Hot Sex, Cool Erotica

by Bebe Wilde

  Now, he was fucking me, concentrating on fucking me.

  He turned me around and put me up on the table. My legs opened wide and invited him in. He hesitated, staring at me, at my pussy, which wanted him back in. I wasn’t in the mood for games, so I grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head, then leaned in and kissed his chest and nipples, licking my way up to his neck, which I sucked and kissed. I clawed at him with my hands until he grabbed them and put them on his cock and together we stroked it.

  I stared down at it, so hard it trembled a little. Then I got up off the table and bent before him and took it in my mouth. I wanted to give him a little of what he’d given me, but just to the point he could no longer take it. That didn’t take long. I gave good head and before I was ready to stop he grabbed me and pulled me back up to him, giving me a hot, hard kiss before pushing me back onto the table.

  Oh, yes. It was time to get the show on the road. Now, it was time for him to really fuck my brains out. I’d never get enough, even after I left for the day. I’d think of him until we met again, tomorrow.

  He was in; his cock was in me, fucking me. It felt so good. I grabbed onto his shoulders and stared into his dark eyes. They were beautiful eyes and they told me everything he’d never dare say. They told me he loved doing this to me and that he loved me. I knew it already. It was just nice to have confirmation.

  I started to fuck him back. He bent over and pressed his face into my neck, which he sucked and licked and stroked with his tongue. It was almost too much. I was almost right there, right at orgasm. But before I could come, he started driving it in even more, even harder and that made me want to play more, to get more, to have more of this feeling, of this intense sexual pure joy feeling.

  Every single inch of his hard cock filled me. It was difficult to contain the excitement and before he could give another thrust, the orgasm just jumped on me and rode me hard, just like he was riding me—good, hard, steady but fast. I exploded with passion. I could not get enough. I was coming so hard and so good I was shaking. He was shaking me to the core, just like he always did.

  He was coming, too. He was coming just like I was coming and there was nothing either of us could do but hold onto it and beg it to last. It was over sooner than we both liked and we were kissing, hugging, holding onto each other after it was gone.

  We were panting and then he was pulling away from me. We stared into each other’s eyes unblinkingly, uninhibited but didn’t say a word. There was nothing to say.

  It’s true. Paris is for lovers.

  An American in Paris

  “Nina,” he would call to me as if from another room, from inside a dream. “Come here. Come now.”

  Come here. Come now. I would go to him without hesitation.

  I was only thirty-one then. Thirty-one. Thirty. One. Not young but certainly not old. More impressionable than I’d ever admit. I could have been nineteen—I was that sexually innocent. Or repressed. I like to think of it as innocence. But it wasn’t. It was repression. All of it. I repressed myself. I was a good girl and good girls don’t like bad sex. At least not until they have some.

  I liked it. No, I loved it. I loved when he took charge and pushed me up against the wall. I loved being taken all over the room—on the couch, on the table, on the floor. I loved how our love making wasn’t resigned to just one place. I loved looking into his fierce eyes as we fucked ourselves silly. I loved our games of dominance and submission.

  But sex wasn’t that big of deal to me. Sure, I’d had it but it didn’t really move me. I didn’t fantasize about it. It was what it was. To be honest, he didn’t do it for me at first. No man really did. I just wasn’t that interested in sex. Sure, I had had good sex—sometimes even great sex—and all that, but it wasn’t something I craved. It was more like a diversion.

  But that was all about to change.

  I once told a friend, “Men love women and women love vibrators.” And that’s where I got most of my love from, from a plastic, battery-powered device. It felt good, but there was always something missing. Vibrators don’t have hands and lips and they don’t have emotions. He had emotions, by the truckload.

  He. Him. François. French. Handsome, aloof, a bit of an asshole when he wanted to be and sometimes when he was just being himself. I didn’t appreciate him, didn’t appreciate what he was doing to me, how he was making me feel. And he made me feel things I never imagined. Things… They were just feelings. No.

  No. No. No.

  François. François standing in the rain at the entrance to the metro station waiting for me. François laughing wildly at a bad joke somewhere in the middle of Paris. François. French sex god. Young François. Older than me by only three years. François who made me so horny I would do nothing but fantasize about us fucking in the bathtub, in the alley, in his big bed.

  François didn’t show me much of Paris. No, we mostly stayed indoors which was much more fun and exciting than the streets of Paris could ever be to me.

  I wasn’t even supposed to go to Paris. My roommate, James, talked me into it and I went partly because I could and partly because I should. It was a once in a lifetime thing, an opportunity to live abroad. To be free. To let go of all responsibility.

  James had managed to pull off some major European sales coup and his company wanted to transfer him to their branch in France so he could babysit the details. I was only living with him until I could find a place of my own. I didn’t have a place to live due to selling the house after our divorce. We’d miraculously come out ahead on the house and actually had money to split. In addition to that, I had a healthy savings account due to the fact that my mother had always taught me to save money on my own because, “You never know what might happen.” She had been right. I hadn’t envisioned the divorce but once it was done, I was in a good financial position to do something like this. So, why not?

