Madame B: Seduction

Walking in a straight line after such an intense fuck was a challenge. By the time I'd slipped on my shoes and checked my makeup again, he was back in the seat next to me. As the lights dimmed for landing, he leaned in and gave me one final lingering kiss that made me melt inside. It was a kiss good-bye, a final gesture to draw a line under an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience. When he left the plane he didn't look back, and, since he carried only a briefcase, I didn't see him at the luggage carousel. As I waited in line for a taxi, I saw him speed past in a chauffeur-driven limousine. He didn't see me. There goes the best sex of my life, I thought, and I don't even know his name.

The meeting went well. My in-flight experience had given me a new burst of confidence, and I gave a great presentation. That night, in my hotel room, I undressed, exhausted by my day. When I took off my skirt I found his business card in the pocket. Written on the back with an old-fashioned fountain pen were his mobile phone number and the details of his return flight to Edinburgh. He had also written; "Fancy an upgrade?"

I reached for my phone and punched in his number. That's the thing about first class; once you've had it, you can't go back.

There's a sexual charge to the backstreets of Paris, a smoky, after-dark sensuality that no other city can duplicate. Parisians do it better. And as this woman, a famous novelist, told me, they put on a damn good show-even when they don't know they're being watched. For most people Paris is all about the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysees. But not for me. I've always preferred the sleazy, faded glamour of the backstreets to the slick, polished areas where the tourists go. I love tumbledown apartment blocks, off-the-main-drag cafes, and the city's crumbling fin de siecle decadence. There's a romance to that kind of bohemian poverty that goes hand in hand with all the things I find sexy: good red wine; ridiculously lacy, scratchy, slutty underwear; men who always carry books around.

But the apartment that I found myself inhabiting in Paris took my love of dilapidated grandeur to its limit. The moment I saw the building, I fell in love with it: a tall nineteenth-century art nouveau building with long windows at which balconies curved up like eyelashes. It was divided into ten different studio apartments. Other people might have minded the stained and peeling wallpaper or the chandeliers with wiring poking out at dangerous angles but not me. Ever since I can remember, I'd wanted to be a writer and live in a Parisian garret. As my landlady Mme. Philippe led me up the rickety wooden stairs to an attic room, I hummed with pleasure that I had finally achieved my dream. When she showed me the room, I adored it immediately. A cast-iron bed dominated it, and there was a tarnished Louis XIV mirror that took up the length of the whole wall. An old oak desk leaned by the window looking over the twinkling lights of the Latin Quarter. This, I decided, would be the perfect place in which to write my new book.

I hung my few clothes in the old armoire, set up my laptop on the desk, checked a few e-mails and wrote a few notes about my surroundings. A small glass of mer lot would be tonight's only indulgence. I was exhausted from traveling across the UK and France via Eurostar and Metro and needed to sleep. The bed might have been old and the springs might have creaked when I tossed and turned in the night, but the sheets that Mme. Philippe had provided were pure white linen, scented with the relaxing aroma of French lavender. I slipped into my favorite negligee and was asleep within seconds, drifting off to the sound of voices from the rooms either side and below and of music wafting in from the street.

At about four a.m. the strong smell of cigarette smoke woke me briefly. I sat up in bed, my breasts spilling out of my negligee. I wrinkled my nose and thought about getting up to complain, but I was so tired that I fell asleep again almost immediately. The dreams that followed were of smoke trails and mysterious foreign voices making the unmistakable sound of two people having really, really good sex. I woke up in the morning with sticky moisture between my legs and a musky smell on my fingers. I must have been touching myself in my sleep.

I spent the next day exploring my new locale, browsing flea markets and shopping for bread, cheese, and wine. I knocked on the doors of the other people in my building. My neighbors were a friendly, artistic bunch, and I met all of them except for those in the room directly beneath mine. None of the people I introduced myself to seemed quite sure of who occupied that room. Afterward I had lunch in a cafe and came home again to write.

