Please start with Chapter 1. If you don't, some of this content may not make sense.

This is part 2 of a 2-part chapter.

Early on, Charles asked me what kind of car I wanted. I said a Citroën 2CV.

"Andi, they haven't made those in almost 15 years."

"I did my research. Citroën 2CVs are economical and reliable, have a roll-back roof, parts are easy to find, they're easy to repair, and they're cute."

"I know a guy who specializes in Citroëns. You need to talk to him."

"I'm working on my French, but if he doesn't speak English, he wouldn't do me any good."

"I don't know, but I can get a translator."

Guy could speak English well enough for me. He was an old-time mechanic. He had a garage that employed six other men. I noticed he had only Citroëns in his shop. He was the guy I needed to talk to. I explained that I wanted to buy an 89-90 year model 2CV. It needed to have a straight frame with no rust. Everything except the engine needed to be in great shape. He asked me why not the engine. I told him I would buy a completely rebuilt engine and swap it with the old one. I would buy an engine with an overbore kit, a sports cam, an intake, and an exhaust manifold. And install a free-flow exhaust system. I told him I hoped to increase it by 50% over the original horsepower.

I could see I got his attention.

"You seem to know a lot about cars."

"I plan on doing some of the work myself. I don't know how it works in Paris, but in the US, most mechanics must supply their own tools.

"Same here in Paris."

"Guy, I'd like to use your tools, but I may need your help. I'll pay you well."

It took Guy a month or so, but he found a great car that was very straight and rust-free. It was an ugly green. He located the rebuilt engine I wanted. I went to one of Paris's used-clothing stores and bought several tiny overalls and long-sleeved shirts. I also bought a large box of rubber gloves. I would ride the Paris subway to and from Guy's shop. On the subway ride home, I got strange looks from some riders. Seeing a young woman covered in grease riding the subway was unusual.

I heard from Charles that Guy wanted to hire me as a mechanic. Guy was surprised by my mechanical ability and knowledge.

It was slower than I wanted, but Guy and I removed the old engine from the Citroën. We then sent the body, minus the engine, to a body shop that Guy said was good with Citroëns. I chose a two-tone paint job: maroon and black. I also replaced the canvas pull-back top and reupholstered the seats with leather.

Once I worked out the kinks in my new car, I drove it to my building. Charles and Susan couldn't believe how beautiful it was. Charles said it might be the nicest 2CV he had ever seen. Charles had arranged for a reserved spot in an underground parking garage. I bought a locking cover to keep the dust off my beloved "Deux Chevaux", French for "two horses". Cars are taxed by a formula based on horsepower. The 2CV was taxed on two horsepower. Every Sunday morning, when possible, I took that car out, sometimes through Paris neighborhoods and sometimes to the countryside. It was a great me time. I loved that car and kept it until I finally returned to the US.

Early in Paris, I wanted to start a service as I had in the US. I could use the money, and I really enjoyed having sex with couples or just women. Almost every Wednesday, Susan and I got together. She would take me to a new spot in Paris in the morning. I had heard of some of them; others were tiny treasures that most people never saw. If it were a paid site, Susan would show a worker her card, and they would treat us like royalty. We never waited in line and often had our own tour guide.

We always stopped for a light lunch. We would then go back to my apartment, and we would pleasure each other. Charles was a meat-and-potatoes guy when it came to sex. I would fuck Charles the same way over and over again. Susan, on the other hand, was very adventurous when it came to sex. I had bought a large quantity of sex toys and clothes at a neighborhood store.

I had laid out a large assortment of dildos, butt plugs, vibrators, restraints, nipple clips, harnesses, lubricants, paddles, and whips in several of my drawers in my bedroom. It only took a couple of Wednesdays before Susan came into my bedroom, stripped off her clothes, opened the drawers, and picked one or more items to use on her or, once in a while, me.

When I complimented Susan on her adventurousness, she told me, "I'm making up for lost time. I was born in the South and grew up in a very repressive childhood. I went away to college and got my first orgasm when I learned about masturbation. When I married Charles, I was a virgin. I thought all men had horse cocks. I really had to work at cumming from fucking. Charles insisted that I was present when he would fuck another woman. You were the first person to give me an orgasm orally. Now is my time to find out what I like."

"That's something I wanted to talk to you about. I want to find clients who would like to learn to orgasm. I really think I could help them and make some money. If you know anybody who might be interested, let them know I'm available. I'm interested in women under 60." Word of mouth would get me more clients if I could get a few.

"I might. I'll talk to them and see what they say." And she left it at this.