  I went to Paris out of boredom, out of desperation. I was young, impressionable. I went because I was underemployed. My job, while financially rewarding, just bored me to tears. It was the same hum-drum day after day. I didn’t have anything to lose by going. I could find another job, but an opportunity like this? That was a once in a lifetime thing. In fact, if I didn’t go, I would be losing out.

  Life, simply, wasn’t all that exciting for me during that time. I’d done everything right, just like those cheap little life lessons that movies and books are so found of giving us. Work hard, get rewarded. What a crock of shit. I had worked hard on my marriage just to see him walk out the door. I was bitter about that, too.

  “For maybe a year,” James said and smiled, the tiny laugh lines that surrounded his beautiful blue eyes crinkling a little. “It’ll be fun living in a new place with someone I already know.” He smiled again, then winked at me, adding, “And love.”

  He was so happy. I stared at him, starting to get convinced. He had an infectious happy air about him. He was always smiling, giving compliments, living life the way it should be lived. He was tall, handsome and gay. If only he’d been straight, I’d been a happy, happy girl. But he wasn’t. Even so, he was my best friend and treated me like a princess. He was better to me than my ex-husband had ever been.

  “It’ll be great, Nina,” he said and smiled and smiled.

  I wasn’t so sure. I’d been to Paris as a tourist and found the Parisian people to be… Well, to be...French. Very much so.

  I almost told him to go without me. I had my own little job and my own little life. And here he wanted me to drop everything and leave. He told he needed me to go with him, that he didn’t want to be all alone in a city like that. He said we could have so much fun and that if I did, he’d make it up to me.

  “They’re going to rent me an apartment,” he said and smiled again, this time more widely. “And a car.”

  He was so damn proud of himself. I looked away from him, finding excuses not to go. Okay. Here was one: The thought of driving in Paris gave me hives. What if I
got caught in that roundabout or whatever it was called at the Arc de Triomphe and couldn’t get out of it?

  Was that it? Was that the only excuse I could find not to go to Paris? I mulled it over in my mind. Should I go? Should I stay? I weighed the options, the pros and the cons. There just wasn’t that much for me in Atlanta at the time. And the fact was I could take a taxi or the Metro wherever I wanted in the city. I didn’t have to drive if I didn’t want to. That was a pro. The other pro? I hated my job and I was sick of Atlanta and my friends were busy with their own lives. And while I could date, I hated the thought of seeing my ex-husband out. What if I ran into him with some new woman? Could I handle that? I didn’t know if I could. I knew he was moving on, seeing other people, dating. I was doing none of those things. I was stuck, not knowing what move to make next. Paris, at that time, seemed like the only viable option to get my life up and running again. It would jerk me out of my slight depression and dissipate the bitterness a little.

  So, what was the con about going? Oh, driving around the city. Oh, and the French people being a little… French. Hmmm…

  “Nina,” James said, smiling slightly. “How about it? Want to go or not?”

  “Sounds great,” I said and smiled back at him. “When do we leave?”

  * * * * *

  The first month was hell.

  I was alone most of the time because James was busy being important. He was constantly working. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t do anything. I just sat in our nice but old Parisian apartment with the high ceilings and beautiful crown moldings and rooms that were modernized and large. The wood floors were well-worn and a spectacular herringbone. The furniture was comfortable but modern. It was an apartment people only dream of having in Paris. I’d sit on the couch, or even in the chair, and try to find something on TV, which wasn’t an easy task because I didn’t learn the French language easily. Sure, I was soon picking up some here and there and could understand a little and even speak a little, but, mostly, I was lost. I don’t know how many conversations I bumbled my way through. Good thing a lot of people in Paris actually spoke English.

  I hated it. I wanted to go home. I told James as much over dinner.

  “Go out and meet some people,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked, getting frustrated. “The doorman? The lady at the market? Who?!”

  “Is it who or whom?” he asked and stared at the ceiling as if he were really trying to figure this one out. “I’ve been speaking so much French I think I’m beginning to question my English.”

  “Don’t do this right now,” I said.

  “Do what?” he replied and stared back at me.

  “Act like I’m an asshole and then act like an asshole yourself,” I said. “I know I’m being an asshole, but I just don’t like it here.”

  He stared numbly at me. I wanted to yell something at him. Exactly what I didn’t know. Maybe I was jealous that he was acclimating better than me and would come home late in the evenings happy as a lark while I’d been sitting in that apartment doing nothing. It was too much. I felt too out of place, too much like a foreigner. My comfort level had been compromised and I didn’t know if I’d ever feel at home here in the most beautiful city on earth. Maybe I was just a fool and couldn’t see that life had handed me—on a silver platter, no less—an extraordinary gift. I couldn’t see it, though, because I was very intimidated. And being intimidated made me angry.

  The next day, James came home early. He called from the foyer, “I’ve got something for you!”

  I didn’t even move off the couch.

  “Nina!” he hollered.

  I ignored him, turned over and buried my face in the cushion.

  I heard him mutter, “For God’s sake,” and then he rolled something into the living room.

