Title Page
SEX IN THE CITY
PARIS
EDITED BY
MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI
Publisher Information
Published by Accent Press Ltd
Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Limited 2010
Copyright © individual stories: Individual authors 2010
Copyright © compilation: Maxim Jakubowski 2010
The right of individual authors(as shown on stories’ title pages) to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
Printed and bound in the UK
Cover design by
Zipline Creative
Introduction
I am reliably informed that the art and practice of sex is well-known outside of major cities too, but that’s another book altogether!
Our new Sex In The City series is devoted to the unique attraction that major cities worldwide provide to lovers of all things erotic. Famous places and monuments, legendary streets and avenues, unforgettable landmarks all conjugate with our memories of loves past and present, requited and unrequited, to form a map of the heart like no other. Brief encounters, long-lasting affairs and relationships, the glimpse of a face, of hidden flesh, eyes in a crowd, everything about cities can be sexy, naughty, provocative, dangerous and exciting.
Cities are not just about monuments and museums and iconic places, they are also about people at love and play in unique surroundings. With this in mind, these anthologies of erotica will imaginatively explore the secret stories of famous cities and bring them to life, by unveiling passion and love, lust and sadness, glittering flesh and sexual temptation, the art of love and a unique sense of place.
And we thought it would be a good idea to invite some of the best writers not only of erotica, but also from the mainstream and even the crime and mystery field, to offer us specially written new stories about the hidden side of some of our favourite cities, to reveal what happens behind closed doors (and sometimes even in public). And they have delivered in trumps.
The stories you are about to read cover the whole spectrum from young love to forbidden love and every sexual variation in between. Funny, harrowing, touching, sad, joyful, every human emotion is present and how could it not be when sex and the delights of love are evoked so skilfully?
Our initial batch of four volumes takes us to London, New York, Paris and Dublin, all cities with a fascinating attraction to matters of the flesh and the heart. We hope you read them all and begin to collect them, and that we shall soon be offering you further excursions to the wild shores of erotic Los Angeles, Venice, Edinburgh, New Orleans, Sydney, Tokyo, Berlin, Rio, Moscow, Barcelona and beyond. Our authors are all raring to go and have already packed their imagination so they can offer you more sexy thrills…
And it’s cheaper than a plane ticket!
So, come and enjoy sex in the city.
Maxim Jakubowski
A Seduction of Vanity
by M Christian
Café latte before her, steam rising into a cool morning. Her phone rang with the first few bars of a top ten hit that had slid from number two to number eight just that morning. Out of her purse, silver and slim, and up to her ear: ‘Oui?’
The voice on the other end was tight, professional, asking if she was Jacqueline– to which she replied with another oui– then identifying itself as a secretary working for a writer at Le Monde, and would she, Jacqueline, be available for an interview? Scheduled for later the next day, in the evening?
Wrapped in the latest fashion, trying to make themselves look less giggly and clumsy, two young girls four tables over chittered and chattered behind their menus, with careful, wide-eyed glances toward her.
From her purse, her sunglasses. ‘Oui,’ Jacqueline said to the young man on the phone as she clicked the earpieces apart, neatly slid them over her ears, onto her nose. Details were exchanged: a date and a time. ‘This number OK?’
‘Oui,’ Jacqueline said. They chatted for a bit, cool professional pleasantries, cooling latte on the table, then it was over. The phone went back into her bag.
The girls were still there, babyfat faces hunched down, voices soft yet sharply excited, looking at each when not watching her.
Leaving her now cold, untouched coffee, Jacqueline paid and left before they could work up their courage to talk to her.
The day was hers, but there were always calls that could be made. From the bistro, she headed toward the Boulevard des Italiens. As she walked, she talked to Henri, to see if her schedule had changed. ‘Glad you called,’ her manager said, the clicking fingers on a computer keyboard in the background. Brusque and quick, he told her of a new appointment for a week later, some up-and-coming photographer wanting her for an outdoor shoot. Henri wasn’t one to chat so the conversation was short, but before he rang off, he said ‘Keep up the good work,’ which made her grin.
Next call was to Bois, to check on the dress she’d ordered. Putting a creased frown on her face when she got his creature; a lithe child who managed to sneer with each word she spoke: ‘I’ll-tell-him-you-called.’ If he wasn’t the best, she never would have put up with that kind of treatment, but he was, so she did.
At a corner, the engines of traffic making progress difficult but not impossible, she checked her messages, the voice sounding far away even though the phone was pressed tightly against her ear. Henri, asking her to call– sounding even more professional, even more wound-up, and, if possible, even tighter. Delete. A rambling voice, nasal accent making it difficult to understand, finally dawning that it was that British designer– Joan Hart, was that it?– reminding her that they’d met at Lauren DeBarge’s party, and on and on and on and on and on and if Jacqueline had the name and (“it would be so lovely”) if she had the number, of some woman who’d been at her opening. Delete. A sharp-toothed voice, leaving a simple message but far too much in the background for just the words “Call when you can.” Delete, then another punch of the tiny button to make sure.