Less than a week later, a woman called me to say she had spoken with Susan. We arranged for her to come to my apartment to talk. I was happy to see what she was like. Ms. X was mid-40s, very thin, tall, and pretty. She was an American expat who came to Paris to work as a model. I explained what my service was. When I questioned her about her sexual likes and dislikes, she said she had very few. She had never gotten much pleasure from sex and never had a boyfriend. I told Ms. X she would have to have a recent STI (sexually transmitted infection) test at one of Paris' free clinics. She looked over my sex toy drawers, and I asked her if there was anything that was of interest. She picked out two dildos, a vibrator, and nipple clips. The nipple clips caught me off guard. I also asked her if she wanted me to wear any particular clothes. She just wanted me naked.

About a week later, Ms. X called. She said she had the test and was anxious to get together. We met at her apartment early Tuesday afternoon. At the door, Ms. X met me in matching black sleepwear. The tight shirt accented the lack of breasts. Her small, erect nipples were the only curves she had. As she led me to her bedroom, I noticed some glamorous pictures of her on the wall. One in particular was very well known. Ms. X is on a runway wearing a very narrow bandeau top and baggy shorts. She was the 90's icon for heroin chic.

"I knew I recognized you."

She smiled. As soon as we entered the bedroom, Ms. X turned to me, her manner direct. "I understand you can make any woman cum. I've never, I've never experienced it." Her words acted as a challenge.

Without another word, she began to disrobe. The starkness of her thin frame took my breath away. The pronounced angles of her hip bones and the surprisingly large curve of her pubic mound were a sharp contrast to the absence of any body hair below her scalp. It was almost surreal.

"Your turn."

I followed suit, quickly shedding my own clothing. I felt her eyes drop immediately to the prominent bulge between my legs, the sheer size and shape of my engorged clit a focal point. Her look alone was enough to tighten my nipples.

"My god," she uttered, her speech touched with surprise and a trace of awe. "You have a fantastic body. You have curves where I, where I don't have places." Her eyes followed the swell of my breasts, the shape of my hips, a strong contrast to her pointed angles.

"What would you have me do?" I asked.

"Make me cum," she repeated. "I just, I just want to cum."

I began my exploration of Ms. X's body with slow kisses. Starting at her lips, I really enjoyed the taste of her skin, and then trailed downward, my tongue lingering on her neck. I paused at her small nipples, gently teasing them with my mouth, flicking them with the tip of my tongue.

I finally reached her pubic mound, the smooth, bare skin offering no resistance. I inhaled her unique scent, then ran my fingers gently around the delicate outer labia, noting the distinct lack of natural lubrication. I lubricated two fingers generously and slowly slid them inside her, exploring the dry, tight passage. There was no moisture. It seemed like entering a desert. I continued to gently stroke the inner walls, seeking any sign of arousal. Nothing.

I went for the nipple clips I had brought, carefully attaching them to her small nipples. I turned on my well-used Hitachi Magic Wand to the lowest, mildest vibration setting. The vibration against her breasts finally elicited a reaction. Her breath hesitated. Slowly, her hips began to move, a slight shift against the bed.

I focused my attention on her pussy, my lubricated fingers now delicately probing, searching for her G-spot. I found it, a small, slightly raised bump along the anterior wall, and began to stroke it slowly in tandem with the vibrations against her nipples.

Gradually, the movements of her hips grew more pronounced. I turned the vibrator on the high setting, the vibrations now directly stimulating her nipples. The combination seemed to be working. I continued to stroke her G-spot, the light contractions of her vaginal muscles against my fingers the first sign that the long-sought-after sensation was finally beginning to stir. I placed the head on her now hard clit. It only took a short amount of time for her to get her first orgasm.

Ms. X was more animated about getting her first orgasm than when she got one. She waved me over to her and held me tight. She made no effort to pleasure me. Ms. X walked over to a dresser and handed me a new bill. I was shocked until I looked at it and realized it was a 500 Euro bill.

"Is that enough?"

"You're more than generous." This was strictly a business deal. I dressed and said, "Let me know if you want me to come over again."

"I would like to make this a regular thing." How does every week sound?

"That works for me. Same time every Tuesday?"

"Almost every Tuesday. If I'm walking the runway, I wouldn't be available. I'll give you a copy of my schedule. If I'm open, I hope to see you. Are you interested in new clientele? I have some friends who may be interested in your service."

"Just give them my phone number. I'll be glad to talk to them." I had no idea how much that helped my business. I tried to keep the number of customers to five a week, but sometimes it would balloon to as many as ten. I just felt it wasn't good for my business to turn down beautiful, horny fashion models.

Ms. X used me for years. Her career waned and waxed. One year, heroin chic was in; the following year, it wasn't. She finally got tired of the Paris fashion scene and went home to the US.

As I started to pleasure more and more fashion models, I noticed some common characteristics about them: there wasn't a hair on their body below their waist; they were very tall, thin, and toned; they spoke English very well; they had flawless skin; most had husbands or boyfriends; many were either bisexuals or lesbians and tended to be very good tippers and, when not working, slept in late.

