April in Paris Page 5

  “We are now crossing the kingdom of the dead - there is an ancient graveyard beyond.” Adrianna gestured to a crumbling arch. “I assume that some shall return here and give it life.” In the catacombs, I could see pairs of figures retreating into a dim alcoves, their lights extinguished as their forms were consumed by darkness. In my momentary melancholy, my sense of failure at having been unable to capture Pierre Fournier, I lingered by the crumbling arch, first feeling frustration, and then the daring and caprice that comes from disappointment. It was a moment where one feels a cynical hunger for adventure in the face of disenchantment. Who could I hunt in his place? A random target? That would be too indiscriminate, but I relished the thought of vulnerable wounded prey. And as if the wicked thought had summoned a ready quarry, I watched in anticipation as a lone and melancholy figure approached.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” He asked, still wearing his costume, hood lowered in defeat, a cheerless British accent emerging from the darkness. “I was going to make a dry, cynical observation, but this whole idea of Adrianna’s is silly enough to be sublime.”

  “No. I’m not waiting for anyone...any more.” I spoke pensively, acknowledging him politely as I watched more departing white forms and robes as they continued to pair off.

  “It appears to have the social function she desired; everyone seems to have found someone. By the way...I’m Preston.”

  “I’m April.” I capriciously put a hand on his shoulder. “You seem so downhearted, dear.”

  “Ah, nothing.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I was thinking of my empty professional life. I’m a barrister, protecting the rights of writers and artists but I lack...”

  “Lack what, dear?”

  “Lack the vitality, the spark of all those around us.” He handed me a card that read:

  Preston Moorman

  International Barrister Specializing in Intellectual Property

  Boulevard Malesherbes 75008 Paris

  I smiled. “Well, Preston Moorman, I’m actually missing a manuscript. It may have been improperly misappropriated from me by Pierre Fournier. I may need an attorney, but...”

  He laughed brusquely. “Fournier? Ms. Jones, you may be assured that an attorney will be needed in anything touched by that cad. I’d be glad to investigate. But we must talk in detail and...”

  I laughed playfully at the thought of this new alliance, the peal of my sardonic laughter echoing across the ancient stones. “Yes. I would greatly appreciate that, dear.” I paused, and my sense of caprice, of delirious sport, was returning. “May I request something else of you, dear? There’s only one activity that’s consuming my ambitions at the moment.”

  “Yes?” He turned, startled.

  I beckoned shamelessly. “Come into the tombs. I have something I’d like to show you.” I led him through a crumbling gothic arch into a open space scattered with decaying monuments and sarcophagi and laid down supine on top of a flat tomb carved with cherubim, casting my robe back onto my shoulders, revealing my fully naked body, cupping my breasts suggestively. The inscription read “Tempus Fugit,” and I pointed it out to Preston: “That means, time flies, dear; gather your rosebuds while may...”

  “Quite wise, quite wise.” He awkwardly tugged at the hem of his white cowl.

  “Do I look like a carved Angel, Preston? A carved marble goddess in the moonlight?” I smacked the inside of my thigh in provocation. “How about these alabaster breasts.” I pinched my nipples, hardening the nocturnal air.

  “I think you’ve a little of the devil in you, rather.” He approached, his voice wavering. “You seem quite wild beneath the surface, April.” I laughed inwardly at his meek civility.

  “Hmm.” I stroked my midriff and then my clit, sensing a current of subterranean energy rising. “I am feeling a little...naughty and frolicsome. Maybe there is a little hellfire in me.” He walked forward stiffly like a soldier on a dutiful march.

  “You’re quite fine-looking April.” He looked away submissively.

  “Why thank you, sir. “ I winked. “But if you like what’s on the menu, then come forward and have a little taste, darling.” I winked and raised my right leg upward, exposing my pussy, now glistening, raising my boot theatrically towards the stars. “Lick behind my knee, darling. Give it a go.”

  “But. Shouldn’t I kiss you first?”

