by Neneh Gordon
He laughs, disarmed by my bluntness. “I have no plans for the evening. You are alone. Perhaps you would like some company?”
“You’re a complete stranger.”
“Armand knows me. He knows my address and all my personal details. I cannot do anything bad to you without being discovered in a second.”
I only have to deliberate for a split second. “You can take me out for a walk,” I decide. “And perhaps we could have dinner.”
So that is what we do. Well, partly.
The walk part, yes. The remains of the day’s humidity cling to the air and he takes off his jacket, freeing his elbow from the dove-grey sleeve I so admired. His smell is exactly as I had foretold and it wafts pleasantly about me as we cross the Place Vendôme, chatting lightly about Paris in general, his job, my job, his divorce, my break-up. By the time we are on the other side of the Rue de Rivoli, at the gates of the Tuileries, I feel I know him as well as most of my colleagues at work, if not a few of my friends.
Not many of my friends or work colleagues would have slid an arm about my shoulder on a walk through a funfair, though, and neither would they have stopped me underneath the trees, tipped my chin up to meet the angle of their eyes and said, “How long has it been, Tamara?”
“Since what?” I have a feeling I know what is coming.
“Since a man kissed you. Really kissed you, the right way.”
“What’s the right way?”
“This way.”
Oh, that way. The French way. In the cross-hatch shade of the overhanging trees we hang off each other, lip to lip, hip to hip, just another version of that classic Parisian scene: the lovers in the park. When he has sipped his fill of me and our scents have fused into one, he releases my mouth and whispers into my ear.
“Your hotel does very good room service, if Armand tells the truth.”
“Jean-Claude! We’ve only just met.”
“Are you shocked? Really, Tamara?”
No, I am not shocked. I am thrilled; nervous but thrilled. This ridiculously sexy Frenchman wants to take me to bed, roughly an hour after I first spotted him through a window. I have no plans to marry him, or even see him again, so why not?
“What would you like, Tamara?” he asks me, his hands still clasped in the small of my back, his lips in my hair. “Tell me your fantasy, and I will try to make it real.”
You already are.
“Here,” I mumble. “Just here. In the open air, with people nearby.”
“Really? An exhibitionist?”
“No, I just want the sense of danger. I don’t really want to be watched, but I want the sensation of feeling I might be. Do you understand?” My words are coming out in a rush, because if I stopped to think about them they would probably languish unsaid. I am not used to voicing my desires—far more accustomed to sublimating them—but the warm Parisian evening air and this warm Parisian man have conspired to unstring me.
He scoffs. “OK,” he says slowly, considering my request. “We should wait until it is a little darker. So we could just carry on kissing for an hour or we could go to a bar, maybe.”
The first option sounds just right, but perhaps a little non-Dutch courage might come in handy. Not too much, of course.
He seats us in a booth and orders two pastis. The aniseed fire sets something roaring inside me and I don’t flinch for a moment when he puts his hand on my thigh, stroking so that the material of my skirt quickly rumples and uncovers my skin inch by inch.
“Is this a hobby of yours?” I ask him, sinking into the sensation of being touched in secret.
“Hobby?”
“An interest. Passe-temps?”
He laughs and his fingers drum lightly on my thigh.
“Sex? It’s everybody’s favourite way to pass the time, isn’t it?”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter.
“I am surprised already. Surprised to be here with a pretty woman and my hand is up her skirt.”
It is too. Whispery little caresses cross my inner thigh. He’s getting dangerously close to the lacy borders of my French knickers. Nobody at the bar seems to be watching, and besides, they won’t be able to see. I take another sip of my pastis and slowly spread my legs a smidgen wider.
Well-manicured and confident, the Frenchman’s hand is quick to RSVP to my invitation. With one swoop, he slips his fingers inside my knickers.
“Ah, you really do want this,” he says softly, tracing the outlines of my pussy. “You are wet.”