I was getting more and more calls from models for my service. We met at my apartment and discussed what they liked and disliked. They looked over my increasingly large sex toy collection (I kept buying more). The single most significant sticking point for some was a recent STI (sexually transmitted infection) test. I don't know if they felt insulted, embarrassed, or didn't want to be seen going to a clinic. I suggested they could use their doctor. I lost more than one who seemed interested in my service but never got the test.

I always made house calls. I became proficient at using the Paris subway and traveling from client to client. I really wanted women who wanted to make this a weekly thing. It let me plan my days better. It took a while, but I finally narrowed it down to five regular customers, plus a few irregular ones.

Surprisingly, a couple of customers lived in high-end hotels, not apartments. I suspect it was conveniences like daily cleaning, laundry services, and amenities such as a concierge service. They didn't have to worry about an empty apartment while traveling.

Sunday afternoon with Charles and Susan felt like the movie "Groundhog Day." It was always the same thing with Charles. Saturday afternoon, a package would arrive with some incredible high-end lingerie. I eventually ended up with a world-class collection. I would put the lingerie on early Sunday afternoon, cover it with a coat, and go to Charles and Susan's apartment. Susan would greet me at their door in a nightgown or a peignoir set. Always in one that I had never seen before. Charles would make his entrance in the same robe over and over again with his huge cock sticking out. I would lie down on the bed without even being asked; Charles and Susan started at my clit, with Charles moving to my nipples. I would get my first orgasm, which was a signal for Susan to lie on her back, exposing her pussy. I would kneel, lower my face to Susan's cunt while raising my ass to offer my cunt to Charles' huge dick. Charles would slowly fuck me to a couple more orgasms. Susan and I decided she could get better orgasms if she didn't orgasm. Sunday, she would be horny for our Wednesday get-togethers. So Susan got really good at faking orgasms. To get Charles off, I would always have to mount him and jack off my clit. I would always get intense orgasms. I love big cocks, but Charles was so big that once a week was about all I wanted to take. Charles would finally orgasm by shooting a massive load of cum up me.

Soon after one of our Sunday sessions, Charles told me French authorities questioned him about me. To get my visa, Charles had to claim me as an employee. He wondered if I could start working part-time at his fashion house. We agreed I could work in the mornings three days a week. He told me he would pay me the going rate for his workers. At first, I was mad about this, but as time went on, I had no idea what a great deal this was for me.

The following Monday, I walked with Charles to his fashion house. He told me to wait at the storefront. As I walked around the showroom, I realized all the clothes were ready to wear. I later learned that the Haute Couture fashions were created and made on the building's second floor. Haute Couture and Couture create exclusive, custom-fitted, high-end fashion designs, with Haute Couture paying incredible attention to detail. Ready-to-wear was made off-site. Charles decided to make all his clothes in France. His fashion house had a massive complex on the outskirts of Paris where they made all the ready-to-wear garments.

While Charles was the creative director, Colette ran day-to-day operations. I was to be her aide. Colette spoke English better than I spoke French, but not by much. She was a stocky, gray-haired woman in her mid-50s. Colette appeared at the door Charles had gone through. She was wearing a white smock that was two sizes too small. I'm sure it once fit her well. As she walked back inside the door, she had a limp and a hip roll that told me she had hip problems. That's why I was there. I would cut down on her walking by doing many daily menial tasks.

The building had two elevators, one for clients and the other for freight. Employees used the freight elevator. The stairs were faster and helped keep me in shape. We slowly went up to the fourth floor, which was filled with tables where seamstresses cut and sewed clothes. This is where Haute Couture and Couture were created. I followed Colette to a back room with lockers. She showed me my locker, had me raise my arms, and smelled me from head to toe. She told me to shower before coming to work and never wear perfume or makeup. She then handed me a smock with my name on it. She returned to the floor and said something that got everybody's attention. I understood a little of what she said. The very last thing she said was my name. Everybody smiled and went right back to work.

My duties were minimal initially, but as my French improved and Colette felt more comfortable with me, I started doing things that mattered. These ranged from checking a project's progress to going up to the 6th floor to check inventory.

Once in a while, I would get to go to the 2nd floor, which was the atelier where all final fittings and tailoring took place. It was also where Charles worked. It took me a while to figure out the floor layout. Small rooms lined the outer walls, along with private final-fitting rooms for high-end buyers.

In front of the room and on the side was a well-appointed lounge for high-end clients. The lounges offered a more intimate setting for clients to view collections, receive individual styling advice, and even place special orders. One of my duties was to make sure clients had food and drink. From the refrigerator in a small room next to the lounge, we brought out one or two tins of beluga caviar, depending on how many clients were coming. We iced down two or three bottles of champagne. Early every morning, the fashion house delivered several platters of hors d'oeuvres. They were kept in the refrigerator until needed. At first, Colette set up the clients' food. She allowed me to help slowly, and eventually I did it without her supervision.

