Cleaning Up Paris


The thing I remember most about Paris is the dog shit! Oh, the Louvre was breathtaking, the Eiffel tower awesome, and Notre Dame had the peace and reverence that only a thousand years of sanctity can create. But, the dog shit was everywhere. Paris and L.A. have the most dogs per capita of any major Western city, But in L.A., my home town, they clean up – the French don’t! In the three days that I had been in Paris, I had stepped in so much canine excrement that I took to carrying paper-towels in my backpack, just in case.

It was Sunday morning, my fourth day in the city, and I was leaning on the balustrade of Rue des Deux Pont, looking at the river and across to Ille de la Cité and Notre Dame, when I heard the click-clack of high heels. I turned and saw a tall, gorgeous girl striding out with that gallic haughtiness mostly seen on a catwalk dressed in an haute couture gown.

Suddenly, she lost her step. Her foot slipped abruptly sideways, and her confident aire was broken.

“Merde!” she exclaimed, “Ces clébards dégoûtants!”

Those disgusting mutts indeed, I thought, surprising myself that I could understand so quickly. God love ’em for stopping this beauty in front of me! I delved into my back pack for the paper towels, and shouted to her, “Permettez-moi, Madamoiselle. J’ai quelques essuie-tout.” I waved the paper towels, in case she had not understood my terrible accent.

“Ah! Merci monsieur,” she said. She moved to lean against the balustrade. I kneeled, held her gorgeous, mini-skirted leg, lifted her foot, and removed the soiled shoe. As I cleaned her shoe she stood there, one leg bent to keep her unshod foot off the ground, her arms behind her, her hands upon the top of the low wall. I looked up and glimpsed a wisp of hair from her armpit. Obviously, like most French women, she didn’t shave. I have always thought that part of the reason the French are so damn sexy is the mixture of musky feminine scent and expensive perfume. For me, some body hair on a women, armpits and pubic, is an incredible turn on so lacking in America.

She regarded me with studied nonchalance, as if to say, “No big deal – people clean my ataköy escort shoes in public all the time.”

I gave her back her shoe. She looked at me quizzically as I tried desperately to think of something to say to keep her there. Then she said, “Vous êtes pressés? Avez-vous quelque temps?” I quickly translated to myself: Am I in a hurry – do I have some time? Hell yes, for you, babe, I’ve got eternity. “Non, je ne suis pas pressés,” I replied.

“Chez moi est près d’ici. Venez avec moi,” she said – I live near here, come with me. OK, things are going well, I thought. She started walking away, turned, and beckoned to me. “Venez,” she repeated, “Taxi!!”

We climbed into a Renault cab and she told the driver where to go. After a few minutes of insane driving we arrived, she paid, I followed her upstairs to a walk-up, studio-flat, and went in with her. I looked around. There were paintings and drawings everywhere; someone here was an artist.

“Que voudriez-vous boire?” she asked, “J’ai du vin.” Something to drink? Wine? Sure. “Merci,” I said. She pulled the cork out of an already open bottle of wine using her exquisite white teeth. She handed me a glass and said, “Allez, foutrez à poil, s’il vous plaît” – go, strip-off. Hmm! Cuts to the chase, doesn’t she, I thought. “Assoyez-vous là-bas,” she continued – sit over there. I went and sat down where she indicated.

She came toward me and arranged my body into a pose. I realized, she was the artist and I was now an unwitting artist model. Oh no, I thought, I’m not up for this. I started to get up.

“Non! Séjour là. Ne bouger pas!” she insisted – stay there, don’t move. Well, she was cute, and I hadn’t anywhere else I needed to be, and this was a new experience, so, what the hell. I settled back down. She began to sketch with charcoal and chalk, peering from behind her easel, studying me intently.

I was starting to try and figure out what is French for: “Hey, I’m freezing my ass off over here!” when she said, “D’ac! Je suis fini!” I walked over to look at her work.

