It was still early when we reached Paris: too early to check into the hotel near Gare de L’est, so we picked up a carnet, ditched our bags at the station and went sightseeing.
Being just the right side of Bastille Day, the city was baking and heaving. Within two or three weeks it would become a comparative ghost town as the locals flocked south for the holidays. But today the throngs of indigenous Parisians and tourists gave Adam plenty of opportunity to show off his chattel. He took full advantage.
We did all the touristy things: ate crêpes; wandered the sun-drenched Rues hand-in-hand; watched street artists making silhouettes and caricatures of passers-by; sidestepped hawkers trying to sell us novelty statuettes of the city’s most famous landmarks; and shopped.
Despite the hordes, Paris somehow retained a laid back atmosphere. Maybe the heat slowed people down enough that they took time to enjoy the environment, admire the stunning architecture, sit and drink in cafés, content to watch the world go by instead of hustling. Even those in suits who clearly had a destination, moved with a grace and poise that seemed incongruous to the busy surroundings.
The place also had that indefinable smell about it, as if the very act of the sun beating down on the buildings and uneven pavements that bordered the backstreets released some pheromone that bound people. It made them hold hands, smile, laugh, kiss, belong. As with every other time I’d visited, I wasn’t immune and was very much under the city’s hex. But this time it was different -- invigorating -- because of what I was wearing. Or rather, wasn’t.
Adam started my humiliation gently by making me bend over a fair few times to look at things on the bottom shelf of department stores, standing back to watch my skirt slowly rise along with my temperature. I’d like to say having him perv at me from behind didn’t turn me on, but I’d be lying. Each time he made me do it, I flushed and loved it.
Bending like this also afforded people standing beside me a peek down my top to catch a dose of cleavage. In one shop, I swung from a crouch up towards a couple of guys browsing wine, and as I sashayed past them down the aisle, I’m sure I heard one of them comment to his friend, “Y'a du monde au balcon.” It was lost on me at the time, but I looked it up later to find that its literal translation of “There’s a world at the balcony” was an idiom for “She has large breasts.” Maybe I was a little better endowed than the typical French lady and would have preferred “Elle a une belle poitrine” (a beautiful chest) but since I was acting like a brazen strumpet I guess I deserved it.
Hurrying from the shops giggling like mischievous teenagers at our new game, we boarded an up-escalator in Les Halles and Adam gently exposed me, giving a bunch of lads a few stairs lower something more than shopping to think about. The whoops and delighted banter as they feasted on my bare bottom caused a trickle of juice to escape and roll down my thigh.
Even iconic structures weren’t sacred. Beneath the glass pyramids of the Louvre, Adam made sure I hiked my skirt higher than necessary as I took the stairs so anyone behind us would be able to see the treasures usually hidden underneath. It was debauch and I swear the Mona Lisa’s expression seemed judgemental.
While we ate lunch, I thought maybe a respite would be in order, but I was wrong. In a crowded and noisy café I was instructed to slide two fingers inside myself beneath the table and feed Adam the contents. “Just to check you still want me,” he had claimed as I self-consciously reached across the table and brought my glistening fingers to his lips, watching him hungrily suck my juices from them amid a few disbelieving stares from nearby patrons.
I ought to have felt shame. I ought to have felt abhorrence at my reckless disregard for decorum in such a public setting. So why did I love the feeling so much? Why was there a fierce undercurrent of stimulation jetting around my body? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I turning into a sexual adrenaline junkie and would soon find myself craving a naked skydive to get my rocks off? Or was the city’s mystical air to blame? I didn’t have any concrete answers, just a barrage of questions, the conclusions to which were laced with equal parts uncertainty and euphoria.
During the hottest part of the day, we sought dappled shade at the Tuileries garden where he told me to bask opposite him in a pair of chairs we were lucky to find. At his insistence I lifted my feet into his lap, unable to resist pressing the sole of a sandal against his obvious bulge, watching him fight his own body’s reaction and briefly closing his eyes.
Regaining his composure he diligently and sensually massaged my calves and ankles, which he knew damn well was one of my hotspots, until he deemed I’d taken enough.