I usually left the fashion house around noon. One day, when I was getting ready to go, Colette asked me to help her clear the tables in the lounge. I asked her what we would do with the leftover food as we cleared the table. All she said was, "Garbage." With that, she took a small scoop of caviar and ate it. She motioned to me to do the same. It was the first time I had had caviar, let alone beluga. She ate a few of the hors d'oeuvres. I was selective, but I ate a few too. Colette then went over, poured a small glass of champagne, and sipped it. I followed her lead. This was the day I learned to love beluga caviar, high-end hors d'oeuvres, and French champagne. This didn't happen often, but I was glad to work late when it did. Colette told me she had been doing this for years. It might explain her fireplug figure.

Over the years, I noticed very few overweight people in France. Years later, I read that France had the lowest obesity rate in Europe; Colette was an exception.

Bastille Day fell on a Friday. Every business shut down for the celebration. The day had two parts. Early in the day, a military parade started at the Arc de Triomphe and went down the Champs-Élysées. The Champs-Élysées was only a couple of blocks from my apartment. In the evening, the events were concentrated around the Eiffel Tower. A fireworks display followed a rock concert.

Misty and I decided not to wear anything crazy for the parade, but we thought we would crank it up for the concert. Neither Jean nor Louis wanted to join us for the parade. Still, they were all in on the events around the Eiffel Tower.

Misty chose a stylish cotton sundress, a midi-length A-line dress in a cheerful small floral print. The fit skimmed her figure comfortably, suggesting her slender build without clinging, and the length revealed her long legs gracefully without being revealing. She looked incredibly sophisticated.

I wore tailored high-waisted trousers in a lightweight crepe, in soft blue, paired with a tucked-in blouse. The high waist of the trousers emphasized my narrowest point and created a long, elegant line, exhibiting my height and slender build while fully covering me. Misty was almost shocked that I was so "covered up." I told her to wait for tonight.

The Bastille Day Parade in Paris, known as the world's longest continuous military parade, was an overwhelming spectacle, especially for a first-time viewer like me. I was surprised to spot the Grenadier Guards among the ranks, only to learn they were special guests from the UK, invited by the French government to mark the 100th anniversary of the Entente Cordiale, that treaty of friendship signed back in 1904. Not to be outdone, the French presented their impressive mounted soldiers alongside large contingents on foot, roaring past on motorcycles and rumbling by in tanks. Experiencing it all packed onto the Champs-Élysées was incredibly intense, and the heat was stifling – it turned out that July 14th was the hottest day Paris saw in 2004. Honestly, it was a miracle that no one had collapsed on the spot.

Leaving the heat of the parade as well as the promise of the evening's concert, Misty and I headed back to my apartment, shedding our clothes the moment the door shut quietly. We stepped into the shower together, taking turns soaping each other up. We both knew exactly how to turn each other on. Misty and I struck a deal not to orgasm until after the evening’s concert. We would be more daring if we went out turned on.

We stepped out, not bothering with clothes, just lounging around the apartment, letting the air cool our damp skin. When Jean and Louis showed up, the look on their faces when they found us there, naked, said a lot. The boys wanted to fuck immediately. The feeling was mutual, but the main event at the Eiffel Tower was still to come, and the waiting for 'that' blowout made us agree to wait, letting the tension build even higher for later.

Stepping out for the Bastille Day concert, Misty was wearing the same outfit she wore to “The Fête de la Musique”. Her flaming copper hair and pale, luminous marble skin were a walking, talking fantasy in white. Her white shorts were practically painted on, hugged her ass so tight you could read the dimples, with a shot of camel toe right up front, just the way she liked it. Her white bustier was way too small, pushing her breasts up and practically spilling out over the top, barely holding on, giving you a clear, unavoidable peek of cocoa-rose areola against that pale skin.

I chose a little white halter top that fit every contour and felt amazing on my breasts. My nipples were just right there. Long, dark, and hard, pressing their obvious shape through the thin white material. I loved this top because it puts them on display. My skirt rode low on my hips, barely there, just enough denim to cup the swell of my ass and leave the rest to the imagination, or not. No panties; the denim is rough and perfect on my skin, a constant, low-level tease that was a turn-on. As I walked, the denim slightly rubbed my clit, causing it to produce a bulge at the top of my thighs.

I met Misty and Louis at their apartment and headed to the Eiffel Tower for the concert and fireworks. I asked where Jean was and was told we would meet him at the concert. I could tell Louis couldn't keep his eyes off me, and he finally said how daring my outfit was. I just smiled. As we walked to the "La dame de fer," as locals call the Eiffel Tower, I realized I was attracting too much attention. Once there, we finally found Jean wandering around. He took one look at me and complained, "I don't think you should be exposing yourself like that."

