Emile stopped beside a black Citroen. Took out his key and unlocked the boot to stow my case. Then he went round to the front and opened the door, waiting for me, beaming. I hesitated then realised of course the driver’s seat was the opposite side from cars at home. My cheeks burned and I felt stupid. Emile said nothing. I settled myself into the passenger seat, tugging my skirt over my knees. As he drove away I shot swift glances at his profile. He didn’t look as old as I’d imagined he’d be.
The apartment was in a tall house with dark green shutters. The residential row overlooked a park in an area my parents would have called a nice neighbourhood. Emile unlocked the front door and gestured for me to enter.
‘We are on the first floor,’ he said. ‘Pardon. I go ahead of you.’
I followed him up the stairs. He might have been a stranger to me but he was part of my pen friend’s life. Yet I still felt slightly disorientated. Wished Jeannine hadn’t missed her train. His manners were beautiful, but he made me feel edgy. Not that there was anything in the least alarming about him: far from it. He was clean-shaven and wore a dark suit, tie, and white shirt. Just as if he’d abandoned his desk in some anonymous office or bank in the commercial quarter to come and meet me. He was broad-shouldered yet lithe. Looking back to that first day in the city of my dreams, I know now it was not just his Frenchness that fascinated me.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting your day too much.’ I waited for his wife to appear.
But Emile put down my case and shook his head. ‘Not at all. Make yourself at home. Shall we have coffee?’
He opened one of the doors leading off the tiny hallway and I walked into a sitting-room. The window overlooked the trees opposite and I gazed down at an ornamental pond in the park and benches with people sitting on them. It was a mild April day. Old men played boules. It was everyday Paris for everyone except me.
The chair I chose to sit on was so soft it sighed around me. A polished table stood on a circular black rug in the middle of the room but the floor beneath my feet was bare wood. Faded wallpaper peeped from behind a collage of framed pictures, most of them city scenes. I recognised the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. There were prints by Degas. There were pen and ink sketches, achingly simple. They seemed to me to contain the soul of the city I already loved. Paris was a siren, calling me to explore its scents and sounds. I was ready for adventure and, although I didn’t acknowledge it, my body was calling the shots as surely as the mantelpiece clock ticked away the seconds.
The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Emile returned, carrying a tall pot and a jug of milk. He placed both on the table and retraced his steps to collect a tray of food. ‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘A picnic. I am sorry my wife is not returned from her work yet. Tonight she will make delicious dinner for us all.’
I joined him at the table. There was a dish of what appeared to be wizened sausages.
He saw my expression. ‘Garlic sausage. Tastier than it looks.’
The crisp French stick and dish of creamy butter appealed more, though the black olives were alien. I pulled out a chair and Emile placed before me a glass containing a measure of colourless liquid.
‘Calvados. It is apple brandy. You look a little fatigued. This is your first time in an aeroplane?’
I nodded. Picked up the glass and sniffed. The smell stole my breath but I wanted to savour everything about France.
Emile nodded encouragement. ‘A la votre,’ he said.
I repeated the toast. Mademoiselle had taught us this one. But she hadn’t prepared us for such a kickback. My first sip crackled down my throat. Fiery fingers clawed at every part of my body.
Emile chuckled. ‘Two firsts in one day,’ he said. The words seemed to hang in the air.
He sat down opposite me. I took another swallow of the spirit and this time the hit was a gentle buzz. Suddenly my angora cardigan was too warm. I undid the few buttons I’d fastened and wriggled my arms out of the soft wool. I hung the garment on the back of my chair and turned to pick up my glass again. Emile seemed frozen. He’d been buttering a chunk of bread when I began removing my top layer. Now, looking at him across the table, I saw how his eyes had changed colour… changed from light grey to granite.