Yes, I am wet. Of course I am. I’m sitting in a public bar with an impeccably dressed man who has a sexy accent and a smell of luxury. He has seen me and known straight away that I am the kind of woman he can use like this. He knows that my demure dress is just a veil for my hard nipples and my swollen clit. He knows I’m begging for it.
“This is a public place,” I say, but it’s not a reproof, more a desire to say the words out loud, to make it real, to make it twice as deliciously naughty.
“You object?”
“No. I don’t.”
He rubs my clit, slowly and expertly, massaging it while I try very hard not to buck or writhe or do anything that might be obvious from the waist up.
“Your legs, you can make them wider? Sit so I can put my finger inside you.”
I have to brace my feet on a chair opposite and lean fully back. In the mirror across the booth, I can see the telltale redness of my face now.
Jean-Claude pushes two fingers up inside me and rotates them slowly while his thumb carries on at my clit. In his other hand he holds his glass, looking completely unconcerned to any observers.
He bends close to me and whispers in my ear.
“Getting it in a public bar,” he says. “Méchante. I am going to do this until you come, you know. I want to feel you come right there, next to me, with everyone around us. You are so wet, my God.”
I try so hard not to squirm, not to visibly respond to his touch, but my hips have a will of their own. They pull me into a slow dance of rotation, begging for more of his fingering without my saying a word.
“Would you like me to call some of those people over?” he whispers. “Let them look under the table and see what I’m doing to you?”
“Oh, no,” I gasp, but the fantasy image lodges itself in my brain and I want nothing more than to play along with it.
“Let them see my fingers in you, my thumb on your clit, your legs so wide.”
“Oh God.”
“I would sit you on the table and make you show them. Let them come and feel for themselves, maybe, one by one, how wet you are. Some of them might like to taste your pussy. They will get down and lick you and make you come, again and again. They have drops of cognac on their tongue and it warms your clit until you can’t bear it. You feel so hot, you have to have a cock in you.”
I can’t speak. The tension is too high now and I am close. His fingers continue to ply me with inexorable intent.
“I lay you on the table with your legs over the end. I hold your thighs and I fuck you, in front of everyone. While they watch you, they come over and touch your breasts and push their tongues in your mouth. They watch my cock go in and out of you, in and out of you… oh! Yes, that’s it.”
He knows I am coming, and that makes it two or three times more intense. I try to hide my face, twisting my neck and panting into my own shoulder. The effort of keeping still makes me feel as if my orgasm is being eked out, thanks to his busy fingers.
“Such a bad, bad girl,” he croons, sounding delighted. “To come in a public bar. Are you ashamed?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Drink your drink. It’s dark. I want to take you outside now.”
Through the trees in the Tuileries, the bright lights of the fairground can be seen, but that’s not where we are heading.
We are only a few feet away from the main path when he presses me into a tree trunk and kisses my helpless mouth. I don’t think anyone can see us when he reaches under my skirt and pulls off m
y knickers, but I could be wrong. After all, I can’t see much beyond his suit-jacketed shoulder, his neck, his stubble-covered chin.
He lifts one of my legs and places it on his hip, spreading me, getting me ready for my open-air fucking. Am I really going to do this? Judging by the jingle of his belt buckle and the soft swish of expensive trousers falling over taut buttocks, it definitely seems that I am.
I stiffen a little, imagining a French policeman patrolling the grounds and shining his torch on us, but then the thought turns into an extension of the fantasy and I forget to be anxious again.
There is a rustle and snap of latex and then I feel him, parting me, rubbing himself on me. I make an inarticulate cry into his mouth, which is still clamped firmly over mine.
He breaks off for a moment. “You want this?” he asks, sounding a little surprised. “Yes? You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I admit, stroking my leg up and down his side. “Please.”
At that, he surges into me, pinning me up against the tree.