"I guess I didn't get the memo about you being my boyfriend," I said, a little heat in my voice. He just stood there, jaw slightly slack, so I spelled it out for him plainly: unless he held that title, he had no say whatsoever in what I chose to wear.

As the concert came to life, Jean and Louis pulled out flasks and passed them around. I had no idea what they were pouring, but it hit just right – smooth and potent. My personal mantra has always been "be in control by staying in control," and I rarely drink much, seldom getting drunk. Still, tonight was shaping up to be a crazy exception. The pulsing music, the overwhelming heat of the Parisian night, and the alcohol all merged into a powerful aphrodisiac, leaving me extremely aroused, a continuous hum under my skin.

We were really 'dancing,' lost in the crowd's energy, when I started grinding against Jean. Later, he swore I actually pulled up my skirt and rubbed myself right against his leg. I don't remember the exact moment, but he showed me the undeniable stains I left on the sides of his shorts. What I clearly remember is the overwhelming heat and how my white halter top was soaking wet with perspiration. That top left nothing to the imagination; sweat beaded in my cleavage, and my long, dark nipples were front and center, pushing through the damp, thin fabric. Below the cropped top, my concave midriff glistened with sweat, leading down to that ridiculously short denim skirt. It rode low on my hips, barely there, and with the heat, it was sticking just enough to emphasize every damn curve. The denim was so brief that with every wild move, you caught more than a hint of my ass cheeks, glossy with sweat, peeking out from underneath. Jean later claimed I was even walking around with a little of my clit peeking out.

After the spectacular fireworks show, a group of young men approached us as we walked back. Out of nowhere, two huge men confronted the group, and the young men ran off, and just like that, the two men disappeared.

"What the hell was that about?"

Jean said, "Those were my bodyguards, Andi."

"Do you have bodyguards often?"

"I always have bodyguards. My mom insists."

The concert finally wrapped, leaving us all energized and drenched, so we made a beeline straight for Misty and Louis's apartment. The moment the door slammed shut, Misty just collapsed onto the nearest couch, groaning about her shorts, which were glued to her as a second, very damp skin. "Louis," she practically wheezed, her voice thick with exhaustion and a touch of desperation, "help me get out of these damn things!" Watching them struggle was pure comedy. He'd tug, she'd grunt, and they'd both lean back, the material resisting every inch like a resistant lover. It took both of them, huffing and puffing, for those skin-tight, sweaty shorts to finally concede defeat.

We followed suit once those impossible shorts were vanquished, peeling off our sticky clothes with sighs of pure, unadulterated relief. I'll admit, seeing the boys, Jean and Louis, standing there stark naked, I was genuinely surprised by the impressive erections they were sporting. I figured with all the celebratory booze we'd been pouring down our throats, they might be less than at attention. But no, those dicks were practically saluting.

Before Misty fully untangled herself from her shorts and adjusted on the couch, Louis, clearly operating on pure, unadulterated instinct, wasted precisely zero seconds. He was on her in a flash, his immense cock, standing at full salute, plunging right into her. No preamble, no fuss. And Misty? She took him, deep and easy, her body arching, already slick and ready, making a soft, satisfied sound that resounded through the room. I could see Louis's dick pulling back, glistening wet with her juice, before he drove back in, the sound of flesh slapping on flesh a new rhythm for the night. This night was just getting started.

As I was lost, mesmerized by the sex show Misty and Louis were putting on, Jean was already on his knees, his mouth hot and wet on my soaking pussy. I was so incredibly turned on, even with the sweat running everywhere. It was a surprise, though, how much he really wanted to devour me right there, given how boozy we all were. Jean knew my body and learned how to use his tongue, but the alcohol had wrapped a kind of thick, hot veil over my senses, muffling the edges of pleasure. Even with his gifted tongue circling and plunging, it was clear he wasn't going to get me to that edge just with his mouth tonight. I grabbed his head, pulling him up for a breathless kiss. "Time to take me for a ride, lover," I said in a low voice, lifting my legs to give him full access, needing that penetration.

Jean was beyond excited, his dick already against my thigh. He mounted me in a rush, plunging inside with a hard, deep thrust that made me gasp. He started to pump me, brutally hard and unbelievably fast, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust. My body contracted around him, trying to grab onto the pleasure, but it was too quick, too wild. In just a couple of minutes, he groaned, stiffened, and came in a hot rush inside me, leaving me utterly spent but, to my utter frustration, still insanely turned on and nowhere near my own climax. I rarely have trouble reaching that finish line, but the pain was maddening.

