Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

by Fifi Flowers

  Never did he mention our upcoming date night (where we were going or what to expect). I found myself constantly daydreaming about the date with Émile. I imagined dressing up for him, hiding provocative undergarments to surprise him beneath the demure dress. I wondered what he had planned. He said he would fulfill my fantasy of being watched, but where and how? I couldn’t wait for our upcoming adventure.

  Amidst our few café tête-à-têtes and doing some buying for some of my book clients, I shopped for tantalizing extras. Armed with bags containing sexy lingerie and high-heeled shoes that I hoped I would not stumble in while wearing, I ventured to the vintage clothing shop to pick up my dress. Entering, I was instantly greeted by the same shop girl with crayon-red hair and informed that Marionette was not available at the moment, but she would be with me shortly. Not in a hurry, I looked around the shop, thrilled to find several new must-have items.

  “I’d like to try these on,” I said to the shop assistant dressed in short, high-waist tap pants reminiscent of a Folies Bergère dancer, a flouncy blouse, fishnet stockings, and red cowboy boots. “Excuse me, miss… mademoiselle.”

  “You can call me Jade,” she said as she directed me to a dressing room.

  “What a perfect name,” slipped easily from my lips and she laughed.

  “Yes, I was given that name the minute I opened my eyes in the maternity ward.” I could definitely see why. There was no better word to describe the color of her brilliant peepers.

  It was then, as she spoke to me in English, that I realized there wasn’t a hint of a French accent in her voice. “I thought you were French the other day.”

  Again, she laughed. “God, no. My French is utterly deplorable. I’m an American art student. Yes, I know, a little older than your basic college student. I’m just working here to pay my room and partial board. My friend, Phoebe, found out about the deal Marionette works out with foreign students. Since it’s difficult to work in a foreign country, we work in the shop and, in turn, Marionette pays for our apartments and provides meals on the days we’re in the shop working. I’ve been here a little over a year and a half. I jumped at the chance when my friend told me about this place. Marionette has been filling this position with American students in Paris for over ten years. I will be leaving in about five months, and my friend Phoebe, a pastry chef going to Cordon Bleu to hone her skills, will replace me.”

  Marionette replied to Jade’s statement herself, “I will be sad to lose her to a cowboy.” I noted a bit of sadness in both of their voices.

  “Cowboy?” I asked with a bit of excitement in my voice, wearing a big smile.

  “Marionette, as well as other foreigners I’ve met while here, often think America is filled with cowboys. No one has forgotten John Wayne.”

  I found that to be true, too, and laughed before I joined their exchange. “I thought maybe you had a cowboy waiting for you in the states. Texas girl?” I asked pointing down to her red cowboy boots.

  “I wish I had a cowboy! No, I’m just a California beach girl, born and raised,” said Jade with a bright smile painting her flawless face.

  “Don’t let her fool you, she is not just anything. She is very talented, I’m lucky to have her. And she will find that cowboy, I’m sure of it. She’ll surely wrangle him up with one of her stunning country landscapes or a lasso,” Marionette said, walking up to us.

  “Oh, Marionette, don’t act like you’re not wonderful. If not for you and Émile, I would be struggling to put food in my belly,” she said with a laugh.

  At the mention of Émile, my body stiffened. What had he done for her? To her? She was a beautiful, young woman about the same age as me, I guessed. Why would he not be attracted to her? I was no longer paying attention to their banter. My mind was reeling, waging its own battle, trying to grasp answers to questions that constantly jumped around in my head. Maybe she was the reason—one of the reasons. No, she couldn’t be; she saw us together. Together… not together, but in the shop. She knew he was buying the dress for me. Had it not been for Marionette’s light touch to my forearm, I would’ve continued to zone out like a crazy person.

  “It’s true. For years, my temporary shop assistants have been housed above Émile’s bookshop, Jade included. His family has been helping young women for centuries. He’s carrying on the tradition by keeping a few studio apartments available to be occupied by several women-in-need—mainly students, these days. He accepts whatever monetary amount affordable by some, while others work for me.”