I tried to ignore the throbbing between my thighs. I’d had crushes on boys and been kissed by a few but I was still a virgin. No one had ventured above my stocking tops though there’d been attempts. At bedtime, my own faltering efforts at masturbation were always self-conscious and left me yearning, feeling there must be something better. If anyone had asked me how I felt at that moment I would have had to say I felt excited not just by the alcohol but by the realisation that this man found me attractive. All of a sudden I wasn’t just an English schoolgirl treading the traditional path to improve her examination grade. All of a sudden I was on the brink of something. I didn’t know it at the time but I was empowered.
He passed me the dish of olives. I bit into one and shuddered. He laughed and poured me a glass of water. I drank it greedily. He cut a sliver of Brie and placed it on my plate. He got up and went over to the sideboard, returning with a bunch of black grapes. He stood, broke off a cluster and bent to put them beside the cheese. His proximity was almost unbearable. I felt his masculinity as something tangible, something to push away or something to welcome. As I struggled with my emotions, he plucked a single grape from the sprig and held it to my lips. His fingers brushing my cheek sent an electric shock straight to my core.
We ate in silence. My taste buds were stimulated as never before. The Brie tasted wonderful and the fruit luscious and sweet. I drained my glass then sipped coffee darker and stronger than anything I’d drunk at home.
‘Would you like to take a walk?’
‘I could go to the park. Really, I can quite easily amuse myself if you have things to do.’
Those granite eyes didn’t meet mine this time. They were focused elsewhere. I remembered that without the pale blue cardigan the outline of my bra was obvious under my white blouse. My mother always frowned when I wore this particular garment. But, I took a very deep breath, conscious of my breasts rising and pushing against the sedate fabric. The pulse between my thighs was really quite strong now.
He got up from the table. Abruptly. Cleared his throat. Reached for the cigarettes he’d placed on the mantelpiece. ‘Do you mind if I…?’
‘I don’t mind.’
When I pulled my cardigan back on, this time I turned my back to him. He picked up my coat and helped me into it.
We walked towards one of the bridges crossing the Seine. I don’t remember which. I was counting the hours until this torture was over. I was a shy eighteen-year-old with an imagination too vivid for her body to contain. My mind was painting pictures of something which I’d wondered about for so long, but had not dreamt would ever taunt me so. Emile seemed preoccupied. He stopped near an ice cream kiosk and asked me if I’d like a cornet.
My eyes wandered over the sweet biscuit cones and I wondered if he was trying to ground me in childhood. I didn’t want to blur the strong coffee and tangy schnapps with vanilla or strawberry flavours. So I refused but thanked him nicely in French.
We walked towards a row of shops. The first window contained works of art. There was a painting of a man and woman, naked. Her leg shielded the part of the male anatomy that fascinated me. Embarrassed, I looked away. Emile took my arm and my heart seemed to pound against my ribs.
‘Look, what do you see now?’
But he wasn’t looking at the paintings. It was within view: the Eiffel Tower thrusting skywards, angular, and to my surprise a little rusty. I was seeing it for real and all I could think about was the way his knuckles grazed my breast when he grasped my arm.
I pulled myself together. ‘It’s a dream come true, seeing something I’ve always wanted to see. This whole trip is dreamlike.’
He didn’t immediately reply. He seemed almost to struggle for words. ‘Tomorrow you and Jeannine can spend all day sightse
eing.’
The sky had been steadily darkening. Now raindrops splashed on the pavements. I pulled the belt of my coat tighter. My mother’s words returned to me. You should have travelled in something with a hood.
‘Come on. I know a short cut.’
Emile held out his hand and I grabbed it. We ran down an alley, rain bursting from the sky, hitting our faces and drenching our hair. The bridge was within view. We pounded across, ran until I got a stitch and cried out for him to stop. I bent double and when I stood up again, he lifted his hand and brushed my dripping fringe from my eyes.
‘Two minutes and we are home,’ he said. I wanted to suck his voice inside me and keep it there.
The apartment seeped garlic-laced warmth. Emile hung up my coat in the kitchen and brought me a towel so I could dry my hair. I kicked off my shoes and wished I could peel off my stockings.
