April in Paris Read online

  “Greta?”

  “Ja?”

  “I want to devour your spectacular body.” The last words were muffled by her splendid flesh as I attacked her swollen nipples, biting and sucking ravenously, licking an intoxicating delta of perspiration as I savored her aureoles, absorbing the essence of this Nordic deity, so divinely aromatic and multifaceted, inhaling not only her tits but her sexually uncontainable character.

  “You’re exquisite, Greta. I’m going to fucking eat your pussy next.” I kneeled with the ethereal ease of a phantom to lick her snatch, embracing the task with exuberance. As I ate her magnificently sodden cunt, savagely hairy and resplendent in its wickedly pungent, unashamed folds of flesh, I imagined that I had somehow become immersed in into an erotic Norway of the mind, a carnal landscape of untamed fjords and gaping vaginas proliferating like wildflowers. But as my tongue plummeted into her depths, I was compelled to eat her massive clit, consuming its entire bloated contours into my lips as if I were fellating a swollen cock. “Fuck, Greta, your clit is happy to see me.”

  She looked me in the eye. “Come on, April, I wanna see you spit on that fucking pussy...” She grabbed my scalp and whispered as I let a long, delectable trail of saliva strike her clit, forcing her to tremble as I pinched her distended nipples. Lengthening my tongue, I slid it back inwards, penetrating her lubricated depths like an inflamed cock. I imagined for a moment that my tongue was fucking its way through the gates of Valhalla. I caressed the colossal clit with a rapid flick of my tongue, causing Greta to buckle forward.

  “Keep going...eat me.” I gripped her abundant ass to feel its sublime contours. “Faster...come on...fuck, I’m coming...” I licked harder as Greta’s lower torso shuddered, imagining myself absorbing its seismic movements and sharing her impending climax. “Oh fuck, here it is!” I placed my index finger inside Greta’s pussy as she came, my wet digit enveloped in the repeated convulsions of her orgasm.

  “You make me come, April...” Greta kissed my neck, biting gently before gazing into my eyes. “I pay you back. I want to fuck you with my mouth.” The words expressed a liberated aggression, and she directly inserting her tongue into my pussy without foreplay or prelude, salivating as she entered, relishing the blunt invasion. I grasped her hair and moaned briefly, gazing at the ceiling, thrusting my buttocks and thighs instinctively upwards to meet Greta’s oral assault as she licked my clit more aggressively, her tongue plumbing inwards like a sodden, substitute cock as she inserted a finger into the depths of my cunt, doubling her penetrative impact. I imagined that she was fucking me with two cocks as my labia distended superbly.

  “Fuck that’s good, Greta.” I grasped her blonde tresses as she ferociously sucked on my clit and tried in vain reach her gaze, but she was immersed in a state of delirious concentration, focusing her vigor onto my pussy, my ass puckering delectably with each insistent stroke of her tongue.

  She laughed and whispered, “I’m going to make you fucking come again. Trust me.”

  I could see Greta grinding her crotch with animal relish into the bed as she fucked me with her fingers and tongue, screwing the pliant surface of the Le Chat Noir quilt, drawing brazen pleasure from her frottage against the sheets.

  “Damn, Greta. Pussy to pussy!” Her snatch was colliding directly with the center of Steinlen’s cat graphic in the middle of the quilt, the frantic thrusting motion increasing in fervor until I could see her ass trembling as she experienced another orgasm from her independent efforts. “Fuck, I came again...Ja.” she gasped as she paused and withdrew her fingers briefly, laughing, overwhelmed for a brief instant before resuming, licking my clit with the breadth of her tongue.

  My own climax was close at hand and I gripped the sheets, feeling my ass pucker superbly in anticipation. “Of fuck, Greta, here it comes.” And then a spectacular orgasm arrived, not as a sudden explosion but a steady cadence, a long series of shudders; the effect felt continuous and unending, my nipples rising as I cupped her breasts, eyes lost in the cracks of the ceiling above, grateful that Greta would summon such a heroic effort on my behalf. I imagined being fucked by a Kraken’s tentacle, her wet tongue forcing my ass and pussy to tremor briefly before returning me to satiated rest.

  At last, the three of us lay intertwined, motionless and fatigued. Greta lay overlapping Frédéric and I curled up lazily under the Le Chat Noir quilt, our shameless trio collapsed in a state of delicious post-coital torpor, the atmosphere around us filled with something delectably naughty, a subversive and exciting solidarity.

