Chapter 10
I booked into a hotel on the Rue St. Jacques, a clean place that provided me with a large room and full-sized bathroom. Breakfast, cafe au lait and croissants, would be served early and after a bath I hit the streets for some sight-seeing. It wasn't the first time for me in Paris, the sights were old but there was still the warm feeling of visiting an old friend. Each night I ate in a different restaurant and occasionally I sampled" the wares of the whores. Not the tramps who hung about the old Les Halles area but the dreams who strolled along the Madeleine and wanted one hundred fifty francs for one hour's worth of entertainment.
It was so wonderful to leave the brightly lit Champs Elysees and walk slowly down to the Place de la Concorde, along the Rue de Rivoli to the Pont Neuf and cross over the Seine onto St. German des Pres. The small, twisting streets would be silent, deserted until I passed through to the Quartier Latin and there within the area of the Boul' Mich would be noisy activity. Cafes were open, filled, cars raced along the avenues, cinema lights blazed, restaurants as well as some stores were still open and I was alive, man, alive!
All this time I was paying regular visits to the Parisian branch of my Swiss bank, hauling money out steadily for living expenses. There were some new suits, sport jackets, shirts and shoes. Elegant appearances must be kept up.
One evening I took a seat next to a brunette in a cinema in Montparnasse to see a Lino Ventura gangster film. It was an engrossing picture but I was aware of the girl's leg against mine, then the pressure of her thigh.
It was too dark to distinguish her looks but as she stared straight ahead I saw her profile was regular, small straight nose, full lips and round chin. Her hair, rather thick, was cut short.
Slowly, I folded my arms on my chest and sent the fingers of one hand over to touch her arm. She did not move. A good sign. The pressure on my leg and thigh was increased. Becoming bolder, my fingers roved past her arm to her breast. My fingers jabbed into hardness and she released a sigh but did not remove her gaze from the events on the screen. When I groped for the nipple, however, she bolted upright and hissed:
"Vous etes dinguel lei, dans le cinema?"
All right, I could wait
But apparently the girl could not wait.
There was Lino Ventura, accompanied by a German police dog, fleeing into the hills and pursued by a mob of communist agents. A decidedly interesting story, an exciting film that held the attention of the cinema audience. But this girl who asked me if I was crazy was even more crazy, for her fingers had deftly unzipped my pants. Air flowed over my erected penis and then cool, slim fingers had it out.
"Formidable," the girl whispered, praising the thing that stood upright like one of Paris' monuments.
While I squirmed in my seat, trying to watch the screen, she whacked me off. It was masturbation brought to its highest level. The girl was knowledgeable, her fingers and palms so practiced that she made an art out of what should be an ordinary jerk-off.
Again and again I would moan softly, feeling the point of emission near. Her nails-and they were extremely long and sharp-would then flick against my balls and just rest there, the knuckles of her fingers atop the two eggs.
My shoulders would slump, I would release a breath and relax in my seat. Then she would start again. Up, down, up, down until I hunched over with my face all twisted up.
When I started hissing like a cornered cat her other hand fumbled in the pocketbook and produced a tissue. Swiftly it was draped over my bar and boom, I shot!
A professional hand-job, neatly done, the tissue adding a clinical touch to the act. As for the film, well I didn't know what it was all about.
When the lights went up and people filed up the aisles I allowed her to proceed first. Her ass was pear-shaped, flowing from a slender waist down into round cheeks, employing a lot of movement. Her legs were slim but hard-calved, like a dancer's. Not bad at all!
She walked out with her eyes front not uttering a single word until we were out on the streets before the blazing colored lights of the cinema. She was shorter than I, not as large in the chest as I hoped and good-looking rather than pretty. At no time would she stop traffic on the boulevards or cause men loafing in the cafes to leap up in their seats. Worse, she looked typically French bourgeois, the type brought up strictly, church-going and aware of the value of a franc.
"Well," I tried to be suave. "Shall we stop somewhere for an aperitif?"
She looked at me coldly, like I'd be the sort of a pimp who rode the Metro just to rub against girls going off to work.
"Msieu?"