I hold on tight while he sets a primal pace, hard and fast, pushing my bottom into the bark so that the patterns indent my skin. Each thrust I take increases the glorious feeling of being taken and used in the open air. I am getting fucked because that’s what I need and that’s what I’m good for, and he doesn’t even have to bother to take me to bed.
I jolt my pelvis up against his as our mouths meet passionately, and he rubs my clit once more.
I rock on the ball of the foot that remains on the ground, signalling to him that I am ready. He speeds up and I come, my cry disappearing into his throat. He picks me up properly then, cradling my bottom in his hands, and hurls himself into his own climax. My spine aches and I know I will have bruises, but I don’t care.
Sliding down the trunk to my knees afterwards, I feel as if every pressure of my life has lifted. I am floaty and free, with the real, good tiredness that always leads to refreshing sleep. My tension is gone.
Jean-Claude sits down on the ground beside me and takes me into his arms.
“You have a leaf in your hair. And wood. All over.” He tries to brush it off while I yawn and contemplate falling asleep there and then, under the Parisian moon.
“That’s OK,” I sigh. “And merci beaucoup.”
He holds me tighter. “De rien,” he says. “Let’s go back to the hotel, yes? Your holiday is only just beginning.”
“I Promise to… Surrender”
by Lily Harlem
Jake and I had been playing a wickedly sexy game. The erotic favour vouchers I’d found lurking in my knicker drawer were proving to be just what we needed to add a little more spice to our bedroom antics.
Though who was I kidding? A little more spice? It was a huge, colossal amount of chilli-hot spice and to date our vouchers had been redeemed a total of three times outside of the bedroom. One beyond the boundaries of the cottage altogether: that blow job under the oak tree had nearly made me come from giving oral sex; goodness only knew what Jake had experienced as the one receiving it.
I hugged my arms around my waist and looked at the booklet of vouchers lying on the bed. It was Jake’s turn to give me one. Choose something that he promised to do and let me pick the where and when.
Yesterday I’d flicked through the book. There were about half left. We’d used up the more sedate ones: a massage, dinner out, a foot rub, him giving me oral sex—that had been nice over the kitchen table as dessert. The vouchers left were more exotic. A little more of an acquired taste, so to speak. I wondered what he’d pick. What would float his boat?
“Hey, baby.” Jake walked into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his lean waist and his hair mussed and damp from the shower. “Are you waiting to see what treat I’ll give you?”
I tugged my gaze from the delectable smudge of body hair that sat over his sternum. The strands led a thin trail down to his navel then thickened as they dipped into the towel. Looking at Jake and devouring him with my eyes was something I would never tire of. For too many years I’d pretended to just be his friend, nothing more, waiting for him to get over Marie and notice that I was there, ready and willing.
Finally he had, and now ogling the prime specimen of a man before me was perfectly acceptable and legitimate because he was my husband. Luckily he seemed to find me, standing naked by the bed, just as pleasing a sight.
“There’s not many left,” I said, slipping under the covers.
The cool sheets were welcome on my hot skin. For some reason I was nervous about which voucher Jake would choose. He’d surprised me lately with a surfacing dominant streak. I liked it, a lot. But I wasn’t sure how far he wanted to go with it and he was so damn big and strong. I couldn’t help but wonder what lurked beneath the surface of his gentle giant nature.
He dropped the towel to the floor. His cock was semi-erect. “I have a good idea which one,” he said, giving me a maddeningly cheeky grin.
I pulled the duvet up to just above my breasts and handed him the book.
“Mmm,” he said, fiddling with the silver bar that pierced his left eyebrow. “What’s it going to be?” He flicked the book open.
Pole Dance.
“That might require some advance preparation,” he said.
“Yeah, like structural work.”
“This cottage has been here one hundred and fifty years. I don’t think you spinning around a pole attached to the beams will pull it down.”
“With these hips, you never know.” I giggled and realised too late it was a nervous giggle.