  “Yes, he’s wonderful and the books on hand are comforting when alone in the city.” Something about the way she said books had the hair on the back of my neck standing up. Was she talking about turning pages or perhaps turning on the bookstore owner?

  Again, Marionette came to my rescue. “Let’s gather up your bags and get you put together. I have to see everything on you before you scurry out with the dress,” she said, guiding me to the back of the store, away from Jade. Stepping into the large fitting room, she pulled the drapery closed. “She’s not involved with him—never has been,” she uttered quietly, unzipping the gorgeous lavender dress before me, and I blushed. How stupid was I to let my brain get carried away, making it so obvious to Marionette? Fortunately, she just waved it off then proceeded to help me. After trying everything on, and purchasing other items to be shipped to my sister Chloe’s home, she sent me on my way with a double-kiss and hug, whispering, “He’s going to be very pleased.”

  Walking home, I nearly floated, thinking about presenting myself to Émile. I also wondered how well Marionette knew him. How many other women had she dressed for him? Did she know where I was going? What would be expected of me? While part of me was thrilled, another side was wondering more about Émile’s character.

  Promptly at nine on the night of our scheduled escapade, a gentle knock sounded on my door, signaling my date’s arrival. Excitedly, I opened it to a handsome gentleman who appeared to have stepped out of the pages of a history book; tux with tails, top hat, pointed-toe, black, patent leather dress shoes, crisp, white shirt with a high-neckline collar, waist coat, white bow tie, and white gloved hands, holding a square, black velvet jewelry box. I nearly melted on the spot—he looked incredibly hot!

  Émile’s words stopped me from staring adoringly at him like a lovesick puppy dog, “You look splendid tonight.” His speech was so formal, it matched his attire. Stepping backward, I welcomed him inside my apartment. Brushing past me, I felt a current run through my entire body as he moved to my dining area.

  He set the case on the table that once held my virginal books, then removed his gloves, setting them next to the case. Watching him remove them, I grinned, thinking how I wished he would continue to disrobe. The sound of the box opening snapped me out of my fantasy, and I gasped peering at the contents. “So beautiful!” I exclaimed as I ran my index finger along a purple-jeweled necklace with matching earrings. I wished that I had my hair pulled back in a chignon.

  “May I?” he asked, deftly removing the necklace from the clasps that held it in place. Nodding, I lifted my hair to allow him to drape the jewels around my neck. He smelled so amazing standing behind me. Leaning in to attach the necklace, I felt his lips on my skin, kissing it lightly. I was shocked. He had never kissed more than my cheeks before, and only as a greeting of goodbye or hello. And the one time on the boat, but it seemed like it had been a mistake, whereas this felt deliberate. The first real connection that had me experiencing a new sensation. My mind wandered to all the places that I wanted to feel his mouth claim me. I moaned and felt the corner of his lips turn up.

  Releasing my hair, he turned me to face him and handed me the earrings. I removed the ones I already had in, then hooked the lavender gems onto my earlobes. “Exquisite! They match your dress. Your beautiful eyes.” His index finger lightly skimmed the side of my face. A shiver rippled down my spine.

  Excited, we walked down to a waiting car that took us down the hill and a few blocks away. Pulling up i
n front of an unmarked building, two doormen, dressed in black tailed tuxedos and spat shoes, opened heavy, paneled, red doors. I had the feeling that we were about to enter another world, another time. I was giddy with anticipation.

  Once inside, the large foyer was elegant in itself; dark wood multi-paneled walls with a black, white, and gold harlequin pattern on the floor, and a sign that read Belle Époque above two black leather tufted doors with gold buttons. We checked our coats, then two more suited men opened the next set of doors.

  Walking through the entrance, velvet drapery automatically parted to a scene that literally took my breath away while causing my body to stiffen. As I stopped to take it all in, I heard Émile inquire if I was all right to which I answered a breathy, “Yess. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like a movie set—it doesn’t look real.”

  Pressed up behind me, holding my upper arms, he spoke over my shoulder, “I had the same reaction the first time I was invited here. I imagined this was the kind of place some of my favorite authors, artists hung out.”