That was all. But before she called her sister back, a few other calls. Across the street, traffic quieter now that it had stopped for the light, she dialled her friend Simone. It was only after her musical voice sang to leave a message that Jacqueline remembered Simone was probably still out on her shoot, modelling for Camille– the Camille– and she hung up without saying anything.
Pausing to look at a purse in a window, moving on when she decided it was just a bit too gaudy for this season, which was heavy on smooth Italian designs and simple hues, she next dialled Colette. The up-and-comer who’d asked for help in learning the business had seemed pleasant enough, and a chat with someone with wide adoring eyes was just what she needed, but there too she was greeted by a sing-song voice asking her to leave a message. Again, she did not.
About to dial again– that fellow with his work coming up in Zoom who’d left her a message a week or so ago– it was interrupted by a ring, the not-the-top-of-the-charts tune making her sigh. Might as well, she thought, answering it.
‘Allo?’ she said, knowing full well who it was.
‘Bonjour, Jacqueline
,’ said her sister, words cut and precise. ‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.’
‘No, no,’ she said, transferring the phone from one hand to the other. ‘Just on the way to another posing, Audrey. Sorry I haven’t called you back.’
‘I know you’re so… busy, Jacqueline. But since Mama was asking about you I thought I’d give you a ring.’
Knowing what the answer would be, she asked anyway, giving her sister that much: ‘How’s she doing?’
‘She’s old, Jacqueline. She doesn’t have a lot of time. But you know that.’
Merde. ‘I know that, Audrey. I do. It’s just that things have been so busy, what with the sittings and shoots and all. In fact just the other day, Camille… maybe you’ve heard of her? She was just saying–’
‘We’re proud of you, Jacqueline. Mama reads the papers and the magazines, or I read them to her if she’s too tired. She was very excited by that painting of you… the one they say is good enough to hang in the Louvre–’
‘Oh, that! Escobar is such a sweetheart, a perfect gentleman. I’m so happy for him, of course. Have you seen the painting? Last I heard it’s still on display in that gallery, the one near the Rue Christine. It’s really nice, but then he has been described as a genius…’
‘No, I haven’t seen it. I have to stay here… with Mama. I hope I can see it sometime, though. I’m sure it’s quite beautiful. Mama and I were just saying how you are too–’
Walking down the street, talking on her phone, danced around a rasta-curled boy also walking down the street, also talking on his phone. Walking, talking, dancing, she missed the last part of what her sister had said, replying as if she hadn’t: ‘I know I have to see her, Audrey, and I will. How about next week? Is that good for you?’
After a long moment: ‘Anytime is OK for us. Come when you can. It would mean a lot to us. For me.’
‘I promise, Audrey. I’ll be there before you know it. I have another call coming in, darling,’ she said quickly, even though she didn’t, slipping her finger across the button to disconnect the call.
* * *
A few lights, a few streets, from the Boulevard she stopped again, pulling out her phone and flicking through the address book for people to call. Names and number scrolled by on the tiny screen: this model, that friend, this photographer, that painter. Almost, but then her fingers didn’t complete the action that would ring the painter, and she went back to names and numbers flashing by.
Later, maybe later.
On the corner, a newsstand. Displayed there was a copy of ArtNews. An old copy, last month’s copy. The copy.
Just like every other time she really couldn’t recognize herself in it, at least not the Jacqueline she saw in a mirror. Reds and blues, mostly. Strong strokes. Bright colours. Eyes, a nose, lips, ears, hair. A background that looked like fire. It didn’t look like something that might hang in the Louvre, but that’s where some people were saying it belonged.
Not that she’d argue with them. Never.
‘How much for the copy of ArtNews, Monsieur?’
Lifting his grey-flecked beard from where it was folded up against a sadly faded sweater, the owner looked up at her from the racing form he was reading, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘Eh? What did you say?’
‘ArtNews,’ she repeated, reaching down and sideways to the rack, pulling the copy free. When it came, it took a copy of Marie Claire with it, causing it to tumble to the ground and into a small pool of water.
‘You have to buy that,’ the owner grumbled, red-streaked eyes narrowing at her, daring her to argue with his pronouncement concerning his tiny kingdom.
‘Of course,’ she said, holding the ArtNews so it faced him, her hands not obscuring the painting on the cover.
Not recognizing her, or pretending not to, he gave her change then went back to his form. Before she turned to go, she glanced down at the other magazine, the one swelling up, pages wrinkling as it soaked up old rain. Its cover, brand new, this month’s, was a photograph, not a painting. A photo of Simone.
Holding her ArtNews close to her chest, she left the newsstand and began to make her way slowly down the street.
Home… but she really didn’t want to go home. Not yet. The sun was still in the sky, though lowering toward the rooftops; calls could be made, though none of the faintly glowing numbers– or the people attached to them– appealed to her. There were shops to browse, though none of the silks and satins, beads and belts appealed to her.
So, sun lowering, phone stuck in her purse, the shops of the Boulevard des Italiens exhausted of potential new outfits, she resigned herself that home was where she should be heading.