Plenty of people, mostly men, did a double-take and caught a glimpse of my hot pussy and it kept me on a sexual knife edge all day, to such an extent I considered more than once sneaking off to the ladies’ and fingering myself to completion. Although it took every ounce of resolve and discipline I could muster, I resisted my own urges on the basis that it would heighten things later. Adam was good on his word -- always had been -- so I found a way to tap into my willpower reserves and keep myself in check for the sake of the final event.
Mid-afternoon, my display of restraint and obedience earned me a very special treat. He led me up Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to queue outside a shop that made me rub my eyes in disbelief. I gawped at him, and when he confirmed it was no joke, I was unable to wipe the silly grin off my face until we were let inside, whereby the grin turned to awe.
To a self-confessed shoe-lover, being in the gaudy dream world of one of Christian Louboutin’s grottos was sheer heaven. I didn’t even think Adam had paid much attention to the fact I’d splashed out on a pair a few years earlier, let alone that he knew where the shop was. But maybe I’d mentioned them a little too often, prompting him to look the place up.
Regardless, I was totally immersed in the spectacle, where each pair of shoes on display was lovingly tucked in an arched pigeon-hole like a prized work of art. Gushing at the designs, from the extraordinary to the downright bizarre and impractical, I wanted to try at least a quarter of the stock on.
Adam brought me back to planet Earth, patiently explaining that we wouldn’t have time so I needed to be selective and, of course, there was a condition attached: I had to show my pussy to the sales assistant with each pair I tried on. Bah! Even being spoiled had a proviso.
In light of this information I went straight for an elegant pair of Simple Pumps; the 85s. Classic and practical styling with those to-die-for red soles. As the assistant knelt to slip on the gorgeous footwear I ‘accidentally’ parted my thighs. The reaction was fleeting but definitely there, and the double whammy of wearing such powerful shoes in this dream location and acting like a slut in them made me colour. I suddenly craved my man. Wanted to charge him, slam him against the wall in the three-and-a-half inch heels, mouths connecting, tongues duelling, hands irrepressibly clutching at each other through our clothes until they snaked down between us, seeking the nucleus of our desires without concern for the surroundings. Me breathlessly rubbing his steel outline; him probing my impatient honey trap, nibbling my ear as the clientele and assistants stopped to stare at the sight of two people lost under each other’s spell.
Realising I had to get out before I actually did it, I quickly paraded in the heels, loving the power they gave me. Despite myself I couldn’t resist trying on a couple more pairs of equally elegant shoes, flashing the assistant again as Adam had instructed, before deciding on the 85s after all.
Clutching my purchase like a kid with a new toy robot as we left to continue our sightseeing, I was on cloud nine and figured things couldn’t become any sweeter. Then everything changed: the journey back from La Defense truly took my breath away.
After admiring the view along the Axe Historique from the mighty superstructure of La Grande Arche we boarded the Metro from the business district at the start of rush hour. The carriage was packed full of commuters and we were jostled about for the first few stations, shoved this way and that as people pushed past in both directions. It was sweaty and unfresh and for the first time in the city I wished there was a nicer way to travel.
Things settled down around Porte Maillot a few stations later, and we found a spot near the centre of the carriage where we were not pushed as much. I was strap hanging so my belly button was exposed and skirt was riding a little high; a small mercy in the hot, sticky confines of the train. The skin-to-air ratio no doubt kept me cooler than the suits around me.
Adam had one hand on my waist to steady me and was gripping the overhead rail with the other. I sensed him pressing right up behind me and knew the closeness of our bodies would make him horny. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn’t tried to jump me at numerous occasions throughout the day and admired his patience. Certainly he had opportunities, and I was partly disappointed he hadn’t. The things he’d made me do -- things I didn’t expect to enjoy to the extent I did -- were as much for his benefit as mine and I’m sure he was equally relieved to be going to the hotel so he could have me all to himself. That thought alone made the journey bearable. It went without saying that I’d give myself completely to him; whatever he desired he could take. I doubted he’d hold out very long anyway, so whatever he chose would have to be rapid and unbridled. Perfect!
As part payment for all the day’s torture I pushed back a little, using the irregular momentum of the carriages to gently grind and swish against his cock. It quickly and predictably began to swell as he felt what was mere millimetres away from him. So close, yet so far. I smiled to myself. Even under these unpleasant conditions I still had it.