Hey now, what was this? The broad just whacks the hell out of my dong and then comes on like an ice-cold mannequin. I went back a few paces, studying her. She was frozen, her nose in the air, looking at me in that pseudo-haughty way.
But-she did not move on. The crowd had gone their way leaving us as the only two people before the cinema. A game player, it was obvious. Her act angered me and this time I snarled:
"Look, we can go for a drink first but if you want to get better acquainted with that part of my anatomy you practiced on, my hotel is not far away."
The direct approach always catches them by surprise. But she coolly examined her watch. "I have less than one hour, then I must be home."
A drink taken rapidly would eat up ten, fifteen minutes, leaving us five minutes to make the hotel and only forty minutes to spend in bed. Not enough time. I took her arm, stating, "We'll skip a cafe and head directly for my place. I still have a half-bottle of rose left."
As we walked down the Boulevard Montparnasse in the direction of the Rue de Rennes she kept aloof, her haughty little nose and small breasts up high, her back erect like a soldier's, her legs taking long strides. And silent, too. Not a word out of her.
Near the beginnings of the student district I learned her name was Claudette. Well, that was a point to start from so I said:
"During the nineteen-thirties and forties there was a well-known American movie actress named Claudette. Claudette Colbert."
"Never heard of her."
"Well I guess you were born just about the time she was retiring."
She stopped dead, right there on the corner of the Rue St. Sulpice with cars whizzing all around us. "An American actress, you say, and with that French name? Impossible!" She shook her head and started walking again.-
Jesus H. Christ! What kind of a female ass-hole did I pick to mount? "Baby," I explained, "her parents were French."
Instead of picking it up from there she asked: "How much further to your hotel?"
"Straight down here, to the Boulevard St. Michel, across to the Rue des Ecoles and voila!"
"Too far!" Again, she halted.
Another pause from her and I would give up the fucking game. "Listen, then, your higliness, I'll go and whistle down a taxi." Oh, man, oh man, what a broad!
"Do not use that tone!"
I put my fists on my hips and stared at her. "I live in a hotel. Now if you want to (I wished to say fuck)...ahh, fornicate then that is where it must be done. Unless your apartment is close by."
"I reside with my parents." She turned away, her eyes scanning the darkness. "There!"
The red and blue neon sign belonging to the Hotel des Arts, a decrepit dump, winked on and off. We crossed over approaching the entrance. Usually there is a white shield with the number of stars indicative of the price and type of accommodations. Three stars in this area was seldom seen. Two stars were quite common, and one star usually meant you had to battle a mattress filled with fleas. This hole in the wall had no stars!
"Ohh, baby, my place.. . "
"I have no time," she snapped.
We entered, smelling disinfectant immediately, a sure sign that insects were on the prowl. The clerk was the usual type of pensioner, in his seventies and working to supplement the meager stipend from the government Bald, toothpick thin in a threadbare black jacket, he was more concerned with the nonsense on a portable television.
"Vingt francs!" He clapped a key on the desk.
Claudette was cool, not at all disturbed. I imagined that a show of my passport would be necessary as well as a signing in. But he put my mind at rest by mumbling, "Deux heures, compris?"
As we went up the steps I asked: "Does he mean have to leave by two in the morning?"
"No. We have two hours to take care of our affairs." She brought up her watch. "I can offer you thirty-five minutes, no more."
Bitch!
What a room my twenty francs bought us. There are hotel rooms and hotel rooms in Paris and some are fit for the Queen of England, some suitable for the clo-chards who sleep along the banks of the Seine. But this one took the cake. It was barely large enough to contain a rickety bed, a wash-basin sizable enough for a sparrow to bathe in and a cracked bidet that had, so help me God, a spider's web in one corner.
"Shit on a stick!" was my comment.
Qaudette calmly said: "I know that worse rooms exist. Eh bien, shall we get on with it?"
I looked about, filled with misery. The window shade was ripped, the floor grainy with dirt and the bulb in the ceiling so weak that Claudette, undressing, was covered by shadows.
"Are you preparing to write a book on hotel rooms? A guide for tourists?"
She had cause for annoyance for there she was in brassiere and panties while I had barely fumbled my jacket off. Well, in the pursuit of passion a man must travel along all sorts of roads. I got out of my shoes, tugged off my necktie and unbuttoned my shirt.