  Finally, Frédéric turned to me. “April, after we publish your novel, we also wish to publish your confessions. I imagined they’re fabulous.”

  I smiled lazily, still enraptured by the intensity of our ménage à trois “Well, Frédéric, they’re a work in progress - I haven”t decided what to do with them. But you and Greta will receive star treatment. It was a fabulous fuck. How can I thank you?”

  Frédéric rose. “On the contrary, I have a gift for you.” He handed me a wrapped volume, which I opened. It was a beautifully bound copy of “The Triumph of Eros,” my name resplendent on the cover.

  “Thank you.” I glanced at both Frédéric and Greta. In its intensity and egalitarian warmth, my gaze communicated deep gratitude for the book as well as our shameless afternoon. “And only one thing remains - my revenge on Pierre and Adrianna.”

  “For that I have an idea.” Frédéric energetically wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me. You will find them there tonight.”

  I read the writing incredulously “A ‘libertine cruise’? On the Seine?”

  “Yes, it is what it sounds like: a boat, the Seine, an abundance of randy guests, a tribute to free, liberal carnality. If not for their despicable presence, we would certainly attend. But what action you take is purely of your own volition, my dear.”

  I folded the paper and placed it in my purse. “Yes. You can be assured that my claws will emerge, my bon ami.”

  We smiled and exchanged glances, our bond of conspiracy tightening.

  Revenge and Escargot are Best Served Cold

  I was eager to exact my revenge on Pierre and Adrianna quickly and, according to Frédéric’s note, the cruise would leave from the dock by the Pont de l’Alma at 7:00. I had little time to prepare for my mission and returned to my apartment to shower, washing away the perspiration and errant spunk from my arduous afternoon, but not the delicious memories, which were destined to be recorded as the crown jewel of my confessions. I dressed in a tight black dress, which qualified poetically as my evening’s persona: half-libertine, half-Ninja. As I left the apartment, I paused to grab a letter from my mailbox, battered as if by an arduous voyage, addressed from Rio de Janeiro, tearing open the ragged missive, which read:

  Dear Ms. Jones,

  We have received your application and are pleased to offer you a position as a journalist in Rio de Janeiro. If your answer is affirmative, please reply as soon as time allows.

  Hugo Dos Santos

  Brasileiro Magazine

  I skipped girlishly along the left bank in a victory dance, attracting the attention of a group of staid Parisiens. But the urgency of my mission precluded an immediate decision.

  At 6:55, I approached the dock at the Pont d’Alma where the boat awaited, and as dusk gently invaded the City of Lights I could see the Tour Eiffel and, perhaps more poetically, the diminished replica of the Statue of Liberty; as the city receded into dusk, I realized that I, too had journeyed far from my earlier sense of self and country. The world of Eisenhower and tailfins, unyielding social mores and sexual insularity evaporated over the ethereal skyline. I could still taste the sublime, pungent flavor of Greta’s Norwegian pussy. What would Aunt Melba say about my delirious Sapphic fuck?

  I boarded the boat with feline stealth, but the passengers were oblivious to my arrival. As Frédéric observed, this crui
se represented a tawdry paean to free love, and the participants were benumbed to the arrival of an unwanted guest. Of course, I had never really acquired a taste for this kind of event, where fucking, swapping and other activities, sublime in isolation, are celebrated as elevated kitsch; it all somehow demeaned the sacred act of the raw fuck and turned it into shameless bric-a-brac. I saw vaginal pasta and an eclair in the shape of a penis, and as I approached the caterer’s area, a choice treasure caught my eye: a veritable mountain of cold escargot, awaiting preparation, in a dish shaped like a monstrous, spreading pussy. Seizing this promising relic, I strode across the deck.

  I stopped a waitress, clad in a maid’s outfit that bore a whiff of the fetishistic. “Où sont Pierre Fournier et Adrianna Pompiliu?”

  “Numéro trois, madame.”

  “Merci.” I patted her plump ass in gratitude as I completed my journey to their cabin,where unmistakable sounds of pleasure emerged from the chamber. I cracked the door to observe my victims engaged, almost drearily, in an expected pastime, Adrianna looking backwards at Pierre as she gracelessly muttered, “Put your cock in me,” presaging a rote moment of penetration. Adrianna grunted with studied ennui as Pierre thrust slowly into her pussy, grimacing with delight as he penetrated her with a single stroke, his ass contracting sublimely in the process. I relished the naughty vision, transported by the sight of a cock plunging into an enthusiastic pussy, seeing Fournier’s soul burning up half in terror, half in ecstasy as Adrianna’s ass relentlessly enveloped his shaft.