  “Nina?”

  I ignored him.

  He came over and pried me away from the couch and forced me to look at what he had bought me—a bicycle. One of those old European ones with a basket and a bell. It looked like a beach cruiser, the kind old women and men with DUI’s ride. Oh, for God’s sake.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  “It’s great,” he replied. “Don’t you think? These bikes are really hip now.”

  I eyed it. “Did you find that in the garbage?”

  “No!” he exclaimed. “I bought it.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Granted, it’s second-hand but most people don’t ride expensive bikes over here. Plus, it works.” He demonstrated by ringing the bell. Ding! Ding!

  The bike, even if it were hip, was old, slightly rusted and used to be some sort of electric blue color. The basket had seen better days. However, the lone flower that had survived was now a pale pink color, which didn’t go with the electric blue at all. It was so ugly, it was bordering on hideous. If he thought I was riding that thing along the streets of Paris, he had lost his damned mind. I already felt like an out of place fool just walking around. Everyone else walked too; it wasn’t that big of a deal. Nevertheless, they seemed to know where they were headed.

  “Why don’t people ride better bikes than this?” I asked.

  “They’ll get stolen.”

  I eyed the bike. Yeah. No one would want to steal that thing. I wouldn’t even have to chain it up.

  “Besides, with this one, you’ll blend in more,” he said, so damn proud of himself. “With the locals.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Come on,” he said and held out his hand. “Give it a try.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not riding that thing.”

  “Well, you said you wouldn’t drive,” he said. “This is a good option.”

  “No, it’s not! I could get hit by a bus or a car or a rude Frenchman!”

  “Come on,” he said. “Give it a try.”

  “No,” I snapped and started out of the room. “You give it a try, James.”

  “Nina, come on,” he said, following me. “What do you have to lose?”

  I sighed and told him I’d rather walk and that if I didn’t start liking Paris soon, I’d be on the next plane out. I knew I was being a bitch, but I wasn’t suited for a life abroad. I wasn’t a cool expatriate. I was just me and being me right then didn’t feel so good.

  However, the next morning, the bicycle and I had a standoff. We stared at each other, each of us daring the other to do something. Well, I stared at it and it just looked like shit. But it won. It was either that or calling airlines looking for the best deal out of Paris. Why not give it a try? What did I have to lose? Not much. The bicycle won and I had to see what might be out there for me.

  I rolled it out of the apartment, into the elevator and onto the street. I felt like a fool. I got on it and rode up the street, stopped at the corner and looked both ways, then I went another block, then two. Then I almost ran over some school children and pushed it back to the apartment.

  The next day, I tried it again. And the day after that. Each day, I would go a little further and further until one day, I realized I had ridden around a great portion of the city. Well, at least all the touristy areas. I had been by the Louvre. I had been by the Eiffel Tower, down the Champs Elysees and over to Notre Dame. I’d even stopped by cafés and had lunch.

  I felt pretty good about myself.

  “See?” James said. “I told you you’d like it.”

  And I actually did. I was starting to enjoy Paris. It’s a place that, while beautiful, one has to adapt to. It doesn’t greet you and it doesn’t open its arms. It’s just there, daring you to like it—or not, it didn’t care either way. And you have to like it, or even love it, because, well, it’s Paris. And Paris doesn’t give a damn what you think about it because it already knows how great it is. But I was beginning to like it even though, at first, it had intimidated the hell out of me. And I like to think that Paris was beginning to like me back. We were starting to get along just fine.<
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  One of my favorite things to do was to watch couples from a park bench. I’d heard somewhere that the tourism board actually paid couples to come to the park and make out. It made the city seem more romantic. I didn’t know if any of the couples I was watching had actually been paid—or if this was even true—but they really went at it. I’d watch them, but at the same time, I’d also feel a little like a voyeur. I wasn’t that interested in doing it myself because of my divorce, but it did look like fun.

  The French men were great, though a little off-putting. Like the city of Paris, they too intimidated me, but at the same time they shouldn’t have. They would stare at me, somewhat smiling, like they knew all about me. I’d look away quickly and pray they wouldn’t try to talk to me. They didn’t. They didn’t have to.

  There seemed to be a discernible difference between American men and French men. With the French, there was no premeditation, no games to play. If they wanted you, it would only be a matter of time before they had you. There would be no issues to deal with. If they had a lover in the past that hurt them, once you showed up, she was gone from memory. It was all about you then, to them. There was more concentration. It was all about the one that in front of them at the time. When they kissed you, they kissed you. They gave it everything they had.

  With American men, not so much. From my experiences, they were usually kissing you with one eye open so they could scout for other women they might like better. But maybe I was romanticizing French men. Maybe they did this too. Maybe all men did it.

  But, in actuality, this was never a personal experience of mine, worrying about a man with a roaming eye. But I’d heard about it from girlfriends who had to play the game of love over and over until they finally pinned some bastard down to marry and procreate with. With me, I was the one looking around, trying to figure a way out. I hated commitment, even when I was married. I don’t know why I hated it; maybe because once you seal that door off, it’s hard to open back up.