But she still didn’t want to go there. On a corner, watching glass glide by, the lights of the city reflecting in their windows, she caught a new kind of illumination. A coffee, she decided, seeing the windows of the cafe, would be nice.
‘Bonjour, madame,’ said the hostess as Jacqueline entered, then closed the door behind her. Against the growing dust, the inside was almost too dazzling: polished brass, pale marble, frosted glass, the too-bright smile on the young woman waving her toward a table.
‘Café latte, s’il vous plaît,’ Jacqueline said, making herself comfortable: chair pulled closer to the polished table top, purse on top of it, ArtNews next to the purse, her face as seen by Escobar peering up at her.
How long did she look at it? Long enough to make a coffee, obviously, as a cup and saucer suddenly clicked and clacked down into the marble. ‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ said the hostess.
‘Pardon?’ Jacqueline said, looking up from the swirling dark liquid, its steam adding to the sauna spilling from the nearby bubbling brass espresso machine.
‘That. Your magazine. It’s a beautiful picture.’
‘Thank you.’
That was it. That was all. The hostess, as sparkling and bright as the café where she worked, moved away to chat with other customers. Feeling warm and glowing, from the compliment as well as the coffee, Jacqueline stayed until she finished her cup. Then, purse over her arm, magazine in her hand, she left some coins and stepped toward the door.
Hand on the handle, pushing it open she realized something, a shiver like the night outside. Madame. The hostess had called her madame…
Then her phone sang that less-than-popular tune again. Pulling it quickly out of her purse she glanced down at the screen, the text message there from Annette, another model, another sort-of friend. PARTY? it said.
II
So, home it was. But having a place to go to after the taxi ride to the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, the street of beauty, and then to just around the corner, into the street of her flat, she made the journey with a tight smile on her face.
From the cab, returning the driver’s grin and handing him a generous tip, she went to the foyer door. Bernardo, the doorman, as always showing his old man teeth as he shuffled to the door, turned the gleaming steel handle to let her in. ‘Bonjour,’ he said, dipping his head as she swept past him and in toward the lift.
Then up to the clean lines of the hall, the clean lines of her door, the clean lines of her apartment, the door shutting behind her with a soft hush of expensive precision.
It was a beautiful place: a glowing wooden slab of a coffee table, polished swirls and perfect knots; floor to ceiling prism class windows, the clear blue of thick protection, the view beyond a faery kingdom of late twilight Paris; Terzani lamps hovering high above, glimmering crystal throwing brilliant perfection all around; against one wall a Campaniello sofa, creamy leather as soft as a blown kiss; on the other a Matteucci-designed sideboard, tranquillity in luxurious teak.
It was a place to show, to stroll through in silk. The few pictures that hung were of her. Subtle, only the most transparent of ghostly arrogance in black and white photographs.
Heels clicking on the Italian flagstones that led from the entry to the bedroom, she carefully laid her purse down on the bedside table, cautious that it did n
ot fall back against the stiff cream diamond shade of the Estiluz lamp, turning its perfect placement into clumsy misalignment.
Wood and steel, crystal and stone, bright and flawless. It was a beautiful flat and she was proud of it. With a few practiced pushes of buttons on the lacquer-black stereo system, a mix of the most popular songs of that week surged from hidden speakers, bass and treble putting dance into her movements as she slipped off her dress, a satin descent adding a drum fan to the thundering music.
Then the shower. She was proud of the apartment, the way it had all come together from her suggestions and an expert decorator’s skill, but she loved the bathroom. Bra and panties neatly lowered into the hamper, she stepped into the elegant obsidian-tiled stall and, with a few turns of a well-tooled Rohl faucet, the water roared down onto her, drowning out the teeth-on-edge chilling lines and eternal coldness of the apartment with warm splashing.
On her body. Out there it was theirs, in here it was hers.
Water jetted a steaming massage on her face, down her neck, between her breasts, onto her belly, on one thigh then the other as she shifted and moved under the shower. The building had an old outside, but the plumbing was brand new: she had plenty of hot water.
Hand roaming, she brought a mild soap to her face– something benign that wouldn’t argue with her usual, more serious regimen. It came off when she put her face under the spray, lather rolling down her belly and then spiralling down the drain. From the same tiny shelf came another bottle, a dollop that cost as much as a good dinner out. It was health in a pearlescent plastic bottle, a specially formulated glow of sensuality. All so she’d look like a goddess for the cameras, or the brush of a master painter.
It also felt damned good. The wraps and plucks and peels and astringents and masks and cucumbers and the rest were OK sometimes, painful others, but that little bit of slipping and sliding felt wonderful.
Fingers spread, she applied it everywhere: her belly and around and around the perfect dimple of her navel, the gentle rises of her ribs to her thighs, along the tight muscles of her slim neck, the bumps of her spine to the sculpted rises of each rear cheek, shoulder to shoulder then down to the upsweep of her breasts.
Sex in the City Paris Page 1