Then I felt him ease me away and creep his hand down over my perspiring midriff onto my skirt. Very slowly, he circled his palm over my bottom, tracing the curvature and making me shiver at the touches. As my erogenous zones switched on yet again, my senses sharpened while his hand travelled lower to cup my butt. He rhythmically squeezed my cheek, then gently slapped my behind. I glowed, longing for him to do it again. Instead I felt the material of the skirt begin to pinch up, and shot him a sceptical expression over my shoulder. He gazed back at me, eyes twinkling, and continued edging the skirt ever higher. He couldn’t be serious? Here?!
I tensed and looked fearfully around the carriage as the skirt slid higher to reveal my pert cheeks, his hand meeting the crease of bare flesh at the base of my curvy rear. Nobody seemed to be paying us any attention as he walked his fingers around into the cleft and nestled the leading edge of his finger right into my crack, again kneading the flesh of one cheek.
Everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder around me was oblivious to what was happening below waist level and my mind flashed, figuring out ways in which he might fuck me in the middle of the commuters without detection. Inexplicably, I began to grow excited at the prospect, wondering how I’d keep quiet enough to not cause a ruckus. On reflection, it was interesting I chose to consider the logistics of the act rather than immediately rule it out. That probably said more about my character than an army of psychiatrists could, although they’d ultimately arrive at the same conclusion: I was a dirty bitch.
Adam pushed his hand firmly into my crack, making sure to massage the entrance to my anus in the process, and little sparks of joy leapt from thigh to thigh. He knew it would turn me on and gently eased me forward. At that moment I knew I was in trouble. I should have left him alone instead of trying to be clever and torturing him. Should have remembered my role. Now I sensed I was going to pay for the insubordination, and obediently bent at the waist a few degrees from vertical, pulling on the strap for support. His hand followed the contour of my arse lower until his finger met the base of my pussy. Before I had time to react, his digit snaked inside me to the first knuckle.
I must have gasped, as the guy reading the paper a few feet away shot a curious look in my direction then returned to the business pages. The density of passengers made it impossible for anybody else to tell what was going on, but it wouldn’t take much to alert them so I battled inwardly to control my actions while Adam probed.
As passengers fought their way on and off at Argentine and the unmistakably French odour of new bodies assaulted my senses, I was confident the only person that appreciated what it felt like to be fingered on public transport was me; the tender persistence, somehow hurriedly executed, making me hotter. A bead of sweat trickled slowly from the top of my sacrum, around my side and caught on the waistband of my skirt, its path across my pores a momentary welcome in the stifling closeness.
Adam continued, in and out becoming more of an abstract concept than a series of discrete movements in one locale, setting my fires smouldering and connecting regions of my body through neural pathways and spiritual meridians. Although my skirt was still just low enough to cover my pussy at the front, it was lewdly scrunched up at the rear and the thoughts of how the everyday people would react if they caught sight of my naked bottom fuelled my body into producing more of my very own sex drug. It flowed rapidly from head to toe, then returned and I felt myself radiate heat as nerve endings stood in readiness.
The only problem being, I wanted more.
Finding enough space between someone else’s feet, I stepped out my left foot half a pace, still straddling the bag containing my new shoes. That was all the encouragement Adam needed. He lowered his position against me slightly further and I felt his index finger glide all the way into my sticky chute. It was exactly what I needed. More love drug coursed my veins and my body eagerly lapped it up. With no requirement for extra lubrication, Adam sawed his finger back and forth as I closed my eyes and let the situation take me away.
The swaying of the carriages made me feel as if I was floating, as though my legs were drifting behind me while I dangled on a rope from a hot air balloon. In my mind I looked down to see Paris from the air: the slow-moving traffic along the Champs-Élysées; Montparnasse towers; the bustle of people in the streets trying to complete their purchases before the boutiques closed for the night. And as I passed overhead, people would look up and point because they could see up my skirt, catching a glimpse of my pussy glistening in the early evening sun as fluid oozed from it, clinging to my entrance. The shoppers couldn’t help staring up at the strange British lady, sans panties, who had spent the day discovering the sheer release and electric thrill of a little exhibitionism. Someone for whom this latest chapter in her sexual awakening would continue to define her as she explored her desires more and more with the man she loved.