  I laughed capriciously. “Hell, no. Screw the preliminaries. Get your English ass over here.” And with that verbal exhortation, the poor Brit began to lick that sacred, sensitive juncture of thigh and calf, which immediately made me perspire as my nipples stood at delirious attention - a feverish tickle emerged from my pussy in immediate response. “God, Preston, your technique is unimpeachable...Lick the other one.” My legs were both raised sky-high, impelling my ass into the air, my anus puckering agreeably in the stimulating cool of the evening as he continued his assault.

  “Go for the honey jar.” I slapped my pussy in invitation.

  He laughed anxiously. “You are a devil, April. Dear God.” Preston quickly responded to my command for oral attention, throwing back his hood as he fellated my entire labia and clit, slobbering beautifully on the exposed snatch, which trembled convulsively as he licked from bottom to top, his surplus saliva dripping onto my thighs, impelling me to shiver with delight.

  “Mmm. Come on dear - spank my ass a little while you eat my pussy.” My buttocks were magnificently exposed as I continued to stretch my legs upwards, their bare majesty inviting a little additional stimulus. “Just a little light smack, darling.” Preston obeyed, and the simultaneous actions of tongue and hand forced me to tremble as he applied a few more light smacks, whose cadence seemed to synch perfectly with the rapid rhythms of his licking. His tongue continued to assault my clit, if not with subtlety, with enthusiasm. My ass puckered as I delighted in his ardent tongue-fuck, but when he inserted his thumb into my snatch, gently applying some welcome friction the interior of my pussy, the sensation was teasingly similar to a cock, but not nearly enough - I craved the real thing. Without delay.

  “A little feedback, dear.” I returned my legs to the stone of the tomb surface and wriggled to the precipice, generously providing a convenient point of entry. “Let’s get that thing inside me.” I spread the opening of my pussy as Preston moved forward with his rigid cock in his hand, attempting to stroke the indifferent beast into life. The sight of him masturbating aroused me, but I could sense him falter endearingly; the shaft remained faintly soft, unable to reach the granite hardness needed to infiltrate my depths. Admittedly, I loved watching a lover’s cock grow from suppleness to firm battle-readiness, and always had compassion for a horny, if fleetingly inhibited fuck-buddy.

  “Poor thing.” I kissed the skin of his cock, as sheer and soft as a newborn’s cheek. “It just needs a little patient encouragement.” I embraced the dwindling member with my lips, and as I began to caress the head with my tongue, it sprung impressively to life, filling my oral cavity with a startling immensity, impelling me to inhale its distended length, looking into his eyes, now gleaming with excitement combined with delicious fright.

  “Mmm, Preston. Your cock feels great on my tongue.” And indeed, it’s delicious to fellate a hard cock, and it’s often hard to know when to finish one’s efforts. Some valiant men can endure a woman’s tongue for a blissful hour - some, intimidated by the oral skills of the goddess, spill their seed within a delirious minute. In Preston’s case, he had settled into a pleasant rhythm, thrusting into my mouth as if it were an eager pussy. I met the strokes halfway, gulping until I reach the shuddering base of the shaft. It was supremely enjoyable, naturally, but I could not sustain the tease everlastingly.

  “I have a question.” I expelled Preston’s cock from my mouth and it sprang back, trembling before I paused to lick his quivering scrotum, now tighter than a drumhead. “Why simply lick when you can fu
ck?”

  “Yes.” He inhaled deeply.” Yes, agreed.” I could see a line of perspiration trace his brow. “And thank you....thank you...”

  “De rien, darling...” just relax.” I grabbed his cock and began to rub the head against my clit, desperately trying to offer both comfort and stimulus, and he gradually began to harden further. I lurched towards the edge of tomb, impelling the entire cock into my pussy with my fingers; he thrust forward and it filled me completely. “Yes. There you are...” I laughed, throwing my head back. “Perfect. Now fuck me.” I leaned back and felt the superb invasion of his thrusts; my pussy was so deliriously sodden that I detected a sloppy sucking sound as I absorbed the throbbing shaft.

  I let the hood fall down over my face and noticed that a few straggling ghost figures were watching the spectacle. I waved shamelessly and they passed, chattering excitedly.

  “I’ll admit that I’m enjoying fucking your cock, Preston.”

  “God, I’ll have to tell the lads.”