He seemed to read my mind. ‘Use the spare bedroom. I will show you. This is where you and Jeannine will sleep while you are our guests. And I shall bring you a gown.’ He hesitated. ‘Paris has not been very hospitable today. You should get out of those clothes so we can dry them in front of the gas fire.’
In the bedroom with the pink ruffled counterpanes and the gaudy-faced rag dolls perched on pillows, I began to remove my clothing. My shoes and stockings were sodden. The front of my slip and of my skirt was damp but my cardigan and cotton blouse were fine so I hung them on a chair back. I kept on my pants and bra, but bit my lip as I looked down and saw how prominent my nipples were. I picked up the towelling gown and pulled it on, securing the belt so the fabric tightened over my breasts, heightening my feeling of longing and not knowing quite what to do about it.
I unwound the towel from my hair and ran my fingers through the tangled blonde curls. I was going to look such a mess. Suddenly I felt shy. Did Emile mean that I should stay in the bedroom until my clothes were dry? I had plenty of spare things in my suitcase.
My thoughts were interrupted by a discreet knock.
‘Come in,’ I called.
He left the door open behind him. His eyes were troubled. ‘I am so sorry to have got you caught in the rain. I hope you won’t catch cold.’
‘I’m used to getting caught in the rain. I’m British.’ My nervous giggle died in my throat.
Because Emile did something I shall never, ever forget. He walked towards me and took one of my hands between his. He turned my hand over, hesitated a moment then bent his head and kissed my palm, right in the centre.
I trembled. I didn’t know how to deal with this man. But my instinct was to wait and see what happened. He raised his head then he put both hands on my hips and drew me towards him. I moved as if wrapped in satin. My body and brain were lulled in a delicious stupor, bathing me in its rosy glow.
His lips on mine were cool and soft. He didn’t let them linger long before he began scattering tiny kisses over my throat so I threw back my head, arching my back. One of his hands moved, pushing gently inside the towelling gown, his touch soft as swansdown on my skin. With his other hand he loosened my belt and his lips moved lower still so they kissed the swell of my breasts.
‘It is good?’ His voice caressed me.
I must have made some small sound. I was incapable of coherent speech.
He crooned as if reassuring me that if I should tell him so, he would immediately stop. But I didn’t want him to stop. His hands unclasped my bra. His mouth moved to my left nipple. As his lips and tongue sent tremors through me, I thrust myself closer, as if trying to disappear inside him. He chuckled. ‘Ma belle petite,’ I think he said.
Looking back, I realise how skilled he was. Just one finger of his other hand touched my right breast. With just one finger, Emile circled the aureole relentlessly, round and round until I cried out, unable to bear the delicious agony. At once his tongue latched on to my hungry nipple, licking and flicking and sucking before he took it between his lips, gently nibbling the swollen bud with his teeth.
I shuddered then, giddy with wanting. He swept me up in his arms and laid me gently on one of the narrow single beds. I still wore my pants and my borrowed gown though it gaped open.
‘We should remove these,’ he whispered. But he waited for me to do so. At no time did he force the pace. There was an unspoken acceptance that I was in command and I knew that should he go away from me, I would be bereft. I wanted this to happen.
I wriggled out of my knickers and robe. He turned away from me then and I closed my eyes, hearing the rustle of clothing. Then he was beside me, pushing a towel under me, murmuring something, teasing my mouth with his tongue and making me feel as if all my nerve endings were aflame.
When he began stroking my thighs I was floating somewhere outside myself. But the feel of his fingertips drumming my warm wet place, marooned me in a magic circle where only he and I existed. He murmured something in his own language but I missed it. My body seemed to have taken over from my brain. My eyes were closed and my hips moved, rhythmically grinding my bum into the mattress. If he had asked me whether he should stop at that point, he would surely have realised I was beyond stopping. If he had sudden scruples about whether or not I was a virgin then that was of no account. I trusted him totally and utterly to finish what we had begun.