By then, Misty had finished with Louis, who was still fully hard and ready for more. She saw the look on my face, a mix of panting arousal and utter dissatisfaction. Without a word, she motioned to Louis, her eyes glinting with playfulness. "Finish her off," she spoke quietly. Louis immediately flipped onto his back, his massive cock already straining towards me. I straddled him in reverse cowgirl, aligning myself with his immense shaft, and began to bounce, taking him deep, feeling his colossal size stretch me. Even with him inside me, the pleasure was a slow burn, a teasing warmth, building, but not the explosion I needed. That's when Misty, with a low groan of pure sensuality, straddled Louis's face, positioning her pussy right over his mouth, ready to give him his second course. Then, she reached around, her fingers finding one of my full breasts, gently kneading it, and playing with my nipple. At the same time, her other hand went straight for my huge, hard clit, jacking it off with knowing strokes.

The intensity became almost painful. Misty's body leaned into mine, her breath speeding up as Louis devoured her orally, bringing her off with powerful sucks and licks, all while her fingers teased my nipple and worked my clit into a frenzy. Below me, Louis's massive cock banged on my cervix with every bounce. I've always found that the harder you work for an orgasm, the stronger it is. Time absolutely stopped. I don't know if I came first, Misty did, or if we all just exploded at the exact moment. Still, the next thing I knew, we were a tangled, panting pile of bodies, sweat, and spent desire, utterly collapsed. I've never experienced anything like it before or since.

Misty chuckled, a low, satisfied rumble. "Thank God for 'daddy's little helper,'" she uttered. I gave her a quizzical look. "The boner maker," she explained, giggling. "Popeye's spinach, Colonel Hard-on. Viagra, Andi. The boys took a couple of Viagra before we left the fireworks show. If Louis is drunk and doesn't take Viagra, he's Mr. Limp Dick."

While working at the fashion house in Paris during the February and September ready-to-wear fashion weeks, some brands presented their Haute Couture collections twice a year, in January and July. I didn't start working until after the July show. The ready-to-wear shows let brands showcase their fashions to the public. They made catalogs and took orders. This year, the house had scheduled its spring/summer fashions for October 12th. The house needed to have a well-received show. Charles was preparing for the spring/summer fashion shows. The process of transforming sketches into actual garments is fascinating. All the clothes being created are size 34 or 36, equivalent to US sizes 0 or 2. The models are typically between 5'9" and 6' tall, ideally around 5'10" to 5'10½". Most have small busts, with only a few even having full B cups.

I was surprised to learn that many Paris Fashion Week outfits are based on a generic model. Models would come in for fittings, but the outfits were chosen based on how well they suited each model. Top models had outfits explicitly made for them, and if a model had a larger bust, they were more likely to showcase cleavage.

This year, Charles had around 40 different outfits for the show, so he brought in 40 different models to be fitted at various times. I particularly enjoyed the fittings when the models were undressed. A lot of skin was shown, featuring a range of body shapes and forms.

Jean asked me what I was doing for les grandes vacances. Les grandes vacances is the French concept for summer vacation. For some, it starts in late June and runs into September. Most people take off in August. Paris has a mass migration of people who can afford to leave. Jean asked me to find a date to visit his family's villa. His family was old money, and it owned a spectacular villa in Cap d'Antibes that had been in the family for generations. I had never heard of Cap d'Antibes. It turns out that it is where billionaires have villas. Only then did I realize how wealthy Jean's family was.

Let me tell you about those two weeks in the South of France, a trip that turned into quite a sensual education. I was 24 at the time, already a self-described nymphomaniac and, as some called me, "the cum whisperer," living a rather adventurous life in Paris as the mistress of a fashion designer. My "fuck buddy," Jean, invited me to his family's opulent villa in Cap d'Antibes for a summer holiday, and that's where everything really ignited. My visit acted as the catalyst for the explosive sexual awakening of Jean's 18-year-old sister, Danni.

My trip south set the spirit. I stopped in Lyon, where I met Gilles, a young, innocent hotel worker. I took pleasure in initiating him into sex, an encounter Danni later heard about, and I suspect it aroused her interest in what I could teach. When I arrived at the villa, Danni, who seemed so shy and inexperienced despite recently turning 18, was quickly influenced by my overt sensuality. Discovering her father's hidden collection of erotic novels only fueled her burgeoning desires. It wasn't long before her desire to know caused her to ask for my help in exploring her own sexuality, our first foray being anal play with dildos.

