Paris; 2020. I had been wandering around aimlessly for more than an hour, after finding the Gare d’Orsay art museum was closed because of the Covid-19 Lockdown.
I’d come to Paris expressly to study the famous museum’s furniture collections for my doctorate back in London. Frustrated, I headed for the old station buffet, which thankfully was open for business – though thronged with similarly-disappointed tourists.
I found a quiet window seat and ordered a large glass of the House Red, but when a noisy Chinese group (complete with pennant-carrying tour guide) invaded my ‘sanctuary’, I beat a hasty retreat and stepped outside. Now it was raining. I pulled up my jacket collar and headed for the Champs-Elysées, intending to walk up to the Arc de Triomphe, behind which my low-budget hotel was located.
Half-way up the wide boulevard I spotted a showy department store which I’d never previously noticed. It was called Première Classe, with its name written in huge pink neon lettering across its flamboyant façade. I was slightly taken aback. Having been married (thankfully now divorced) to an inveterate shopaholic, why had Maggie never wanted to spend my money in Première Classe? As my tweed jacket now resembled used blotting paper, I decided to venture into this brash establishment.
The main entrance hall was a cross between Gordon Selfridge’s flagship department store on London’s Oxford Street and the British Museum’s Egyptian Gallery. Gilt-edged perfume counters abounded, all staffed by stunningly-beautiful females (several looking like predatory ‘cougars’). I eased my way through the cosmopolitan crowd and headed for the bank of lifts ranged along the back wall. There were five sets of ornate gilded double doors, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of exotic marble. Above each pair of doors was a half-clock arrangement, with a single gold hand indicating each lift’s location.
I stood in front of the central lift as it appeared to be descending to ground level. An electronic chime sounded the first bars of La Marseillaise as the double doors slid open. Save for its operator, the spacious well-lit lift car was empty. Its walls were lined with mahogany panelling, many containing illustrated information boards. The ceiling was an elaborately-gilded filigree of Fabergé-era lights. Standing beside the lift’s control panel was a small African youth, immaculately dressed in a dark blue uniform, trimmed by gold braid, with two rows of brass buttons running down his tunic. He gave me a pleasant smile. “Where to, monsieur?”
I cautiously stepped inside the lift. “Ehh… I’m really not sure.”
He nodded to the lift’s back wall. “All the departments served are shown on the panels, monsieur.”
“Thank you. May I just take a look.”
“Bien sure. My name is Sami and I will be your guide today.”
“And where are your from, Sami?”
“Senegal, monsieur.”
Relieved that no other shoppers had entered the lift car, I began to study the panels. I heard the car’s doors glide shut. The sales levels being offered were styled by historical references: The Tudors, The Borgias, Cleopatra on the Nile, Horatio Nelson, de Sade’s Dungeon of Punishment and something called The Hall of Hollywood Screen Goddesses. Now the lift boy was standing beside me, looking up expectantly. “Made up your mind?”
I rubbed my chin. “Difficult choice, isn’t it Sami?”
“You can always try one, monsieur; then move upstairs if you don’t like the action.”
“And are they all down in the basement?”
“Bien sure, monsieur. A long, long way below ground level. Many years, in fact. Many, many years.”
Ignoring this last puzzling remark, I pointed to a revealing photograph of a topless Jayne Mansfield, seated behind the steering wheel of a gas-guzzling Chevrolet convertible. “I certainly wouldn’t mind reviving some old memories of this lady. I was still a youth at high school when she died. Will she be down there – in the basement exhibition?”
“For sure, monsieur”, my young friend assured me. “Just as she is shown in the photograph. Topless and still extremely beautiful.” He nudged me suggestively with one elbow. “It is said that she had the largest bosoms in Hollywood, as well as a great many lovers, including – so it is rumoured - JFK.”
“Mmm… sounds too good to be true. And must visitors to these basement areas only observe or can they participate?”