That man chose that moment to glide his finger out of my tunnel and I returned to the reality of the carriage as my body craved his next touch. I arched my back cat-like and pressed against his hand, willing him to continue. After a long, teasing moment he didn’t disappoint. His finger went in again, slowly, tantalisingly, and I felt fuller than before. It took a few strokes to register he was using two fingers. Wow, that felt wonderful. He slid them forward time and again, plumbing my depths, trying to locate the source of wetness and produce more. The angle made it difficult, if not impossible, for him to reach the spot that would really set the juice generator in motion, but that didn’t stop him trying. He wiggled and pressed the back of his fingers against the front wall of my sex, patiently adjusting and refining the technique, hunting for the button that would give me ultimate pleasure.
Truthfully, at that point it didn’t matter to me if he found it or not. I was already well on my way to a crushing orgasm. The receptors in my brain were processing signals as fast as they were fired, shooting waves of energy downward to the train floor and back up my legs, circling my engorged labia, punching straight through my proud clitoris, swirling my hips to where Adam’s hand supported my bare bottom, and racing up my spine to meet the next wave.
Amid the electrical disturbance inside me, I became vaguely aware of the train stopping and a surge of people pushing us forward, almost losing my balance as I struggled to recognise where external heat ended and internal fires began. If it wasn’t for Adam stepping with me to keep me steady I’d have toppled into the lap of the man whom I found myself facing. People milled around us, pressing, shoving, settling into the cramped train. The driver made a tinny, mumbled announcement and those that deciphered it shuffled more before the buzzer sounded and the doors promptly rolled shut. Over the seated man’s shoulder I could just make out the station name as the Metro rumbled forward: Charles de Gaulle - Étoile.
As the train was swallowed by the blackness of the tunnel, the gentle in and out of Adam’s fingers resumed in mine. Sometimes the motion of us hitting a corner would thrust them deeper inside me and I’d bite my lip or let out a tiny gasp that was absorbed by the noisy carriage and dense body of passengers. Other times he’d slip right back to the entrance and I’d feel my petals close in his wake, trying to return to shape despite the imprint of his fingers remaining like memory foam, only to be split again moments later.
There were people nudging against both sides of me, hips banging hips as the train lurched and I clung to the strap, hardly believing what was happening. I looked down at my body through glazed eyes: long bare legs, slightly parted to allow for Adam’s continued onslaught; skirt barely covering my pelvis; a strip of clammy stomach reflecting the fluorescent lighting; the halterneck trying to contain my straining bosoms; nipples proud and clearly defined as heat spread through them on its way to flush my neck. I was probably quite a sight, and I wondered if the man ahead of me might notice.
He was barely into his fifties, very French with thin rimmed glasses and silver hair, reading Le Monde and seemingly ignoring his wife chattering next to him, responding only with the occasional grunt or “Oui”. I could only partially see her because of the passengers flanking me, but from what I could tell she was a matronly figure, wizened by the European sun.
Inside me, Adam’s fingers continued to glide and my breathing was becoming more laboured. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take, rapidly approaching the point where control of my actions disappeared and raw instinct took over to decide the fate of my body’s release. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he didn’t, but he gently pulled out and I’m sure I whimpered. Something at least caused the Frenchman to look up from his paper and make eye contact. He looked quizzically, fleetingly, then self-consciously returned to his paper.
My insides screamed for Adam’s touch. What the hell was his game? He couldn’t leave me like this, balancing on a sexual tightrope without a safety net. All I could feel were his fingers curled and supporting the crease beneath my bottom. Maybe he was fiddling with his dick, freeing it from his pants. Perhaps the next thing I’d feel would be his rigid shaft pressing at my drooling entrance. I nearly came with anticipation of what I was sure would be the most daring sexual act we had ever entertained, bracing myself for the invasion of his magnificent cock in my silky confines.
Instead he pushed his finger between my exposed cheeks to touch my rosebud with its tip, circling and tickling the nerve endings all around my dark opening. My body responded immediately, bouncing delightful messages along my subcutaneous network, joining the neural with the physical and leaving me yearning for more. I wanted him inside me so badly I felt like screaming at him to drill me where I stood.