  I put my finger in his mouth. “Forget the lads. Keep your attentions on your cock in April’s pussy.” I threw my legs over his shoulders, and felt the delicious slap of his abdomen as one ghost fucked another into the night. But there was nothing ethereal about our rabid screw; it was pure animal rutting, a symphony of slapping flesh, a delightfully earthbound collision of cock and pussy. I wondered how many damsels had fucked on this very surface; maybe the spirited sex of the past was inflaming us.

  “God Preston, nice cadence.” Indeed, my new companion was fucking me maniacally, performing beyond expectations. Playing with my pussy, I felt a rapid upsurge, first small, then mounting, until I came, hugging Preston ferociously as my cunt contracted as I wrapped my legs forcefully around his back, my boots clattering as a crushing sensation ripped through my nipples and neck.

  In a mildly vampiric mood, inspired by the funereal setting, I lightly bit his neck and whispered, “Congratulations - you made my April come. Magnificently.” But as the coda to my orgasm faded, he continued to thrust and I began to come again; I could sense a more powerful climax lingering in Preston’s cock as it insistently plowed inward, massaging my clit at a perfect angle as it engorged further.

  “Oh shit - I think I might squirt.” I clenched my teeth, gripping the edge of the tomb. “I’m gonna drench your English cock.” My thighs convulsed together again, my boot lightly kicking Preston between the shoulder blades as he withdrew slightly. “Here...it...comes!” I felt myself buckle as a torrent of fluid erupted from my snatch onto his startled shaft, impelling him to lean back before lurching back into the hearty fuck.

  “Holy Hell.” I gasped, “That was fucking superb.”

  He gently clutched my shoulder as I could feel him perspire. “April. Damn, I can’t last.”

  “Then fucking go for it...let’s see that sweet cock come for Queen and country.”

  Withdrawing, he jacked off briefly and a fusillade of spunk erupted into the air, striking the side of the tomb, where his colossal load erupted fist briefly on my thighs and then on the face of an innocent stone carving of an angel. The descending, sticky white cascade looked exquisitely like marble tears.

  “Nice shot dear.” I gazed at the stone angel’s sloppy facial and kissed him on the cheek. “You got to nail one devil and one angel tonight.”

  He leaned back on a tombstone, exhausted, and I pulled down my robe and dismounted the tomb. I imagined that I saw Adrianna at a distance, speaking with a man that looked unmistakably like Fournier. I sprung into action.

  “Ta, ta, Preston, I must depart!”

  “But April. What about the investigation with Fournier...” I blew Preston a kiss. “I will call. Adieu!” I plunged onto the dark path, but the pair had moved further along. However, their voices echoed between the shattered stones of the ruin and I could make out the telling words “manuscript,” and then most worryingly, “that American girl April,” the last phrase resonating excruciatingly in my mind as it ricocheted off the decaying walls. I approached them closer, following until they disappeared into a side alcove.

  Adrianna asked, “tell me your plan once more.”

  Fournier mumbled an inaudible phrase in response as Adrianna’s head descended indelicately towards his crotch before extracting his cock and commencing to suck the engorged member. Remarkably, their conversation continued, and I could hear the unmistakable sound of her animal pleasure between phrases, first a grunt and then an exhortation as she expelled the quivering erection.

  His cock fully in Adrianna’s control, Fournier gasped and asked, “How do you think she would feel with me selling the manuscript? I wanted money, but not the risk of publishing such a boldly erotic work directly. The censors in this town are still anxious! But I still commanded a significant sum. And you are the official author, Adrianna, my dear.”

  Adrianna inhaled briskly and then expelled Pierre’s rigid member. “This is my thanks, dear.” She idly masturbated his shaft as he muttered unintelligibly. “But what little April does not realize is that in Paris, seduction is war!”

  “Oui, oui.” Fournier gasped, enervated, into the darkness.

  Adrianna briefly spat out his cock again to reply. “Oh Fournier, who cares about April when dinner is served...” The feverish blowjob continued, the indelicate sound of loud effusive gulps assaulting my ears as I fled. Alongside the trail, I could see an array of hooded pair disappearing into the night, some still clad in cloaks, some shedding them brazenly, some of the pairs talking, some already fucking audaciously under the stars as I retraced my steps to the empty manor and assembled my things. My mind was in a maelstrom: My manuscript sold, my authorship in contention? The inane phrase “seduction is war”? Unwilling to ponder the details, I jumped back into the rickety Citroën 2CV, its frail side paneling thrashing indelicately in the night winds as I drove back into Paris.