  “Bonsoir, good friends and allies.” I stepped into the chamber, brandishing my vaginal dish of escargot.

  “April!” Pierre dismounted and raised his hand in protest.

  “Watching you fiends screw is like observing slugs fuck in the dirt. Snails, perhaps?” I tossed the dish of escargot on both of my naked victims, who recoiled violently at the intrusion, screaming incomprehensible curses in French and Romanian as they pursued me onto the deck, wiping the torrent of unwanted snails from their skin as we engaged in a comical pursuit that ended dramatically at the stern.

  As the brightly illuminated forms of Les Invalides and L’Asemblee Nationale, regal architectural symbols of order and enlightenment, passed by, my victims fell gracelessly into the oily waters of the Seine as they slipped my on the remnants of my culinary assault. They tread water in the darkening river, borne along on a tide of delirious filth until they swam to shore. In my imagination, a judge’s hammer fell, signaling the finality of my vigilante justice.

  The waitress walked by again and I saluted her with “Merci,” as I watched her superbly plentiful ass sway brusquely from side to side; the motion did not seem wholly suggestive, but an innocent expression of a vigorous, inborn carnality, magnificent and liberated. Just like myself, I imagined. And as La Conciergerie and the Le Louvre brightened the shore, I felt compelled to join the dirty libertine proceedings around me as I felt a tap on my shoulder and a stranger emerged; half-hidden in shadow, radiating a gauche odor of French cologne, I gestured for him to remain semi-obscured in darkness, determined to sustain an aura of mystery and heighten my nocturnal convergence with the surrounding metropolis. I felt like wrapping my pussy around Paris itself.

  I put my finger to my lips. “No names. Pas de noms.” He led me to a darkened cabin where another couple was already preparing for joyful coitus. Endearingly cautious, the young woman produced a lime-green condom, which she proceeded to roll, with a charming initial struggle, fingers trembling, over the magnificent cock of her consort before engaging in a sweet, shameless fuck before our eyes.

  There was something that made me smile as I watched her fabulous French legs raised in pleasure and personal liberation, her indelicate grunts wafting from Neuilly-bred lips, eyes squeezed shut in concentrated bliss, her expression broadcasting a novice’s tender gratitude to the power of an unalloyed fuck made. She started to come within moments into their brief congress, quivering frantically as she muttered a sweet rhythmic “oh...oh...oh...” Instead of muttering the filthy doggerel I often chose to vocalize during a heady fuck, she could only manage to utter the most innocent, muted cries of ecstasy. But there was nothing naive about her man’s muscularity and sublime rhythms, his cock plunging into her snatch with something resembling profound determination.

  But it was time for me to pursue my own fuck for the evening, and as my anonymous lover approached, fully naked and prepared, mercifully enshrouded in darkness, I could see that his implement was mightily enshrouded in another green condom; I imagined the sublime topiary forms of the Jardin du Luxembourg as I took up a pose of simple seduction, reclining on a nearby chaise, my arm behind my head. As my armpit neared my nose I smelled an intoxicating pheromone: perspiration, tawdry French perfume borne by sweat from its original point of application, the funk of retribution and arousal; my homme must have smelled it too, because he lapped at it immediately.

  “Hmm, so Wild!” He licked my armpit again. “Très sauvage!”

  “Oui, oui.”

  “Lie back and I’ll fuck your cock.” He nodded, his eyes signaling an ecstatic anticipation, nodding in agreement as I smiled commandingly. “Fucking do it.” He reclined, gripping my waist as I first lowered myself gradually before impaling myself briskly on his ensheathed erection, caressing my clit as I fucked him tenaciously. I could hear a luscious, damp sound, the heavenly music of copulating bodies; in wicked counterpoint, I could see the angelic glow of La Place le La Concorde and Le Grand Palais.

  In my purse, I could see the tattered letter from Rio and my sacred notebook, my compendium of dirty confessions. I imagined how I would write about this moment, capturing its fervid intensity in prose as I ground my pussy around my unnamed consort’s propitious cock. Outside the porthole, the three colors of the French flag flapped in the breeze, evoking a revolutionary credo: Liberté, égalité, fraternité...liberty, equality and fraternity.

  Tomorrow I might decide to go to Rio after all.

  But tonight, I’d make love to Paris

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