“The choice is entirely yours, monsieur. But if, for example, you desired to be intimate with Miss Mansfield, I know that she wouldn’t object. I have watched many gentlemen have congress with her.” He tugged my elbow and pointed enthusiastically at the lime green leather-upholstered bench seat in the photograph. “Right on the seat of that automobile. She loves it!”
I was now warming to the subject. “And tell me, are there other screen goddesses down there?”
“For sure, monsieur.”
“Such as?”
“Marlene Dietrich, Zsa Zsa Gabor (very noisy when she is having sex, that one), and of course Marylyn. She always wears the sequined ball gown from Some Like It Hot.”
I was dazzled by the choice – and my young friend could clearly see my quandary. “There’s no hurry, monsieur. Take your time; recharge the batteries (so to speak) and fuck them all! Shall I take you down?”
“Yes please!”
The doors slid shut, but the lift car remained motionless. Then the interior lights flickered and went out. “No worries, senior,” Sami called through the inky blackness. “The lift mechanism’s memory is adjusting for time travel.” After a long pause the lights came back on – though this time the interior was bathed in an iridescent purple-green. Twice we lurched to a halt, each time leaving us seemingly rocking above a great abyss (who knows how deep) with the lifting cables clanging menacingly against the side of our fragile enclosure.
Suddenly the lights sprang back on, now glaringly brighter than when we had left the store’s entrance hall. The interior’s taped music (deafeningly loud) was Little Richard’s The Girl Can’t Help It.
The lift doors opened to reveal a brightly-lit movie set. The Chevvy was set on a low dais beneath a battery of old-fashioned arc lights. A dozen technicians busied themselves with tape measures, clip boards and light metres. And there, topless and draped across the convertible’s bench seat, was Miss Mansfield herself, bigger even than in my youthful memories of lusting over her on the centrespread of Photoplay magazine. A make-up assistant dutifully applied some blusher to the upper curves of her gloriously-rounded orbs. Smiling, Sami stepped aside, gesturing me to alight. “Take as long as you like, monsieur. I will have the lift waiting for your next sexual excursion!”
“So, you’re from Ingerland?” she whispered. I’d never heard my homeland pronounced as three syllables.
“Err, yes,” I stammered, involuntarily running a hand across my erection.
“Hey, buster – now don’t go all bashful on me. Get on board and let’s make music.” The technicians discreetly faded away. One of her long shapely legs stretched across the Chevvy’s interior, and with a varnished toenail she deftly clicked open the passenger door. “Why not let the lady see the goods on offer?”
The young make-up assistant tactfully withdrew, leaving just the two of us on the dais. I accepted the invitation and slipped into the passenger seat beside Jayne Mansfield. She leaned across to turn up the volume of the Little Richard track on the car’s Motorola, using the manoeuvre to run one hand across my hidden erection. “Let’s give this fella a bit of daylight, shall we?” she giggled as she unzipped my slacks.
Until this moment – buried deep in the bowels of the earth somewhere beneath the Champs-Elysées, and over half a century back in time - I’d never rated car sex very highly. But this was truly mind-blowing. And judging by the smile on her face the lady was enjoying it too. But my nervousness and English reserve meant that it was over all too soon. Though by her contented grin, I got the impression that the actress had appreciated our short titty-fucking session.
Sami was stood to attention by his lift car. As I stepped inside, he gave me a knowing smile but made no comment. I remained silent, studying the panels on the back wall of the lift car. “Where to next, monsieur?” he called out after a suitable silence.
I turned and smiled. “Well, I think I rather fancy a trip to Egypt.”
“To meet Cleopatra, you mean?”
“Yes.”
He clicked a control to close the lift car’s doors. “Good call! You certainly won’t be disappointed, monsieur, I can assure you!”
Once more the interior lights flickered and then went out. This time the exterior noise was of a low drubbing sound. The lift car shuddered but remained motionless. Then suddenly we were in free fall, dropping through space (and time) like a great boulder.