That night, I woke again to the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. This time, I wasn't able to go back to sleep quite so easily. I flipped on the lamp next to me and tiptoed out into the hall; nothing there but voices, a man and a woman's. Back in my bedroom I paced the floor for a while, and then I saw it, a thin wisp of gray smoke rising from a tiny crack in the floorboards at the edge of a rug under my bed. There was a hole in the floor. I don't mind cigarette smoke, in fact I think it rather enhances the atmosphere in some bars and cafes, but I do object to having it permeate my clothes and bed linens. I knelt on the threadbare rug and peeled it back to reveal not only smoke but a chink of light coming through from the room below. Great! That was all I needed. Now, without the soundproofing of the carpet to interfere, I could hear the voices more clearly, the low and urgent murmuring of a couple. Unable to stem my curiosity, I squashed my face against the crack in the floor and peered into the room below.

What I saw took my breath away. The voices I could hear were indeed those of a man and a woman who were beautiful beyond all belief-and they were fucking on a bed ten feet below where I lay crouched on my own wooden floor. It took a while for me to tell where she ended and he began, but despite my initial thoughts of respecting their privacy, I endeavored to work it out regardless. They both had dark hair and lightly bronzed bodies, both were toned and petite, and together they moved so quickly that the scene looked like a pit of writhing snakes.

As I watched, they pulled apart from their embrace, and the woman got on her knees, ready to go down on her lover. Her tidy little ass jutted into the air, and her legs were spread, revealing a shock of dark, neatly trimmed, glossy pubic hair and a sliver of glistening pinky-brown pussy. The man lay on his back, his dick astonishingly large for such a small man. It was darker than the rest of him and bouncy and upright in the way that only young men's dicks are. The noise of her lips sucking on his cock and his moans of ecstasy in response were nearly as exciting as the visual show they were putting on before me. In about fifteen seconds, I went from mildly annoyed about the smoke to unbelievably aroused by the strangers' lovemaking.

I couldn't help it, but I started to touch myself. First of all I circled my nipples through the shot-silk of my negligee, surprised and delighted at how hard they got and how quickly. Dropping the spaghetti straps over my shoulders, I slid first one then the other breast out and let them trail along the floor, the cold wooden planks arousing my tits more effectively than any lover's caress. I was prostrate now, my ass in the air. Automatically, I slid my hand between my legs and held my palm flat against my pussy. A warm, dry hand against a pulsing, moistening cunt. I slid four fingers inside myself, and my grateful hole twitched around them.

The scene on the bed below me developed. He climaxed, pushing his dick farther into her face as his own features contorted with pleasure. She pulled her mouth away from him, a thin silver trail of come and saliva from her lips to the tip of his penis linked the lovers for a few seconds before dispersing. Confident he would return the favor, she sank back into the messy pillows and stretched herself out, lithe and relaxed as a little cat. Her body was perky and petite like a young girl's, but her sophistication and confident demeanor showed that she was very much a woman. She wore dark, dramatic makeup, which had been only slightly smeared by her lovemaking, and tiny diamonds glittered at her ears. She sighed with pleasure as the man knelt between her legs, forced her knees apart with his hands, and went to work, devouring her pussy with the insatiable hunger of a man who hadn't eaten in days. Her facial features softened despite the harsh makeup as she melted under his tongue, shaking and shivering with pleasure. Mesmerized by her tiny, triangular tits, I found the contrast with my own round, pendulous breasts very exciting. I pressed the whole of my body harder against the cold, unyielding floor, gently rocking back and forth, more turned on by what I was seeing and feeling than I had ever been by anything before. As I watched her come, a soft pink blush crept across her cheeks and chest, warming up that pale olive skin, I quickly held my thumb against my own clitoris. My own orgasm, which arrived in seconds, was as wordless as hers was noisy. Exhausted, I crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep to the sound of two voices chatting, jazz records playing, and occasionally the odd wisp of smoke. Now that I knew what it signified, I really didn't mind it at all.