His finger probed a few millimetres into my back passage, preparing me. But for what? He couldn’t be serious? Fucking me was one thing; anal was off-the-chart depraved. How did he expect to slip his dick into my butt, even just the first adorable inch or three, the hardness pressing against all the right places despite barely moving inside me. The simple act of thinking about it made me shudder at the memory of his many conquests in my dark, tight behind. Recalling the suffocating orgasms and hours of joy afterwards as I floated in the afterglow.
He shifted a little and I tensed, waiting for the moment to arrive, trying unsuccessfully to relax the muscles in my groin to make whatever he had planned easier and less likely to cause a commotion. The wait was almost painful and as I concentrated on the areas between my legs I was startled to feel his breath on my ear, whispering urgently.
“You want more?”
I nodded impatiently, unsure what “more” meant but almost past the point of caring. I wanted showtime. Naturally, he knew I was going to say yes and I’m sure he was enjoying my discomfort, even though it must have been almost as tough for him to hold back.
There was a further excruciating moment of nothingness as I geared up for him. Yet instead of the expected hot sword ramming into one of my eager passages, his fingers dutifully and gradually inched south again. They tucked into my wet folds as if they belonged there permanently. Then immediately something else: his thumb pressed against my backside, seeking my crinkled hole, circling and sending ripples through my hips, finding the target and quickly pressing home. I let him of course. The familiar, dull ache in my rear, senses igniting as he pressed forward to clutch me in the classic bowling ball grip: two in the slit, one up the arse.
Managing to catch my emotions just in time, only a tiny cry escaped my hastily bitten lip and I thrust back against his palm as he fingered me. Though I truly wanted it to be his cock, and I’d have willingly taken him any way he dictated right then, his fingers were a superb surrogate and I squirmed and writhed in ecstasy. The spasms set up around each orifice radiated and collided somewhere in the centre of my body just behind my clit; different types of message for sure, but ones aimed in a single direction: my satisfaction. It was as if my little jewel was an electromagnet, humming powerfully and trying to draw every atom of my body towards the source.
With every passing moment, the intensity grew. Proud and firm, the gatekeeper to my sloshing insides, my clit stood defiantly, begging to be touched, daring me to complete my Holy Trinity of erogenous zones and send me off into the orgasmic abyss.
I had one free hand. But could I really do it? Here? The people either side of me had their backs or shoulders squashed against me. Adam and his relentless invasion shielded me from behind. So the only wild card was the Frenchman. I took in what I could, with any remaining brain power that wasn’t diverted to keeping me aroused, weighing the risks. Although he was reading, I noticed he wasn’t altogether concentrating. His eyes kept flicking up in my direction, glancing at each part of me in turn. Maybe my earlier noises weren’t as subtle as I’d thought and he was keeping tabs on me in case things became interesting. Perhaps he’d already figured what was going on and was biding his time, hoping to see more.
From his seat I guessed he saw a desperate, dishevelled, very hot woman, leaning forward from a strap with her mouth agape and her eyes partially closed. Definite signs of arousal if the prominent state of my nipples wasn’t enough of a clue. Whether he could see Adam’s hand driving fingers between my legs was questionable, but I couldn’t rule it out. The thrill that he could guess or see what was going on knotted my insides.
Did I have the courage to touch myself in front of this stranger? I’d already shown myself during the day. I’d flashed Laptop Guy and the sales assistant, and it had given me a massive buzz to do so. Heck, I’d once masturbated into the night, naked against a hotel window, so how hard was this?
My bottom clawed Adam’s thumb and my pussy tried to swallow his fingers as we set up a steady rhythm. I stared dead ahead through glassy eyes. It came down to whether I trusted the Frenchman to take this for what it was: a horny woman taking advantage of a situation and giving herself ultimate pleasure, or whether he would cause a scene. I was having trouble focusing and found it hard to process, waiting to see some validation of either outcome but unable to properly concentrate. We exited another tunnel and the station flashed by as we slowed, its name and the new wave of bustling commuters hardly registering.
As the train picked up speed and Adam did likewise, continuing to turn my insides to molten lava, I eyed the Frenchman. I could feel my thighs becoming stickier as my juice flowed freely; could practically smell my arousal over the unsavoury body odour. And if I could, there was a good chance those swaying against me might. If the Frenchman dared look at my legs, he’d see the gooey trails of liquid for sure.