Claudette was purring like a cat, her knife-sharp fingernails digging into my chest when the shirt parted. When her hand dropped below to grasp what she had become familiar with in the cinema my stomach rippled and the muscles of my buttocks tightened.
Rock-hard. I stared down at the outstretched pole, thinking that this French girl knew her business. She .allowed me to unhook her brassiere and peel off the panties that carried the scent of cologne.
There was no place to put our clothes, just a hook on the door. It took some planning to put everything, my new expensive garments as well as hers, all on one hook. Her clean underwear had to be draped just so right to prevent its falling on the dirty floor.
"Twenty-three minutes exactly left."
She had removed everything except that damned watch. What in hell was she, a time-keeper at a football game? Then she stepped directly under the ceiling light and whatever annoyance I felt disappeared.
Claudette was young, in her early twenties, but seemed sensuous and highly sexed despite the haughty and rather virtuous expression on her face. But it was there, the shape of her mouth, the look in her eyes indicating sensuality.
Her breasts were better than I thought, good-sized, shapely and ball-like, thrusting right out, the aureoles pink and the nipples stubby, fat.
There was a dense growth of brown hair between the long, shapely thighs that ran under to the division of her luscious ass. And that ass, two lovely white globes caused my mouth to water and engendered real hot lust.
Unabashedly, Claudette allowed me to study her further, to pinch and touch the long columns of her
I thighs, to judge the firmness of her breasts, the taut skin of her waist and the hard calves of her slim legs.
Upon my instruction she turned this way and that, smiling at my amazement, giggling when I sent a finger through the thickly curled pubic bush.
"You have got enough hair there to make a full wig for a bald man."
"I used to be ashamed of it Once I shaved it off but it grew back too thick."
"It hides your privates completely. Man, I can't see your slit at all."
I felt for the vulva and heard her gasp. The flat of my hand went right on it while my index finger slid between the lips. She started a hip action as my finger went all the way in, flicking over the clitoris.
"Ohhh, come, come stop that!"
For a moment my eyes went to her hips then to the shapely cheeks of her splendid ass. Then I was hot, eager, pushing her back upon the old, squeaking bed with my fingers on her warm thighs, pushing apart the silken-skinned legs.
Claudette, sensing what I was up to assisted me but when my mouth went to her vagina she screamed. My lips were there, pressing against the yielding opening of her womanhood.
"Oooohhh, no, noooo!"
My tongue entered, lashing around the hot cave, causing her to smolder and swing her bottom around and around. Her thighs twitched, slamming against my face, holding my head imprisoned. She cried out and clasped her breasts, squeezing the mounds.
"No, no, noop, do not eat me...no, no!"
The tip of my tongue tickled the outer lips, tasted the tiny soft hairs adorning the edges and delved inside again. For a second it rested on the tiny clitoris which had enlarged and overheated, then the tongue did a little more exploring.
"Mon Dieu!"
Ohhh, man, my tongue roved down that bubbling hall, it slapped first against one wall then the other, curled and uncurled and Claudette climaxed.
"Dieul Ohhhhhhhh!"
She lay back, gnashing her teeth, clenching her fists and kicking her legs out while the thin, pearl-colored liquid seeped out of her wide-open slit. I massaged her breasts, which seemed to be bursting out of the skin, sucked and bit and kissed the crusty tips and with my hands holding her hard, saucy ass washed her flat stomach, dribbling saliva and slapping it away with my tongue.
Claudette kept swinging an arm up and I knew she was checking her watch, ready all the time to call off the minutes. What a goalkeeper!
"Pompier de services," she whispers, her brown eyes all glazed, her mouth hanging slack with spittle draining from both corners.
A blow-job. Fine, but I want to work this out French style, in other words a sixty-nine position. "Okay, but let's make it soixante-neuj."
And don't you know as the bitch climbed over me she had to call out the fucking time again, warning me that less than seventeen minutes were left. I felt like smashing that watch. Really!
