Jina Bacarr - Naughty Paris

“Alors, mademoiselle, it’s 1889.”

1889.

I start to laugh, choke on the laugh, then seek refuge in incessant babbling. I’m alive in 1889 Paris and the artist in the portrait is also alive and here with me.

Silly words, meaningless words to Paul Borquet. Puzzled, he takes a flask out of his jacket and the violent whiff of alcohol pushes through the stale air, its scent making me dizzy. The artist holds the flask of strong liqueur out to me, its heady bouquet making my eyes water. He passes his hand over it, as if to make it disappear, then sniffs it with approval.

“You need a drink, mademoiselle.”

“Why not?” I say. Something, anything that will help the throbbing in my head go away so I can think out this whole crazy situation.

I inhale deeply, then take the flask Paul offers me, drinking the liqueur down quickly, noting its bitter though licoricelike taste, hoping it will take away the chill in my bones and put some sense back into my head. I must play my part in this Parisian soap opera, though I wonder when I’ll wake up.

I blink several times, swallow. My head feels woozy, funny…

I want Paul to hold me again…in his arms…play with my clit.

Oh, I’m dizzy. My legs rubbery. A tingling sensation scrambles down my arms, running like trickles of rushing water to the ends of my fingers. I start breathing faster, yet I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue grip me and not let go, as if my body is shutting down, exhausted by everything I’ve been through since that electric current zapped me. I can hear Paul’s voice talking to me, but I can’t see his face clearly. Fuzzy shapes—he looks blurry…so blurry. But, oh, so handsome.

“What is this stuff?” I ask curiously, licking my lips. Peppermint. Licorice. And something else I can’t identify.

“Absinthe.”

Absinthe. A strong anise-flavored liqueur illegal in my time because of its druglike properties. Powerful stuff. Addictive and known for causing madness. Toulouse-Lautrec, Baudelaire, Degas. They were all absinthe drinkers, as was Oscar Wilde. Didn’t the Englishman say something about absinthe making you see things as you wish they were, then as they really are?

I blink. Once, then again. It doesn’t do any good. Everything around me starts to move. Dizziness overcomes me, then a pounding in my head. I feel consciousness slipping away from me and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop Paul Borquet from suddenly pushing his fingers in between my labes, thrusting up into me. He’s caught me by surprise again, and the throbbing sensation blocks off my thoughts, my ability to enjoy the pleasure of his thumb rubbing my clitoris. What’s happening to me? Am I waking up? Is the dream over?

No, I don’t want to wake up, not when it’s getting this good. Oh, damn—

—damn!

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