Such a rush. The indecency of being there and wanting relief was at odds with my sensibilities, yet I found myself once more in that stage beyond reason. Some kind of primal desires welled up inside me, beyond anything logic could contain. One way or another I knew the decision would soon not be mine to make. My creamy, frothing pussy and tight rear being raided by Adam’s fingers would soon be the party to which the rest of my body would attend. The question was whether I was content jogging towards a mind-blowing orgasm or wanted to accelerate towards it.
As if he could sense my dilemma, the Frenchman chose that moment to make eye contact and I detected willingness in his expression. While there was the initial possibility it was my skewed interpretation -- part of me reading into things that weren’t there or my desire to do it anyway and to hell with the consequences -- his languid downward gaze that traced my figure and centred on my skirt was unmistakable. As was the forming of an erection in his flannel trousers.
He’d taken in my aroused state. No doubt he’d seen my wet thighs. He’d put two and two together and his body had responded. That simple reaction gave me the boost I needed, the Power Pill, and was my cue. With heart hammering and spin cycle in my belly, I drifted my free hand to the hem of my skirt, right in front of my pussy. And with the leading edge of my fingers, I started to lift it.
The Frenchman’s eyes widened and he shot a nervous glance at his wife, then returned glued to the scene unfolding less than a metre from him, trying and failing to pretend to be reading his paper. If he hadn’t been able to see what Adam was doing before, when I flashed my slick lips at him it was conclusive. I’m quite sure the repetitive spreading and closing of my wanton entrance as fingers entered and vacated would be forever burned in his mind. He couldn’t possibly tell how delightful it was to be the recipient of the actions, and from his vantage point had no idea my bottom was also part of the experience, but had he the presence of mind to drag his eyes away from my snatch, the picture my features painted would go most of the way toward describing it.
But it was clear he had no intention of diverting his stare anywhere other than my sopping centre. Twice in one day I’d deliberately and despicably shown my wet bounty to strange men. I was so not going to heaven.
The tension was electric. I felt enrapt just revealing myself, like I was caught in the path of a huge wrecking ball swinging against my stomach. The commuters all around us, disembarking and shoving into position were of no consequence, it was just Adam, the Frenchman and me in the hot carriage.
The urge to touch myself spiked and I couldn’t delay it a second longer. With the gritty resolve of someone hovering over the key to launch a nuclear strike, I hit the button and nearly sent myself through the roof. Fireworks immediately ignited in my groin, sending pleasure waves to the farthest reaches of my body and it took just a handful of desperately executed, ungraceful yet forceful, grinding circles against my nub before I came.
Everything collapsed inward, sucking every emotion that was currently in my body into a vortex with its epicentre on my flaming clitoris, and then burst in a kaleidoscope of light and sound. A roaring in my ears drowned out the chatter and rhythmic clanking of the train around me and I felt myself involuntarily flop forward like a rag doll, mercifully still maintaining grip on the ceiling strap. Adam slowed his actions and then stopped, burying his fingers deep as he must have felt the contractions begin in my soaked tunnel and the winking spasms of my arsehole clenching him, drawing him in, thanking him for bringing me such joy.
My spine was a pulsing superhighway, ferrying messages at what felt in excess of the speed of sound to each area. It prickled and fizzed as each zone in my body lit up, starting with overloading the circuits connecting my nipples to my belly. Lightning struck both pink tips of my swollen chest simultaneously and it arced across them, racing down my front to connect with the raging knot between my legs. My breasts tightened yet momentarily felt several cup sizes larger, straining against my clothes as hoops of fire raced down their slopes to spread throughout my rib cage.
The Y-shaped electric charge was quickly gone, dissipating its energy to nearby regions of my body, making them glow with an intense white heat. But the bolt still retained its power at the top of my pussy and dispensed its payload in rhythmic surges to every corner of my stunned frame. About once a second I was paralysed as a contraction took hold, my pelvis seizing up and firing a searing spark of energy outward, which was caught by my limbs, momentarily locking and warming them. I had fleeting glimpses of the Frenchman as my vision came and went, unable to focus on any one thing. Riding out each contraction as heat spread through my pulsing body, I basked in the fabulous high of orgasm.
