Erotica

French Open

Silk thin enough that I could tear it from your naked body and take you across a café table.

We’re a very vanilla couple, really. My husband was my first lover, and we’ve never needed anything except each other. We are quite adventurous in bed — anal isn’t entirely off the table — but we don’t have any kinks.

Well, maybe one kink. One particular kink, in one specific place, once a year: exhibitionism. Or perhaps I should say, l’ exhibitionnisme.

It began on our honeymoon, in the Bonne Vue hotel in Paris. For the whole of the first day, we barely left our bed: we survived on love and room service.

My husband had been to Paris often, to purchase art for his gallery, and so he was in no hurry to renew his acquaintance, but by the second day I was eager to see something of a city I’d never visited.

After breakfast in bed, I dressed in a simple silk shift dress, the nearest thing to sophisticated in my wardrobe. I’d snatched it off a rail two days before the wedding in a last-minute, panicky attempt to compete with the easy style of Parisian women. I wanted my new husband’s eyes on me, and me alone, as we strolled through Le Haut Marais.

The dress was a disaster. Too low cut to wear with any of the bras I’d packed but far too loose to wear without one, and horribly wrinkled from its time in my suitcase. I couldn’t go out dressed that way: I’d look like a bohémienne returning from a wild party at which she’d been well-used… which wasn’t far from the previous day’s truth, but not the image I wished to project.

I sat by the window, gazing at the street below, at the Parisiennes who put me to shame with their casual elegance as they sat at pavement cafés sipping espressos in the late-June sunshine, and I ached to be so cultured, to draw such admiring glances from passing young men.

He saw my wistful stare, and when I explained what had made me sad, he asked me to stand with him in front of the window.

He stood behind me, one arm around my waist and the other pointing out the flaws in the young women below: here, a blonde whose dark roots were badly in need of dye; there, a pale woman in an orange dress and hideous mulberry lipstick; and walking past the bookshop, VPL under a Moschino leopardskin skirt.

He said, “You’re more attractive than any of those women.”

As if to prove his point, his hand rose from my waist to slip down the front of my dress.

I said, “Stop it! Someone will see.”

He didn’t stop. “Let them see. They won’t mind. This is the City of Love, after all.”

“I might mind!”

“Do you mind?”

I didn’t mind. I had no mind for anything except his hand on my breasts, his fingers pinching and rolling my nipples.

“Darling, this is wonderful, but when we go outside, even if my tits manage to stay inside my dress, my nipples will tell everyone what you did!”

“Yes. And everyone will know you are désirable, that the man you are with cannot resist touching you.”

He slid his other hand through the slit in the side of my dress, running it up my thigh until he reached my panties, teasing my clit through the cotton and lace.

I looked down at the street. No one was looking up at our window, and I’m not sure I would have cared if there was. In that moment, I needed his fingers on me. In me.

I whispered, “Take my panties off.”

He did, but when I stepped out of them, his hand didn’t return to its exploration.

He said, “Go out like this. I dare you. Walk past those young women whose look intimidates you, and see their envious glances. But know that I won’t be seeing them. All I will have eyes for is you, dressed so alluringly, in silk thin enough that I could tear it from your naked body and take you across a café table, then smile as the police dragged me away because still, languishing in a jail cell, all I would see is you dancing across my imagination.”

I did go out like that, and I did see those envious glances. I caught quite a few admiring ones too: lingering looks, heavy with lust, from men of all ages. When we returned to our hotel room my nipples were just as stiff as when I left, and my thighs were damp with excitement.

We didn’t leave our bed for the whole of the third day, either.

We returned to Paris for our first anniversary. Same hotel, same room; same passion.

We woke early on the second morning. While I was showering, he ordered breakfast. It arrived while he was in the bathroom, and he came back through to find me sipping coffee on the floor in front of the window, still in my nightdress, my knees decorously together.

I smiled at him, then looked out of window as I parted my legs.

He asked if I’d put on underwear.

I said, “Oh! Sorry. Should I take them off?”

He said, “No. Let me.”

He knelt between my feet, and I raised my hips so he could tug my panties down. He draped them on the low windowsill, then kissed his way from ankle to thigh, where his mouth spent a long time, long enough that I raised my hips again, thrusting my parties intimes in his face, demanding his tongue.

I got it. I lay back, the warm French sun playing on my face as he brought the heat.

On our second anniversary, I surprised him. We woke early again, but this time he returned from his shower before breakfast arrived. He found me sitting in front of the window — which wasn’t surprising — wearing only a half-slip, which was.

He wolf-whistled, and asked what Paris had done to deserve such a beautiful view.

I shrugged. “The city and I have a reciprocal arrangement.”

That’s when room service arrived. I remained sitting on the floor, my crossed arms covering my breasts, as a young man came in to leave a tray of coffee and croissants on the table. Thoroughly professional, he pretended not to notice me, and I pretended not to be disappointed.

When my husband handed me my coffee, I dropped my arms to accept it.

He said, “You’re a bad girl!”

I said, “No. This is bad.”

I swivelled to face the window, and parted my knees.

“You’re not wearing underwear, are you?”

“No.”

“Is anyone even out there at this hour?”

I put my coffee down and stood at the window to check. “A few people, but they’re not looking up here.”

“You are a very bad girl. Which gives me an idea for a reciprocal arrangement of our own.”

“Like what?”

“Like, I remember what I ate for breakfast last year. Perhaps if you knelt down, you could reciprocate.”

I gasped in mock horror. “That would make you as bad as me.”

It was his turn to shrug. “I am. That’s why we’re so compatible.”

He opened his dressing gown to reveal another reason we’d always been compatible. In later years, I would sometimes wonder if his cock was truly perfect or simply the only one I’d ever known; I always concluded that it didn’t matter, usually when he was pulsing inside me and I was spasming around his girthy shaft.

I didn’t tease him the way he’d teased me a year earlier. I lavished my love upon the only cock I needed, wet kisses trailing from base to tip before I opened my lips to take him as deep as I could.

He had other women before me. Lots of them. He probably had better, more adventurous blowjobs, but he’s never complained about my basic bob and swirl. It might be predictable, but it works.

It certainly worked that time, and much more quickly than normal. After only a few minutes, he tapped my head, I pulled back, and he showered my breasts with spurt after spurt of hot cum.

That was thirty-three years ago. We’ve come back to this hotel, this room, each anniversary since. When our children were young we’d leave them with his parents, but they’re adults now, and they take their own holidays. None of them have ever seen Paris, although the twins were here a month before they were born. That was the year he took me on all fours in front of the window, my distended belly brushing the carpet, my swollen breasts hanging like udders. I had never felt less attractive, or more desired.

He still shows me I’m desirable. Les Parisiennes seem to get younger as we grow older, and I no longer draw their envious glances… but nor do they draw his. This morning I stood naked at our window, and Paris watched with yearning hunger as his hands caressed my wrinkles, and my stretch marks, and every tired and sagging part of me, until my legs gave out.

I don’t know for certain if anyone other than my husband has ever seen me in flagrante, but the City of Love has seen my O-face, so many times.