  Yes, I could visualize them, too.

  My imagination was running wild with the help of the people present, dressed appropriately for the late 1880s. Men—dressed in tuxedos and top hats, some equipped with canes—tapped their shiny shoes on the wood parquet floors to the beat of Paris café music lofting through the air. Women wore elegant floor-length gowns or ruffled can-can dresses that were competing with the walls throughout the club that were upholstered with a rich, deep, cherry-red, pleated velvet drapery. Fancy drinks were being delivered to them from stunningly decorated bars, flanking the two sides of the main room. Both made of dark wood, had vintage mirrors behind them with glass shelves that were decorated with beautiful alcohol bottles and colorful glasses.

  As he moved to my side, I saw a couple women batting their eyelashes as they greeted Mr. Capet. He simply tipped his hat to them. They, in turn, giggled like harlots along with their snide hushed remarks:

  “I’ve never seen him bring a woman here.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Isn’t that against Capet rules?”

  “He will be disappointing a few, for certain.”

  “Too bad, I would love a go at him.”

  Those were words that I could figure out from their French dialect. It was obvious he had to be a regular. How many women had the naughty bookseller dabbled with here? He may not have brought women here, but it sounded like he had connected with a few. Did he meet them here?

  I heard him laugh softly in a dismissing fashion as he led me away from them to one of the deep, dark, blood red, crushed velvet sofas scattered about with low vintage mirror tables in front of them. Émile ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot for us and it promptly arrived along with a hammered-silver bucket stand, filled with ice and two coupe-style champagne glasses. With bubbly fizzling in his hand, he toasted, “To a night of fulfilling fantasies.”

  I clinked my vintage champagne glass to his. “To pleasure.” I watched him sipping with a sparkle in his eyes as the effervescent liquid tingled on my tongue. He was so handsome, he sometimes made it hard to breathe. I found myself trying to calm my nerves, attempting to regulate my breathing. Doing so, I noticed the smell of sex, and a spicy, floral, ginger scent that hung in the atmosphere—it was intoxicating.

  Settling back on the plush furnishings, a server handed us a matted menu, describing the offerings for food that evening. It was then I noticed all of the female servers wore long skirts and white corsets that cupped the undersides of their bare breasts. Some nipples were covered with pasties while others were bejeweled with rhinestones. Their hair was drawn up in twisted top knots as depicted in Lautrec paintings, and black bow ties adorned their necks.

  The night and venue was getting sexier by the minute. I felt my nipples harden as I imagined what it would be like to be dressed as the servers. My breasts in full view by any number of onlookers. Watched… my fantasy… Suddenly I was hungrier for sex than the fancy appetizers that were being presented to us.

  As we nibbled from small-plate selections Émile made, we watched the stage in front of us. Black and white striped draperies that hung on each side of the stage opened and closed between each act. Various singers belted out tunes popularized by Edith Piaf and others that sounded familiar. Contortionists, jugglers, and mimes filled blank space while sets were changed behind the curtain. Cancan dancers seemed to be the main attraction. As they kicked and moved around the stage front, lit by a line of big round glass globe balls along its edge, lifting their skirts, wearing only stockings and garter belts underneath—I saw what captured the crowd’s attention. On full display was a variety of groomed mounds: bare, jeweled, pierced, striped, shaped into hearts, stars, and even lightning bolts—you name it, it was probably there.

  Oh my! First exposed breast and now bedazzled vajayjays. My body temperature heated along with my cheeks. My girlie-parts were on high alert, clenching with desire as my heart rate increased. The only thing that kept me in check was noticing that one of the singers reminded me of my sister Chloe.

  While visiting her in Chicago, she had invited me to watch her perform in a sexy club similar to the Belle Époque club, minus the old world flavor. Scantily clad in revealing lingerie, she was placed on a grand piano by two big muscle-bound, leather clothed men. From the first note she belted out to the last, where she was joined by several burlesque showgirls, she sang like a beautiful songbird. She had me fangirling her dynamic performance.