Lolling this way and that with the swaying of the train, my mind took me on a journey elsewhere. A place where I was flying over deserts and seas, cities and villages. A place where nothing but the spirit of release could take me: impossible lands, a tropical paradise with just open sea between them. In my head, cold water sprayed me from a speedboat as I lay spread-eagled on its nose and careened across the ocean; just me and my open sex between the boat and never ending horizon. No cares. No worries. Nothing but deep contentment and a hollow vacuum in the pit of my stomach as wave after wave of excitement effervesced from my groin to the extremities of each limb.
As quickly as each travelled outward, they were rapidly sucked back to the source in the next instant, eddying around my appreciative clitoris before the next would shoot out, carrying sexual current to the fringes of my body and over-stimulated brain stem.
Emotionally I felt nothing at first, it was purely physical: mechanical and electrical. The emotional response always came as my brain gradually switched that part back on and made sense of the feelings that the physical components induced. Now I felt full and satisfied; strong and invincible; terribly naughty and dangerous.
The endorphin rush washed through me and renewed juices drizzled from my core to coat Adam’s clamped fingers. Without him to plug my saturated pussy I would probably have been standing in a sizeable wet patch.
My eyes shot open and body jerked to attention as I felt the train decelerate. Adrenaline flooded my system, unceremoniously putting the brakes on my orgasm, I blinked a few times and the commuter train reality hit me like a boxer’s sucker punch. Snapping my head frantically from person to person, I noticed the Frenchman smiling, newspaper forgotten and tented in his lap. His wife was peeking past the nearest passenger and staring at me agog while the small circle of businessmen and women in my immediate vicinity were either gawping or shuffling uneasily and overtly avoiding eye contact with me.
What had I done?
I panicked and unsteadily bolted for the opening door, wrenching myself free of Adam’s fingers and only just remembering to grab my shoe bag. Feeling more than a little empty, I wrestled my skirt down to cover what little of my dignity remained and charged through the wall of people for the doorway. With steely determination and angry grunts from the inconvenienced, I burst from the carriage, the cooler air of the station hitting me like a tidal wave. Adam followed at pace and just made it off the train as the buzzer ended and doors rolled shut. He ran after me as I stalked off through the crowd, and caught up with me by the stairs, spinning me round. Reflexively, I punched him on the shoulder.
“What the fuck did I...?”
“What?” He smirked just a little.
“Oh Jesus, did... was I loud?”
He smiled and I hit him again, gasping in a couple of lungfuls of air which I hadn’t realised I’d needed until my body thanked me.
A nearby guard approached.
“Mademoiselle? Vous allez bien?”
“Oui,” I panted. “Ça va.”
He didn’t seem convinced. “Il y a un problème?”
“Non. Pas problème... pas de problème,” I corrected myself. “Merci, monsieur. Merci.”
He remained a little unsure, but retreated when I grabbed Adam’s arm and started to ascend the stairs. I hadn’t noticed until then we were at Châtelet, perhaps the biggest and busiest station on the line, but I was fuming, mainly with embarrassment, so the rest of the ascent to the surface was in brooding silence.
At street level, things were still bustling and I led the way to an intersection. I didn’t want to admit what had just happened and paced this way and that, not wishing to look anyone in the eye for fear of being recognised. What had I been thinking?! With my temperament, there was no way it could have ended in any other manner: I was a sexual train crash.
For the second time that day I cursed myself for getting caught up in events. And yet there was no denying how it had felt at the time. The release, the heat, the power. Being elevated beyond the physical constraints of my body and experiencing the electrical impulses on a metaphysical plane was something I had thoroughly enjoyed savouring. If I was being honest, parts of me were still aching with desire and whether I wanted to face it or not, deep down I knew I’d have to find a way to repeat those feelings in future because they were incredible and afforded me a balance I needed; a way to find out more about who I really was.
The packed streets seemed overbearing as commuters and tourists alike strode, ambled or nudged around us. I was still shaking inside as we threaded our way from the station, destination anywhere, but progressively began to calm the more distance I put between myself and the Metro.
Eventually I came to a standstill and allowed myself to take in the sights and occasionally sulphurous smells from the drains of the early evening city. People criss-crossed the roads ahead of me, some of them ignoring the green pedestrian walk symbols and risking their lives crossing lanes of stop-start traffic. Although in Paris, like in other major European cities, even a green man doesn’t guarantee safe passage to the other side.