“It’ll take a bit longer this time, monsieur. You must understand that we’re headed for Egypt two thousand years ago.” But it was done in a trice and our magical time machine smoothly drew to a halt. Even before the doors had opened, I could feel the intensity of the heat outside.
“We have arrived in time for one of Her Majesty’s notorious ‘spectaculars’, which she likes to lay on for the Senators whose support she always needs,” my little Senegalese guide told me. “You will see much food and copious quantities of wine. Also, scantily-dressed slave girls serving delicacies to the Senators; as well as the Queen’s pet caged lion cub. But it will be the sexual dexterity of Her Majesty herself that you should marvel at.”
“How so?”
“Only males are the guests at these banquets, Monsieur – over 100 Senators all told. Yet during the course of the night Cleopatra will fellate every one of them, in full public view. If you are very fortunate, Her Majesty may even honour you!”
The lift doors slid open to the sound of harps and lyres as I stepped out into pre-Christian Egypt. The marble floor was covered with a carpet of white jasmine, while white orchids and lilies cascaded from the upper balconies. Judging by the condition of some of the more elderly Senators, the celebration was well advanced. Many were asleep or sated – some not even bothering to cover their lower bodies after Cleopatra’s attention. On a low podium, in a cage of burnished gold, a young lion observed the scene.
Flanked by two muscular Nubian guards with large rubies in their turbans, the Queen herself moved effortlessly amongst her guests, taking infinite pains with each one of them, slowly fondling every man’s member, lovingly licking his shaft and then slowly sliding her lips over his swollen glans, until he ejaculated into her mouth. A maid would be at her side to hand Cleopatra a fresh cotton cloth. And then on to the next eager Senator.
I nervously took my place at the end of a long empty stone bench near to the central waterfall. The caged lion scrutinised me. Sami had advised me to prepare myself, lest one of the Queen’s scimitar-wielding guards should treat me as an intruder and drag me away to be executed in the yard.
Finally, she arrived before me: petite, stunningly beautiful and still looking remarkably composed. Across her bared breasts was a necklace of gold-mounted gemstones. Her dark brown areolas were studded with tiny pear-shaped pieces of amethyst, enhancing her beautiful nipples. A jewel-encrusted gold headpiece ran across her forehead, with slender gold wires, threaded with lapis lazuli beads, hanging on each side and touching her ear lobes.
She bent forward and slowly took my erect penis into her mouth. I felt her tongue slowly encircle my aching glans while she simultaneously stroked a hand gently over my ball sack. This erotic combination was just too much. Throwing my head back with ecstatic delight, I filled her mouth to overflowing. After some moments she looked into my eyes and smiled, allowing a thin stream of my semen to trickle from the corner of her mouth. We clutched each other’s hands tightly in mutual appreciation.
“That was quite the best tonight,” the queen said admiringly, still holding my hand. “Next week I will travel down to Thebes on my barge. Would you like to come with me?”
I was stunned. “To Thebes?” I stuttered feebly.
“Yes, to my summer palace. It is so much cooler.” Pressing my hand tightly, she added: “I have a beautiful pool where we could play together. Come and be my royal guest. Come and be my lover.” The images got better with every sentence she uttered. One of her maid servants bent forward to whisper in her ear and the Nubian guards looked restless. “I fear I must resume the ‘entertainment’ of my Senators. Tell me, how shall I call you?”
“My name is Mark.”
She stood up and gave a dismissive snort. “How unfortunate. Do you have other names?”
“Oliver.”
“Much better.” Scooping her gown up, she offered me the back of her hand to kiss. She casually unhooked one of the gold cords from her head band and pressed it into my hand. “A bientot, cherie.” Then she was gone. Flanked by her bodyguards, her maids ushered her towards a sleeping Senator.
Back in the lift, Sami was dying to hear all the details. I was elated but bashful. After all, it’s not every day that you get to be sucked off by Queen Cleopatra, is it?
“Where to boss?”