His hands were busy elsewhere now. I heard him open the packet. Curiosity opened my eyes as he sat on the side of the bed. Then he was astride me. The touch of his mouth on mine was urgent. His tongue probed as his hand moved between my legs and I felt one then two fingers slipping inside me. I moved against him and he groaned.
‘You are like velvet. I’ll be gentle. I promise.’
He moved his hand away and I felt the silky tip of him nudge me. Inexperienced as I was, I reached for him, marvelled at this rock-hard thing smooth in my hand: about to enter my intimate regions. It wasn’t too late if I decided I didn’t want this. But suddenly the scenes in Lady Chatterley’s Lover that we sixth formers had giggled over and discussed at great length, curious about size and sensation, suddenly they made sense. I too knew desire. I too needed to feel a man inside me. And it was happening.
Emile was working me. The tip of his shaft probed then progressed a little further. His body was angled so that as he moved, he massaged my flesh. The sensation was warm and I was aching down there; a dull, sweet pang. But there was a barrier. He retreated slightly and I sensed his hesitation.
‘No, no,’ I clutched him, pulling him closer. ‘Go on, Emile. I want you to. I want you to take me.’
He gasped as he penetrated further. I tried not to tense myself against what was about to end my girlhood but as the gateway yielded and the sharp pain sliced, I cried out. Then as he filled me utterly and entirely I relaxed beneath him, feeling his excitement mount. It seemed I need do nothing other than wait. I felt slippery. I felt a kind of triumph. But I also felt a kind of disappointment. Was this all there was?
His movements quickened. His breathing changed and there was an urgency I couldn’t match. The thrusts were shorter now. Rapid. When he cried out, I wondered what, if anything, I should do next.
Emile raised his head, smiled at me and gently pushed my hair back from my face. He whispered, ‘Wait a moment.’ Then he left me for only moments. When he returned, he held a tube of something which he unscrewed. Kneeling beside me, he parted my pussy lips. After the first shocked moment of coldness I relaxed, moaning and writhing; closing my eyes; arching my back as he pushed some kind of gel inside me. His fingers circled, circled and stroked, caressing and rubbing my swollen lips and my clitoris, finally focusing on that tight concealed bud whose potential I hadn’t quite mastered.
I was tightening my muscles, riding the spasms, calling out to him. If there were neighbours listening behind the walls then I could not have cared less. All I cared about was reaching that magic pinnacle.
As I shuddered against his hand, joy and accomplishment closed my eyes and I could not keep myself from smiling.
‘Ma petite,’ I heard him murmur. �
��I have unlocked your treasures. You do me a great honour.’
I was in my mid-thirties when I returned to Paris, this time with a special boyfriend. Rob was nothing if not a romantic. We’d held hands in the taxi, watching the lights of the city slide by. It was his first visit to the city. I kept pointing out places to him. My excitement mounted and I wondered why I’d stayed away so long from a place that attracted me so. And yes, as Rob got his first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, I did wonder whether Emile still lived in that shuttered house overlooking the park.
Champagne on ice waited in our room. I was delighted by the en suite bathroom. And I was already almost up to High Doh. The sounds and smells of Paris recreated that sense of wonderment, that mix of fear and desire that led the eighteen-year-old me to give herself to the uncle of a girl she’d yet to meet.
‘What is it about you and Paris?’ Rob handed me a glass of bubbly.
‘Paris is so sexy.’
‘Like you. So, tell me more.’
He loved me to talk dirty to him. It’s a skill I’ve developed over the years. I find it a total turn on both for me and for the man I’m talking to. There have been several lovers since my, shall we say, initiation into the sensual arts. And, on lonely nights when my vibrator has come some way towards filling that ache, I’ve played out that first time with Emile again. I was so very fortunate that my first lover was thoughtful enough to teach me how to orgasm.
‘The first man who ever fucked me was a Parisian.’
‘Hussy. How old were you?’
‘Just eighteen. My bra and knickers were white cotton aertex. Don’t smirk! And I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do.’ I kicked off my shoes and relaxed into the couch beside him.
Sex in the City Paris Page 14