Adam caught up after being snagged behind a troupe of slow moving Japanese students. “We’re a few miles from where we need to be.”
He pointed up Boulevard de Sebastopol and I followed his finger.
“Let’s walk,” I said, adding, “I’ve had enough of the Metro for one day.”
Adam laughed and poked my ribs playfully.
We set off along the wide street and after a few minutes I reached for his hand. “Sorry for hitting you back there.”
“It’s just... God, did we really...?”
“And, seriously, what happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of, up until the end.”
“Was it good?”
“Then that’s all you need to know.”
“Oh come on!” I begged. “Please?”
He shrugged. “Yes you made some noise. A long, low groan which made a few people around you suspicious, but you might have got away with it until you started panting as well with your hand stuffed between your legs.”
I blushed. “No! Really?”
“Shit. I think we’ll avoid that line tomorrow.”
We ambled arm in arm up the road a good kilometre or so, where the street became Boulevard de Strasbourg, stopping off shortly after for a light dinner at a nondescript yet perfectly Parisian brasserie.
As we waited for the bill to arrive, watching a shop owner opposite closing up for the evening, I sat back and looked at Adam while freeing my hair, shaking the kinks out and fluffing the life back into it, looping the hair tie round my wrist for safekeeping. I knew there was one thing he still wanted and, despite myself, knew I owed him an apology for humiliating us both on the underground. Even if it had technically been his fault. Plus he’d bought me an incredibly expensive pair of shoes for being his personal harlot for the day.
I reminded him about confiscating my underwear and whether he intended to make good on his promises in return. He considered it while I ran my foot up his leg under the table.
“I’m not sure. You’ve been a very bad girl.”
“Yes, I have.” I drained the remaining mouthful of house white. “But don’t bad girls get a chance to redeem themselves? You know, through their actions maybe?”
He seemed amused. “After everything you’ve done today, are you throwing yourself at me?”
“What can you offer?”
“What do you want?”
“I asked first.”
I submissively lowered my face a little and shot him a coquettish look. “How about a few more-than-willing places to slide into? I could really make your day.”
“You’ve already made my day.” He paused. “It’s tempting, but you’ve been exceptionally naughty. I’m not sure you deserve such riches. Anything else to sweeten the deal? To make it worth my while lowering myself to your filthy level?”
After all the build-up I was a little crestfallen at the thought of him breaking his promise. But unlike me, he hadn’t come yet and there was something behind his eyes, some flicker of thirst that belied the charade. Then I got it. Dammit he was testing me again. To see how far I’d go in my subordinate role.
I thought for a moment, playing along, trying to find something to fire him up. Something he couldn’t resist.
“Take my panties out.”
He did as instructed, right there at the table, then waited.
As dirtily as I could muster, with bags of loaded intent, I hissed, “Smell them.”
Adam didn’t need asking twice to bring them to his nose, making sure to align them so the crotch stained with my earlier arousal was upward. He breathed deeply and I could see the desire well up in his face. Yes!
Knowing he’d be rigid beneath the table I ran my foot up and pressed the sandal against his groin like I’d done earlier, watching his excitement levels soar again. “How about I give you as much of that as you can take, directly from the source? And I promise to be a good girl from now on.”
He sniffed again, clearly aroused and pleased with my offering, then hastily pocketed the garment as the waiter brought the bill.
Adam paid, left a customary tip and we continued up the Boulevard, towards our left luggage and ultimately the hotel. The suspense was killing. I pressed him for an answer. “So, do we have a deal?”
He looked across at me. “Yes. You surrender your buttery pussy to my face and this time you can be as loud as you like when you come.”
I beamed, relieved. My kind of deal. “Thank you, Sir. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I should hope not. When you’ve had enough of my tongue I will take you in any manner of your choosing, on one condition.”
“Name it,” I breathed, already anticipating the feeling of my lover’s hard pole inside my body as he pawed my tits and nuzzled my neck from behind.
He grabbed my bottom through the skirt and said, “Never stop being bad.”
Then he ran ahead and I gave chase.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/exhibitionism/27-minutes-part-2-of-3-le-metro.aspx">27 Minutes (Part 2 of 3): Le Metro</a>