I was all for making tracks back to my little hotel room, to reflect on my amazing subterranean experiences. But Sami egged me on. “Care to see the Marquis de Sade’s Dungeon of Punishment? He’s heavily into spanking young virgins at the moment. Naked and roped.”
“Perhaps not this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”
“Then how about Horatio Nelson mounting Lady Hamilton’s derriere, across the gun barrel on the deck of The Victory, watched by the entire crew?” he asked mischievously. “She’s simply voracious, monsieur. I’ve seen the Admiral take her from behind many times.”
“Why don’t we finish by visiting The Tudors?” I suggested, patriotically.
My guide obediently shut the lift doors and once more its motors whirred into life. This time we appeared to be ascending. The haunting sounds of lute and harp music could be heard through the closed lift doors as we juddered to a stop.
They opened to reveal a long stone-columned cloister stretching towards a huge log fire. Lighting was from banks of candles on wrought iron sconces, set between narrow stained glass windows. In the foreground (only feet from our vantage point inside the lift car) a gaggle of serving boys sat patiently on a bench, holding huge pewter trays laden with exotic poultry and fruit dishes. Two serving wenches (barely 18) stood nervously behind the youths, holding flagons of wine and drinking vessels. Mid-way along the cloister, in a small alcove, a lady-in-waiting sat silently embroidering opposite the Queen’s bedchamber.
Then from a studded door beside the fireplace King Henry VIII himself emerged. He was quite the largest man I had ever seen. Not tall, but broad of beam – a rotund profile exaggerated by his pot belly and his pleated silk doublet. He waived to the wenches who scurried forward with their wine and gold goblets.
Sami gently pushed me from the lift car, whispering: “Don’t worry, monsieur. Here at Hampton Court Palace you are invisible. Go and see at close quarters what King Henry intends to do with those two girls.”
True to his reputation in history the king had no time to savour the delights of roast venison or pigeon stuffed with quails’ eggs, or to wash them down with rich Burgundy wine. He first thrust one of the girls across his lap, lifted her skirts and spanked her naked bottom, finishing by pouring wine over her enflamed cheeks. Then he signalled to the second waitress to get down on all fours in front of the log fire, lifted up his doublet and roughly mounted her, with the ‘coupling’ lasting barely two minutes. This was the signal for the quartet of serving boys to scurry down the cloister with their refreshments for their master. Still on their knees, the maids cleaned the king up, before carefully replacing his flaccid penis inside his studded leather codpiece.
I returned to the lift and nodded to Sami that it was now time for me to return to the 21st century. Tipping him generously, I headed towards the exit and the Champs-Elysées to walk pensively back to my hotel. Cleopatra’s gift was still in my jacket pocket and had mercifully not dematerialised on our return time journey. I stopped to take a glass of brandy in the corner bar then headed for my hotel room.
But I had a troubled night and woke at dawn with yesterday’s historical melange still coursing through my brain. I grabbed a hasty coffee and croissant breakfast down in the hotel’s lobby and headed out as dawn was breaking, determined to re-visit Première Classe. The rain had begun falling again and I turned up my jacket collar. The street-cleaning machines were already in action, but otherwise the city was asleep.
As I walked along the deserted boulevard I saw ahead of me a huge pile of used furniture strewn in front of what had been that flamboyant department store. There were threadbare armchairs, broken tables and even a chaise longue, on which a bedraggled rough sleeper lay unconscious. All the former store’s ground floor windows were boarded up and white-washed and across the double entrance doors a crudely-written sign announced: A Laisser (To Let).
The florid pink neon sign was nowhere to be seen, but framed in a second-floor window I spotted the diminutive figure of a black boy. Not dressed in an immaculate blue, gold-braided uniform, but in a flimsy pair of white pyjamas. He raised his hand in recognition. We smiled at each other, before he was led away by a large black lady in an orange tribal dress.
I wandered forlornly down towards the Place de la Concorde and angrily kicked a can into the gutter. “How the HELL am I going to get to Thebes?”