She had flattered me. I had better defined abs and a more muscular butt in her drawing than in real life. bakırköy escort But, she had also endowed me with an impressive erection, far larger that I could actually achieve. I tapped the drawing and looked at her questioningly.

“N’est pas cela possible?” she asked, through pouting lips – isn’t that possible? Her hand cradled my cock and she began to fondle it. “Voyons,” she said – let’s see. Oh, yeah, let us see, I thought. My cock started to come alive under her touch, swelling and rising, and all of my sensation started to concentrate in my groin.

“Maintenant, je dois vous payer pour votre temps,” she breathed – now I must pay you for your time. Without breaking her gaze from my face she slowly sank to the floor and took my throbbing hard-on into her mouth, grazing her teeth lightly along the shaft and running her tongue around the swollen, purple head. She moved her mouth slowly up and down the head of my erection and ran her fingernails lightly over my balls and inner thighs.

Still locking her eyes on mine, she stood and placed her hands on my chest. She guided me backwards until the bed caught me behind my knees and I fell backwards onto it. Her nails grazed my chest as I fell. Standing in front of me between my legs, she pulled her shell-top over her head to reveal a black, lacy bra, which she then undid and dropped, exposing her pert breasts. Her nipples began to noticeably swell.

She reached behind her back again, thrusting her tits forward. She unzipped the mini-skirt, allowing it to drop from her slender hips to the floor. She had on black, thong panties, which she took off immediately. I now saw the luscious bush of pubic hair hinted at by her unshaved armpits.

She crawled onto the bed, and onto me. Grabbing my pulsing hard-on she guided it into her. She was already so wet that there was no resistance as I sank into her. She began to grind her pubic mound into my belly, not moving up and down, but around and around. I could feel the cum welling up in my balls. My breathing was getting faster. I knew I would shoot my load soon, so I pushed her off and rolled out from under her.

She looked surprised, but I pushed her face down onto the bed with her butt at the edge and her legs over the side. I placed my left hand on her back and drove my right thumb into her pussy. There it was! I pushed the ball of my thumb into her G-spot and ground down, massaging circles inside her sopping cunt, with the knuckle of my index finger working on her clitoris. She came with squeals and her head thrashing from side to side. I stopped my moving thumb and finger. She tried to get up, but I held her down, and after a short while started to work on her again. She came again. Some one in a neighboring apartment banged on the wall and shouted, but all I could her was muffled, unintelligible French, something like “Chaud lapins”. I guessed their meaning!

I worked her to a couple more orgasm. By now my own had subsided so I felt I could re-enter her without blowing immediately. I thrust into her swollen pussy and pounded aggressively. Each time I drove home she grunted – “ooff – ooff- ooff!” I came massively, grabbing her hips and slamming my cock as deep as I could. My knees buckled. I sank down and dug my head between her legs, licking her clit to one final orgasm for her, with my own cum running down my chin. Then I was exhausted, and so was she.

I lay on the bed beside her. She rolled onto her back. Her long dark her was wetly plastered to her forehead. Her face glistened. A rivulet of sweat ran from her breasts to her navel. And her pubic hair was wet with cum, sweat and saliva. She looked terrific!

She turned her head lazily sideways, but then she spied a clock.

“Putain!” she exclaimed, “Mon mari sera ici bientôt” – Damn, my husband will be here soon. Husband? HUSBAND!? I remembered hearing that crime-of-passion is still a viable defence for murder in France. I did not want to be involved in the test-case.

Grabbing my clothes, I got dressed as quickly as I could. I was heading out the door when she cried, “Moment!” I stopped. She went to the easel, took the drawing, rolled it, and handed it to me with a smile. The smile was the only thing she was wearing. I smiled back, grinned more like, and I nodded thanks.

“A bientôt,” I said, hopefully. I left the apartment, still grinning, and walked out into the warm Parisian, spring sunshine, being very, very careful where I put my feet.

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