  Speaking of performances, Émile stroking my hand and bringing me to my feet brought me back to Pigalle. “Ready to see another form of entertainment?” I nodded my head as we were already in motion to an elevator in the back of the building.

  What was I to see next I wondered? What more could my ever growing libido take before it burst or was relieved? I hoped for relief as my panties were now drenched by my own juices. I was certain it wouldn’t take much for an orgasm to erupt from my body.

  A floor up, the doors opened to a dimly lit hallway, offering many doors. He explained that on that level there were four main circular rooms for entertainers. Each of the main rooms were surrounded by several smaller private rooms for viewers. Each viewing room was furnished with a love seat facing a one-way window to one of the main performance rooms. He informed me that the set up was like the live sex show places I had stopped in front of on the Boulevard de Clichy, but, of course, the ones in this club were nicer.

  Sitting down in one of the viewing rooms, my eyes were instantly glued to the events unfolding before me: Before us was a nude woman spread eagle on a low, wide, plush, deep purple ottoman. At the angle they were at or we were at, the equally naked, well-endowed, man had his head between her opened legs. The way he was gazing up in our direction as his tongue skimmed her pussy, it felt as if he was bringing us into their scene. He looked to be enjoying himself at the same time playing to us. Enticing us. Licking and sucking and fucking us with his mouth. It made me feel uneasy and excited all at once and I could smell my own arousal as a throaty voice whispered in my ear.

  “Would you like to perform in one of these rooms for me, with me?” Without turning to him, entranced by the coupling on the other side of the glass, I nodded yes.

  Guiding me out of that room into another, there was a door framed with glass allowing a view into a larger room. He let me know that was the performers’ entrance. In the room, a chair sat in the middle while red and lavender lighting created a sensuous glow. This is it! My performance room. Your turn! My heart beat wildly in my chest.

  “Join me when you’re ready,” he said, before entering through the door. Leaving me alone, I watched him take a seat on what appeared to be a sturdy cane chair in the stark room, and remove his shoes.

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to disrobe first or what, we hadn’t seen the beginning of the other couple’s scene. Remaining clothed, I walked in. The sight of Émile barefoot in his tux, wearing a top hat, had my body and mind on high al
ert. I began to listen to the music. In some ways it was eerie, in others it set my skin on fire.

  Lost in the driving beat of the music, my hips swayed to the rhythm. Steadily I approached Émile, removed his jacket and bow tie, and tossed them aside.

  Slowly walking around him…closely, like I was stalking my prey…my hands skimmed his shoulders. Stopping before him, I raised my dress up to my waist revealing garters and black sheer stockings. I turned slowly showing myself to him, revealing that I was wearing a thong. Confidently I straddled him, and performed a little lap dance: grinding, swirling, rocking from side to side across his lap—my plushness against his hardness. I moved to the point that I thought a climax would hit any minute. Stilling my movement after another rolling thrust, I smiled, backing off of his firm thighs.

  Standing, maintaining full eye contact, I unzipped my dress and let it pool onto the black and white checker tiled floor. Out of his reach, I watched him assess my sexy lingerie ensemble of black lace with lavender satin ribbons woven through. I had modeled it enough in front of my full-length bedroom mirror to know that my demi-bra accentuated my breasts, pushing them up to reveal my pert nipples, and the rest enhanced my every curve. Feeling confident, I strutted to him, removed the top hat from his head and placed it on mine.

  Stepping back away from him again, I started to move my body as Émile unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up before stalking toward me. My heart rate increased. Standing behind me, he took my bra off. “Your breasts are beautiful. Now everyone can feast their eyes upon them.” I sighed and he continued to speak, “Mmmm… your nipples are so hard. You like this?” Grabbing them, pinching one at a time before he reached into his pocket. He held up two dangling jeweled pasties like I had seen earlier—so pretty. He covered each of my nipples, “They match your eyes. Your gorgeous, lavender eyes.” His lips were so close to mine as he spoke, I thought he was going to kiss me, and I moaned.