Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

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      Hot, hot, hot.

      I experienced the most exquisite, soul-melting ride: my whole bod jerking with each jolt, my legs thrashing in midair as I flew through space, an electrical shower falling around me, singeing my skin and making me yell out. I moaned so much, I sounded like I was crying. Long rhythmic shudders traveling up and down my body thrilled me, telling me the peak of my passion, my climax, was near. Then my pussy began a series of spasms, clamping so tightly on—

      Hold it. How could all this happen with no penis filling me up? Plunging deep, totally possessing me? My pussy muscles tried to draw him in deeper and deeper.

      No go. It was all in my mind.

      Or was it?

      Paul Borquet.

      I swear I saw him through the slits of my eyes, leaning over me. His manly scent ignited my desire for sex all over again, and his arrogance at taking what he wanted set off my emotions in a frustrating state of upheaval. I felt his hands squeezing my breasts, then rubbing his thumb over my rigid nipples, sliding his palm down across my waist and digging his fingers through my pubic hairs. Oh, it was delicious.

      Him. Moaning, gasping. His body tense, hot, slick with sweat.

      Me. Tingling. Glowy. Trembling, aching for him to touch the soft mound between my legs, push aside my pussy lips, insert a finger—

      Then he was gone.

      Where?

      And where the hell am I?

      Isn’t it time we answered that question?

      I walk with my arms swinging, bare thighs rubbing together sans panties, feet burning, striding up rue Saint-Merri, looking everywhere at once. I see a few electric lights glowing in the nest of small streets crowded together, mostly gaslights from the grand houses throwing a yellow tone upon the cobblestones and tossing eerie shadows everywhere. An exquisite haze, barely a mist, covers everything like a delicate veil. I see a man standing on the corner, tending to a big copper cauldron. He pulls down his black felt hat, then flips up his coat collar as he rattles the steaming-hot chestnuts roasting in the pan. The nutty fragrance floats across the square and tempts me to stop, ask the questions lingering on my lips. I don’t. I want to see more.

      I’m not disappointed. I see horse-drawn carts, wagons, a horse cab, even a lone bicycle at this early hour, the traffic flow following no specific order. The clop-clopping sounds of horses’ hooves fill my ears. You’d think I’d get it, wouldn’t you? But I don’t. Can’t. It’s still too weird.

      I keep walking, pulling the red velvet cape closer around me, shutting out the early-morning chill. I love this cape. Lined with a slippery red satin as soft as nude skin, I snuggle within its folds, lapping up its luxuriousness with a greedy hug. Sooo sinfully elegant. Where did it come from?

      When I came to after the best orgasm I’ve had in years, the cloak covered me from head to toe, but my clothes, my waist pack with my money and passport, everything had disappeared. A girl needs more than red velvet to find her way back home.

      Or back to the hotel. That’s where I’m headed. I intend to go to the police and find out what that old artist did with my stuff.

      I’m still groggy and drained from climaxing like I was the star attraction in a ménage à trois, but here’s what happened when I woke up. Darkness invaded the studio except for an electric light with an opaque, fluted shade. One electric light? I questioned, noting someone hung a pink chiffon scarf over it, giving the room a soft glow. That should have been a dead giveaway, but I didn’t let it sink in. I was more fascinated with the wardrobe of costumes I found. Petticoats, stockings, garters, button-up shoes. No underwear. But in my present state of undress, I couldn’t be choosy.

      I wiggled into a soft white petticoat with layers and layers of frilly lacy ruffles and pert pink bows, then slipped on a silky apricot-hue dressing gown so thin it was transparent. I let out a girlish giggle when I saw my breasts standing up and not sagging and my hard nipples popping through the silk like I was nineteen again.

      Isn’t that what expensive lingerie does for you? Makes you feel sensual and thin?

      Or was it something else? Something black magical?

      After tying a silver cord around my waist—which seemed smaller—I laced up a pair of tight-fitting pearl-gray leather button shoes with stubby two-inch heels and threw on the gorgeous red velvet cloak. No mirrors, so I couldn’t see how I looked, but everything fit perfectly, as if I’d lost a few pounds. Very strange. I wanted to believe the statue had worked its magic on me, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

      My calf muscles pull, legs tighten in the morning chill, and I walk stiffly across the boulevard toward what I hope is the rue Saint-Honoré. Up in the sky the fading moon ignores me, along with the dark clouds trying to blot out its glow. No storm clouds. No thunder, and God help me, no lightning. No rain puddles, either. But it’s cold, much too cold for an early summer dawn breaking over the elegant edifices of the pink-brick and white-stone mansions. A cool breeze plays with the heavy velvet whipping around my ankles, as if it knows I’m pantyless and wants a peek. I pay it no attention. I have to get some answers, and fast.

      Why did the Marais studio look so different when I came to? Where was the old artist? How long was I unconscious?

      And what about Paul Borquet?

      He couldn’t have been real. I only imagined him.

      I exhale deep lungfuls of air that puff in front of me like smoke. Yet I’m sweating despite the chill. I hear only my own panting, the swoosh of my long cape hitting the pavement as I plod along the cobblestone streets in two-inch-high button shoes with squared-off toes that wouldn’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. I don’t want to accept the crazy notion skirting through my orgasmic-maxed-out brain. Nothing I’ve seen is real, I tell myself. Can’t be. The reality is I’m lying in a Paris hospital, tubes coming out of my nose, my mouth, everywhere, my mother hovering over me while she flirts with the handsome French doctor who assures her I’ll wake up soon.

      Only a bump on the head when she slipped on the floor during an electrical storm, he tells her.

      My mother reacts. You said she was nude? And holding on to the erection of an Egyptian statue? My daughter?

      Yes, Mother. Your daughter, who’s having the sexiest wet dream of a lifetime and I have no intention of waking up just yet. So, let’s get on with it! I want to see what happens next…

      I look to the pavements. A soft sigh escapes from my lips, frustration following, as if my breath catches on a feather and hangs there a moment. I see construction, houses the color of milky limestone going up, streets being widened, as if the city of Paris is getting a facelift.

      I can’t put into words my fascination, but I feel it down to the core of female sexuality. As if I’m the city of Paris and my body, my spirit, my fucking sex life, is reawakening and filling me up with so much energy, so much furiosity I feel my body regaining its suppleness, its curves. I’m lethal, baby. A sex pistol.

      This sensual feeling takes possession of me and won’t let go. I breathe it in. Suck it in, dammit. Power is a thrill ride. Sexual power is a thrill ride in overdrive. So, power up, because here I go.

      I cross the street, the intoxicating floral scent of nature in an aroused state—ask any СКАЧАТЬ