Anyway, there's a little maneuvering and suddenly I have her ass, so rounded and sweet and fresh in my face. I push it up a bit as she kneels all panting, blowing hot air over my upright weapon. Then I am kissing and licking those tasty cheeks, bringing them back and down a slight fraction until I have pussy to enjoy.
Claudette chews on my dong, gulping it into her mouth, inhaling half its length without choking, doing as perfect a job as that actress in the porno film, Deep Throat. That film received limited showing in Europe and was never seen in Paris so I wondered as I applied my mouth to her slit where she had received her instruction. Then I remembered the professional hand-job given me in the cinema and figured this haughty little bourgeois bitch had been around.
"Oooooaaaaaaahhhhhh!"
Her vaginal lips widened, becoming soft as an orgasm attacked her and the whole wet business was slammed into my face. The outflow was pasted cream-like across my mouth and chin while she punched down with her ass.
"Ow, ow, ow!" That was me yelling when her teeth sank into my column. It was flesh not cement, but she chewed me ragged. This time I was grateful when she raised her head and left my throbbing bone to mumble: "Six minutes left. No more, no less!"
I palmed her ass, pushing it up and she nearly tumbled off the small bed. Quickly I scrambled up to fling myself down facing her as she lay on her side moaning. Then she protested as I tried to shove my joy-stick into her cleft.
People say rape is not possible, that it takes cooperation on the part of the woman. Not being a rapist I never knew. But now I knew. I could not get into Claudette. She lay there with her hands clasping her breasts, her flat stomach bubbling up and her legs outstretched but stiffened.
The head of my whang was at that hairy entrance-way but the doors would not open. I pushed, and I prodded but it could not be forced in.
"What the hell, baby, loosen up." I pried her thighs wide apart and tried for another penetration but it wouldn't work.
Angrily, I grabbed the pillow, dirty as it was from the grease of a half-hundred heads and wedged it under her buttocks. The ass cheeks were hard, the muscles tight and I realized that Claudette was holding her lower body in such a manner that entrance was not possible.
"You have got to relax. I can't get in!"
Claudette's face assumed the haughty expression as before and she pushed me away to sit up. A swift glance at her watch and: "The time is over."
There I was, in the middle of the filthy bed, on my knees with my erected tool bobbing up and down while she ran water into the basin, mounted it and sluiced out her snatch.
"Hey, aren't you going to give me any satisfaction?"
She flicked the wetness from her pubic bush with the back on a hand and pulled on her panties. The brassiere was donned next then she sat on the bed to roll her stockings up over her slender legs.
To quiet me she offered a peck on the lips and ran her fingers through my hair. "You are a nice boy. You perform cunnilingus quite well."
"Sure, and you came twice but what about me? Are you running out?"
"I am way past schedule." That lousy time again. "Besides, you came in the cinema when I masturbated you. Be satisfied with what life gives you. Never demand more."
I blew out my breath. "This was a winning turn."
"Intercourse was not possible. Obtaining the pill creates too much embarrassment and I noticed that you had no contraceptives." She got on her dress, reached for her handbag and went to the door. "If by accident we meet on the street please do not say hello unless I am alone. Agreed?"
I just gave her a withering look and went after my clothes. Later as I went down the winding stairs the old man behind the desk made a crack.
"Ahhh, you young people!" He shook his head. "Two hours you had and less than half was used up. In my time five hours would not be enough. The trouble is that sex is easy these days, easily obtained, like a cigarette. In my time we cherished it, taking full advantage because the opportunity seldom arose."
"Ahh, go write your memoirs then, you old bastard." Disgusted, I went out into the streets.
Near the Rue de Tournon two flics hiding in a dark doorway to pounce on an unfortunate son of a bitch like me stepped out, demanding my identification.
"Votre papier!"
I showed my passport and deliberately spoke in English. "I'm a tourist, not some bomb-throwing Arab."
"Do not be funny," said one. He wrote my number down in a notebook and returned the passport in such a sloppy way that my fingers failed to grasp the corners. The result was that it fell in the gutter.
Did he pick it up? Hah! Yours truly had to do the bending to retrieve it and the fucking cop did not even apologize. I walked off, dragging a long shadow behind me, thinking it was a good way to end the night.
That bitch! Thinking I received satisfaction from a hand-job!