Jake knew me too well. He caught my gaze and licked his bottom lip. He was enjoying having me ruffled. I could tell. Hell, I was enjoying being off-kilter. It was a damn sight more exciting than always knowing what was around the corner.
“You know full well there is nothing wrong with your very fine hips,” he said and lowered his eyes to my body, as though seeing me through the covers. “Mmm, but back to the matter at hand.” Flicking through the booklet, he skimmed past anal sex, a good cropping, manicure and pedicure, breakfast in bed, an hour as a slave, exhibitionism, blind seduction and several others I didn’t catch.
“Here we go,” he said, tipping the book so I couldn’t see what he’d landed on.
“Jake,” I whined, stretching to look.
“Ah, ah, no, no, wait and see.” He held it aloft and tore the voucher free.
My heart pounded, and my nipples were tight just from anticipation. What was written on the slip of paper?
“Here,” he said, holding it out, upside down. “But first you must promise to uphold the rules of the voucher.”
“Of course.”
“You will present me with it.” He grinned. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a treat for you more than it is me?”
He creased his brow and shook his head. “No, not at all. At least I hope it will be mutual pleasure.”
He looked so worried, with his eyes narrowed and his lips a tight line that I reached forward and kissed him. “Okay,” I said, breathing in his fresh, soapy, just-showered scent. “Let’s see.” I turned the voucher over.
A good spanking
My stomach clenched, and I swear my butt cheeks actually tingled. Spank! Jake wanted to spank me, or at least I presumed it was that way round and not that he wanted me to spank him.
God, what if that was it? Could I spank Jake’s hot, tight ass? Whack him until he came? I wasn’t sure if I could.
“Say something, Cassie,” Jake whispered, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Please.”
“You want to spank me?” I kept staring at the word spank. Just the sound of it in my head made me think of stings and slaps, wallops and thwacks. My body was buzzing at the thought of it, there was no denying that. But I couldn’t quite pinpoint my overwhelming emotion. Was it excitement, surprise, horror or desire?
“Well, I’m hardly going to expect you to spank me, am I?”
“I don’t
know.” I shook my head. “Maybe.”
He caught my chin and turned me to face him. “Cassie, I have loved exploring this new level of our sex lives. I hope you have too.”
“Yes, absolutely. I feel…” I hesitated. “Closer to you than ever before.”
“Good, because that’s how I feel. Like we have really peeled back the layers of ourselves.”
“Yes, and peeled back the duvet.” I stared down at it. “We’d become stuck in a bit of a rut, doing it in the dark twice a week beneath the covers.”
He smiled, then his face fell serious again. He fingered the voucher. “So what do you say? Will you accept this?”
I stared at it again. Heard Jake’s breathing. He was anxious. He’d put himself on the line with this one, set himself up to be made vulnerable—laughed at, even. It was something he wanted but had no idea if I would too.
The answer came to me in a rush of excited nervousness. I couldn’t deny Jake. Ever. “Yes. I will.”
His shoulders dropped and I realised how tense he’d been, waiting for my answer. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“But you seemed so shocked. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why, Cassie?”
“Because when you’ve been all determined and taken control over things, you know, lately, with these vouchers.” I was gabbling. “Like in the meadow when you held my head, fucked my mouth and you were so…”
“Dominant?”
“Yes, dominant.” I nodded.
“You liked it?” A slow smile was spreading on his face.
“Yes. Letting you take absolute control of me, of sex, it was strange, almost…” I struggled to find the right word. “Almost liberating.”
My body was humming, little frissons of desire shooting through me. Talking about spanking and imagining Jake’s hand coming down on my ass was a huge turn-on. The thought of being over his knee—ass cheeks in the air, all exposed and vulnerable—had moisture seeping from my pussy. It was then I realised one major thing. I didn’t want to wait for this promise to be fulfilled. I wanted it now. While I was excited, in the mood and curious as hell to know what it would be like.
“Here,” I said, giving him the voucher.