Danni's sexual awakening was absolutely explosive; she welcomed it with incredible speed and enthusiasm. I often found myself guiding and orchestrating experiences for her, with Jean frequently becoming a reluctant but increasingly aroused observer, sometimes even a participant. She dove into a series of encounters, including one with a young pool attendant and several with Enzo, the impressively well-endowed Italian gardener, who became a particular favorite. Danni quickly developed an obvious preference for what she called "big girl cock" and eagerly explored everything, from receiving oral sex to giving it with an almost innate skill. Her experience included a deliberately arranged first-time anal experience with a man known as Marco, whom Jean and I recruited for the "audition." This escalated to a mind-blowing double penetration scene with Marco taking her anally and Enzo vaginally. This experience made her reel with multiple intense orgasms. Throughout all this, Danni's confidence rose, and she became wonderfully uninhibited, vocalizing her desires and her pleasure without hesitation.

Amidst orchestrating Danni's adventures, Jean and my relationship grew, and we became passionate lovers, sharing incredibly intense moments of mutual pleasure, teaching, and intimate conversations about our desires. The villa's atmosphere got even more charged with the arrival of other guests, including my former lovers, Misty and Louis. This led to new, complex group dynamics plus more sexual encounters, including Danni, with her recent boldness, initiating a threesome with Misty and Louis. A visit from five models also gave Danni more "conquests" to help her reach her stated goal. I had my sensual interlude with Giselle, a fiery redhead model. Our adventures weren't confined to the villa; we even made a risqué trip to a nude beach, picking up two men for an impromptu foursome in the family's limousine while Jean drove. An evening at the Monte Carlo Casino followed, which, after a surprising winning streak at the craps table, ended with Jean and me having passionate sex on the trunk of his Ferrari under the stars.

A major turning point came with the arrival of Jean and Danni's mother, Juliette. At first, I saw her as stern, but she soon revealed she knew about everything. She explained it as a "family curse", an uncontrollable, hereditary sex drive, particularly in the women of their lineage, a trait she openly admitted to sharing. Her unexpected acceptance of our lifestyle, with a simple request for discretion, put Danni's high sex drive into perspective and shifted the entire dynamic of the household.

That two-week vacation concluded with Danni profoundly transformed from a reserved girl into a sexually empowered, confident young woman. She decided to move in with me in Paris, a thrilling prospect. I saw in her not simply a lover and roommate but, with her rapier wit and limitless curiosity, a best friend and perhaps even a partner in future "sensual landscapes" and other as-yet-undefined endeavors. Our drive back to Paris was filled with Danni's continued sexual boldness and the recounting of her model conquests. I taught her the joys of self-pleasure, strengthening her amazing journey into her new, uninhibited self.

When we finally returned to my apartment in Paris, I showed Danni to the spare bedroom. Her eyes scanned around the space, a playful pout forming on her lips. "I thought I was in the same bedroom as you," she said flirtatiously.

"You need a room for all your things," I replied, though the thought of her in my bed was already tempting. Then, a question I hadn't considered popped into my head. "So, Danni, where exactly are you going to school?"

"The Sorbonne, of course," she answered with an air of unaffected confidence.

My eyebrows rose. The Sorbonne. Even back in Ohio, I'd heard of that well-known university. "Danni, that's a tough school to get into."

"Oh, I was the top student in this special program," she explained nonchalantly. "Guaranteed admission if you complete it. And, with my family name, even if I hadn't qualified, they probably would have allowed me in any way."

Danni wrapped her arms around me as she spoke, her body pressing close. "Andi," she said, her breath soft against my neck, "My car is just sitting there, begging to be driven."

I sighed, a familiar weariness settling in. "Danni, we can't have sex every single time you feel like it."

"Why not?" she asked, her eyes open wide and genuinely confused.

"Because," I said, trying to sound patient, "I have other things I need to do." That's when it truly hit me. Danni was a fascinating, albeit perplexing, mix. Rich, intelligent, beautiful, and incredibly sexually active, yet with a low level of maturity. If this living arrangement was going to work, I knew I'd have to guide her toward more self-reliance gently.

"The first thing you need to do," I began, bringing her to sit on the edge of the bed, "is take responsibility for your own pleasure sometimes." "Do you ever masturbate?" I questioned softly.

"I used to," she replied, a slight frown forming on her forehead. "But not really in the last two weeks. I mean, with so many people happy to please me."

"I know, honey," I said, taking her hand. "But you need to start again. It might actually calm you down a little." I motioned towards the bed. "Take off your clothes and lie down."

I went to one of my drawers, overflowing with various toys. I pulled out a substantial, realistically shaped dildo and my dependable Magic Wand vibrator. I handed her the vibrator and showed her the power button and the high-low switch.

"I've never used one of these before," she admitted, a trace of interest in her eyes.

"Start on low," I instructed, "and just explore. Touch it to some of your erogenous zones. Your neck, your breasts, slowly work your way down to your nipples." I watched as she tentatively followed my instructions, a soft gasp escaping her lips as the vibrations vibrated on her skin. "When you feel aroused, really turned on," I continued, "slowly work your way down your body, teasing your stomach, your inner thighs... until you reach your pussy."

