “Your filthy wish is my command.” I laughed at her endearingly vague request, and proceeded to interpret her imprecise injunction to valiantly ‘fuck more,’ shoving my blushing ass back into Frédéric like a battering ram, eliciting a fevered, guttural cry of delight from my startled lover. “How’s that, Greta?” I shook my hair capriciously. “You like how I’m fucking your husband’s cock? Am I fucking enough for you?”

  “Ja, I can see his balls slapping against your pussy.” She leaned closer to observe the sublime friction of his cock as it penetrated me in a delicious flourish of strokes.

  “Indeed, Greta. They are indeed slapping against my pussy...magnificently.”

  She nodded in delight. “Just like a story in your dirty book.” Greta smirked lasciviously as we gazed in each other’s eyes, continuing our nasty tête-à-tête as she lowered her hand into her trousers to stroke her pussy; I could see an abundant, unruly growth of unshaven blonde pubic hair as she unfastened the top two buttons. “I’m playing with my clit, April.”

  I was going to ask Greta whether she enjoyed the sight of me fucking Frédéric, but her gaze alone communicated an emphatic, ardent Ja.” My eyes turned to her magnificent torso, which reclined backward in a poetic arc as Greta increased the speed and vigor of her finger-fuck, accentuating the outline of her delicious breasts. My eyes were drawn to her swollen aureoles.

  “Shit, Greta. Just looking at your nipples makes want to come.” I was enthralled by the enchantment of her sublime Nordic bosom, still regretfully obscured by her black turtleneck, but her plump nipples strained against the sheer fabric, inflaming my filthy imagination. My gaze turned to Greta’s eyes, now radiating savage enthusiasm as I grunted with each sublime stroke, inwardly matching Bentham’s credo “Intense...long...certain...speedy...fruitful...pure.” This torrid fuck really did seem like a tribute to the pure logic of pleasure; there was nothing faltering or awkward in Frédéric’s ferocious thrusts, just the thrilling merger of his cock and my pussy, the quintessence of unbridled nature. I’ve always enjoyed looking back at a man when he’s fucking me doggy style, and a brief glance at Frédéric awarded my filthy curiosity; his harried concentration was lovely, and I relished the vision of his abdomen engaged in an ecstatic, sweaty game of tension-and-release.

  “I want to see your orgasm, April.” Greta gasped enthusiastically. “Can you come on my husband’s fucking cock? I want to see it.” She crossed her legs and playfully straightened her beret.

  “God, Greta...yeah...fuck.” I blathered incoherently as Frédéric rammed me from behind, gripping my shoulders with the compassionate insistence of a masseur. His cock pulsed ardently, as if Greta’s audience had raised him to heights of acute arousal and I could hear a luscious, damp sound as the insistent friction of my dripping cunt magnified against his inflamed shaft. I paused briefly, allowing his cock to fill me as I leaned back and whispered, “squeeze my fucking nipples, dearest,” guiding his hands to my swollen tits as I pumped backwards and forwards to hasten my orgasm.

  “April, I want you look at my tits while you get fucked, dear” Greta finally peeled off the black turtleneck and I was struck by the radiance of her unclothed torso; she shook her magnificent mane, hair cascading downwards under her beret, light streaks of gold punctuating the torrent of hair, her extraordinary breasts reaching skywards, nipples heightened and alert, highlighted by her arching back and trim, concave midriff.

  “Goddamn, Greta, your body fucking turns me on.” And as I prophesied, merely looking at her nipples, too remote and sublime to summon my actual touch, impelled me to come ferociously on Frédéric’s cock.

  “Here it comes.” Glancing at her aureoles, I quickly felt an overpowering sensation ascend through my body, ripping through my cunt and through the tendons of my neck, panting as four successive waves passed through me. I inhaled deeply, sated and delectably exhausted, and he continued his stokes, his pace slowing; I could sense the tumescent breadth of his cock, now pulsing furiously from behind, shivering, on the delicate threshold of drenching my willing void. In the face of such great intensity, I suspected that our screw would perish at its height.

  I dismounted Frédéric’s cock and whispered in his ear. “I want your wife to watch me swallow your come.” He nodded in animated agreement as I gripped the base of his
erection, leaning strategically to allow Greta an unobstructed view, taking the delicious cock it into my mouth as I savored the outline of the head, caressing the shaft to hasten Frédéric’s impending blast.

  “Mmm.” I gently stroked his convulsing scrotum. “Here it comes, Greta-- your husband’s about to shoot his load into my mouth. Look at those gorgeous, trembling balls.”

  And then it arrived superbly. Frédéric ejaculated between my lips as a potent barrage of deliciously sloppy spunk detonated across my tongue. I swallowed the salty globules in affectionate gratitude, a tasty rivulet of spunk trickling down his shaft and onto my fingers in deliciously sloppy rivulets; I imagined an explosion of crème anglais assaulting my palate as I licked them clean and sighed as Greta lurched forward to lap up the remaining traces, a volley of sticky white droplets cascading onto her naked décolletage.

  “Let’s continue with a little polite kiss, April.” Greta leaned forward and I eagerly licked her lower lip, then her full mouth, our two tongues now exploring the other, our movements both fervent and reciprocal; I imagined fucking my own double, surrendering to myself, engaging in an accelerating alliance of wills as we jointly tasted the sloppy remnants of Frédéric’s massive load.

  “Lean back - I want my husband to watch while we fuck.” Greta peeled her gray trousers down her sublimely trim legs, revealing her untamed, blonde and hairy pussy in all its grandeur; her clit was so large and distended that I summoned the filthy image of a miniature cock. She moved forward, shaking her hair as she began to dramatically remove her beret.

  “Wait, Greta.” I smiled. “Keep the beret on-- I dig it.” Frédéric slapped Greta playfully on her ass in a sign of approval before reclining in a distant corner of the bed, enthralled and smiling. She slithered onto the blanket, nuzzling me savagely in a moment of brief frottage, the beret rubbing against my neck in a delectable prelude. We briefly kissed again but my tongue was moving downwards with determination, gliding inexorably towards its goal.