  The Calculus of Pleasure

  I spent the next day deeply preoccupied with Adrianna and Pierre’s conversation and their brazen betrayal. My manuscript sold? Adrianna given credit for my creative toils? I was shocked by the surreally sordid nature of the entire affair, and I finally decided to write a desperate note to Preston asking for his legal advice; warm and indecent memories of our graveyard fuck warmed my apprehensive mind as I dropped the letter off at La Poste on Rue Castex, wandering aimlessly to cleanse my thoughts.

  It was at times like these that I wondered about the possibility of escape by the most radical global means, imagining a flight to Rio de Janeiro and a new career at Brasileiro Magazine. But I had still received no response to my application, and I momentarily abandoned thoughts of the southern hemisphere as the sublimity of Paris offered consolation during my walk the following day. As I passed the Pantheon I thought of Pierre and Marie Curie, buried and enshrined in stone, lovers preserved for silent eternity. I envied their peace, but as I returned to my apartment, my restless ardent spirit came back to life. Preston had left a note requesting a call; the enigmatic word “reprisal” lingered on the page.

  I called him from a pay phone within view of the Louvre, and I dialed with bemusement, imagining that my expression was as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. Preston picked up the phone immediately.

  “April, dear!” I could hear a burst of sanguine breath striking the receiver. “I have something for you!”

  “Yes?” I leaned against the phone. “I know your assets all too well.” In spite of my agitated state, I could not resist a naughty, ironic riposte. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve done some research. The manuscript was sold to Frédéric Dujardin and his wife Greta. She’s Norwegian.” He paused, as if her nationality alone suggested an overwhelming carnal gravity. “They have a modest little bohemian publishing house in Montmartre. Mr. Fournier wanted money off your work, but not the risk of publishing such...adventurous content. That’
s why he sold the work instead of publishing it outright and credited Adrianna as the author.” He sighed. “Her contributions are only symbolic and due to his largesse, of course, since her literary gifts are profoundly limited.”

  “She has other talents, Preston.”

  “Indeed.” I could sense a tonal shift in his voice, a harbinger of good tidings. “But I managed a deal with Marc and Greta, one which you’ll find very pleasing. They’re very agreeable, blithe, free spirits. You should visit them this afternoon.”

  “What are the terms?”

  “They requested to discuss the details in person, but you’ll find them very generous and true to the letter of the law.” He read me their address in Montmartre, and I was eager to flee at once.

  “Preston? Is there a charge for this? A legal fee?”

  “Not at all, April. The memories of your sublime American body and the daydreams they inspire, are enough.” I detected a note of dark wistfulness in voice and I was struck by the bittersweet state that occasionally accompanies memories of a fond and torrid fuck. The peaks and valleys of my little graveyard romp with Preston reemerged for a delicious instant; I smiled mischievously.

  “Merci beaucoup. You may taste those fruits again someday, if all spheres align.”

  “I hope, my dear. Adieu.”

  Hanging up the phone, I took the metro to Montmartre and walked with capricious speed to a beautiful apartment building on the Saules Jardin, its terrace improbably overlooking the tiny but exquisite Clos Montmartre vineyard, clinging to a dramatic undulating hill. The setting forced me to imagine that I was peering through a portal into another temporal realm. I could hear the gentle strains of jazz as I approached the entrance of Frédéric and Greta’s apartment, and the partially open door allowed a soothingly bohemian odor of cigarette smoke to invade the corridor. I imagined that a world of gentle unrestraint and enlightenment lay beyond the entrance, and when the pair appeared, they seemed to fulfill the prophecy of my mind’s eye: Both were in their early thirties, clothed in de rigueur black shirts, Frédéric’s casually unbuttoned and Greta’s turtleneck inversely pulled high over her neck. Both smoked Galouses, pausing to expel an incense of smoke as they greeted me, smiling in a manner that presaged benevolent intentions.