Her eyes were wide with anticipation. "And then?"

"Once you're completely ready," I said, my vocal tone calming to a suggestive whisper, "slowly insert the dildo while holding the vibrator right on your clit."

Danni followed my instructions with a focused intensity. As the low hum of the vibrator vibrated against her neck, a delicate flush spread across her chest. She tentatively touched it to her breasts, her nipples instantly hardening beneath the mild pulsations. A soft moan escaped her lips as she moved it lower, following the curve of her stomach. When she finally reached her swollen clit, she pressed the vibrator against it, her breath pausing in her throat. The buzzing sensation hit her immediately and intensely, right on her most sensitive spot.

With her other hand, she slowly guided the smooth head of the dildo to her moist entrance. She gasped softly as it slid inside, the fullness a known yet still exciting sensation. As the dildo was in her, she applied the vibrating head firmly against her clit. Her back arched slightly off the bed, her soft moans building into sharp cries. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a pleasure both inside and out. Her hips began to rock rhythmically, her fingers pressing the vibrator harder against her throbbing nub.

Her breath grew ragged, sharp gasps in the air. Her body tensed, her muscles clenching and releasing in a wild rhythm. Then, a strangled cry escaped from her throat as her first orgasm hit her with a raw, wild force. Her body convulsed, her cries ringing in the room as wave after wave of intense pleasure rolled over her. The vibrator buzzed relentlessly against her still-throbbing clit, prolonging the exquisite torment. Her legs trembled, her hands gripping the sheets tightly as she rode the crest of each wave, her entire being consumed by the pure, unadulterated sensation. A second, even more powerful orgasm followed quickly, leaving her gasping and utterly spent, a sheen of sweat shining on her flushed skin.

Danni, catching her breath and with an understanding smirk, said, "Well, I think I just gave a lesson on how to make a girl cum, starring me and co-starring these two overachievers. Pretty sure my clit's still giving them a standing ovation." I just loved Danni’s wit, especially since she was only 18.

I had designated the spare bedroom as Danni's personal pleasure palace. In this space, she could freely explore her voracious desires. That room saw more action than a Times Square peep show for our first several months together. The walls practically vibrated with the energy emanating from within. I lost count of the times she'd disappear in there, only to emerge later with a blissful, slightly dazed expression. This helped her “calm down”.

"How do you even attend classes with your 'needs'?" I once asked, genuinely curious.

She just shrugged, "Necessity is the mother of invention, Andi. I've got a little travel kit, a discreet vibrator, and a small dildo. Whenever I have a spare moment between lectures, or even in an especially dull one, I seek a quiet restroom and take care of business." She winked. "Multitasking at its finest."

Her mother's words about the ever-increasing female sex drive often rang in my mind: "Like mother, like daughter." It certainly seemed to be true in Danni's case.

Danni and I were starting on something really unique. She was sharp; she could see the truth in a boring situation and make a joke no one else saw coming, making me laugh and feel slightly in awe. She was quickly becoming more than just a roommate and lover; she was evolving into my best friend, a fellow explorer of sensual landscapes, and perhaps even a partner in some future, as-yet-undefined endeavors. The possibilities, much like Danni's apparently limitless libido, seemed endless. And I felt our adventures seemed only beginning, powered by her quick mind and limitless curiosity.

The following two weeks found me back at the fashion house, even as most Parisians were still enjoying their final vacation days of August. Colette, ever the workhorse, was already there, as was Charles, who commuted from his rented villa in the South of France on weekends. With our spring/summer fashion show slated for October 12th, there was an immense amount to accomplish, compounded by a steady stream of high-end clients requiring custom designs. My roles grew steadily, and thankfully, no one complained.

A few of my regular top model clients were also back in Paris for the latter half of August. I'm always overwhelmed by their beauty; these women meticulously cultivate their appearance and sexuality, as their livelihood depends on their looks. Their interactions with me generally fell into two distinct categories: some wanted me to pleasure them, a straightforward service. The others sought a closer connection, enjoying kissing and fondling, with a select few even taking pleasure in pleasuring me.

As August came to a close and Parisians officially marked the end of summer, I focused on ensuring Danni was fully prepared for school. Danni's mother, Juliette, would swing by late Friday afternoons to check in. Knowing Danni wouldn't be around, Juliette felt free to be completely honest with me. That's when I truly grasped the incredible safety net she'd meticulously built for her daughter, but that's a story for another time.

Since Charles wasn't around on Sundays, I got a welcome reprieve from our weekly sex sessions. While I certainly love to fuck, Charles had absolutely no imagination in bed, just a truly massive dick.

The fall had so much to offer and so many surprises yet to come.

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