Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you’ll be tempted to
hop into one of the omnipresent Parisian taxis to carry
you and all your luggage straight to your hotel. But
before you do so, why not do what les Parisiennes do?
Take a quick walk over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the
large department stores just around the corner from the
train station, and pick out a selection of naughty
French lingerie. It’s one of my favourite activities
when traveling to Paris, and this trip would be no
exception.
Don’t worry if you don’t speak French tres bien (tray
bee-en). I’ve found that in the lingerie section, if you
just pick one of the sales girls with very short hair
and a pierced tongue, she’ll be glad to help you out.
On this day, my clerk was particularly helpful as I was
having trouble communicating my bra size. She expertly
weighed each of my (rather large, I must admit) breasts
with her nimble fingers, even tweaking my nipples into a
hardened state (“so zat ah weel see what zey look lahk
ondair all condee-see-ons”, she explained
professionally), then quite accurately pronounced them
38 Ds (which is what I thought I had said in the first
place, but I guess my accent was just too much for her).
She went through a similar ritual when I expressed an
interest in buying some lacy panties, and again (with
that classic roll of her pretty French eyes) as I
requested stockings and garters.
I finally settled on a red and black corset that left
most of my breasts, including my nipples, exposed, a
frilly pair of black crotchless panties, and long, black
sheer nylon stockings. The corset had garter straps
attached, so I was all set.
I carefully pocketed the itemized invoice in my purse.
Hold on to the invoice – it may come in handy later.
Saying merci (mair-see) to the girl for all her valuable
help, I now headed out to find a taxi.
Forty minutes later, I was comfortably seated in the
back of a cab on the way to my hotel on the left bank. I
paid the driver in cash, but if you’re traveling on a
budget, you’ll usually find that the driver will accept
a blowjob as full payment. At the hotel, I quickly
checked into my room, and a dozen or so bellboys fought
over my luggage. I selected one (based solely on the
size of his bulge, I confess!) and we headed up to my
room.
On the elevator, he said, “Is madame aware zat ‘er
buttons are undone down to ze navvel?”
Madame was not, and noticing that I had my purse in one
hand, and my purchases in the other, the bellboy
graciously did them up for me. In my room, I was
embarrassed to discover that I had nothing smaller than
a five-hundred franc note – which is much too big a tip
even for a garcon who had helped me with my blouse. I
thought about offering him a blowjob, but no: I had come
to Paris this time with the express purpose of
performing French sex at that most French of places, the
Eiffel Tower. I was not going to spoil the delicious
anticipation of that event before I had even closed the
door to my room. Apprehensive that he would think I was
short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his cock out of his
bellboy trousers and proceeded to jerk him off. It was
an impressive hunk of French sausage.
In no time, he had spurted onto the carpet by the
entrance to the room. He just stood there with a stunned
look on his face for a moment, and I thought perhaps I
had indeed stiffed him. Then he quickly said, “Ah weel
send someone to clean zat up,” and hurried out of the
room.
A few minutes later another bellboy arrived, and he
quickly removed the mess. Then he stood at the door,
with his hand out. I began to see a problem developing,
and led him over to the toilet before I gave him his
tip.
It was late in the day, so I decided just to have a
quick bite of dinner and call it a night. I find it’s
best to get a good first night’s sleep in order to be
fresh for an early start on the adventures of your first
full day in the city of lights. A friend of mine in
London had recommended a cosy little restaurant in the
Place Pigalle, so I headed up there. My friend had
warned me that the dress code at this place was “sexy-
chic”, so I decided to try out my new stockings, with a
very short skirt, low-cut top and killer heels.
He was right! I felt very comfortable in the pretty
little brasserie (that’s bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er),
since almost every table was occupied by a sexily-
dressed single girl, many of them lingering over a glass
of wine and a cigarette (galoises, I’ll bet!). The place
had a very friendly atmosphere, as gentleman after
gentleman would come in, talk to one the girls for a few
minutes, then leave with her. Often the pretty girl
would come back to her table in fifteen or twenty
minutes, and resume her drink.
I had a number of men ask me to go with them too, but as
I hadn’t eaten yet I refused politely. But it was
charming to think that these locals would go out of
their way to make a stranger feel at home – and
Parisians have a reputation for arrogance! My dinner
consisted of a wonderful steak with french fries
(bisteck avec frites, pronounced “freets”) and a glass
of Beaujolais.
When I was finished, a nice looking gentleman came over
and struck up a conversation with me. “C’est combien?”
(Say combee-en?) he asked me, which means, “how much?”
I glanced at the bill in surprise, and replied, “Fifty
francs”. He seemed amazed, slapped the note into my
hand, and pulled me up from the table. It seemed
inexpensive to me too, but I had barely enough time to
drop the note on the table before he had me out the
door.
He was very disappointed to find that I didn’t live
nearby, and before long we were up a dark alley, kissing
and fondling each other’s private parts. He was on my
breasts like pate de fois gras on a cracker. I had his
penis out in short order, and was halfway down his shirt
when I remembered my resolution about the Eiffel Tower.
So for the third time since arriving in Paris, I jerked
a fellow off.
He groaned loudly, then sighed and said, “Alors, what
deed ah expect for feefty francs?” and left. I thought
that was a bit unkind – just what kind of girl did he
think I was? I headed back to the restaurant, where I
got a little tipsy – a lot of men bought me drinks that
night. I decided to leave when a few of the other girls
began to get annoyed. I can only assume I became a
little too boisterous. Back at the hotel, I was once
again beset upon by the entire bellboy staff, and since
I was in a bit of a state from all the drink, I agreed
to let one of them escort me upstairs.
I needed help getting into my negligee, and he assisted
eagerly. He removed all my clothing and folded it
neatly, then slipped the flimsy gown over my head, and
carried me into bed. He had done an excellent job,
clearly beyond the call of duty. When I tried to offer
him twenty francs, he said, “Oh, non, Madame!” and
taking me by the hand, guided it to his fly.
The light bulb went on (although rather dimly), and I
brought him to climax just as I had his peers. It was
only as he was about to cum, and I remembered the mess
we had made earlier, that I managed to get my face in
the way to block every single spurt before it hit the
bedspread. Well, so much for my quiet first night in
Paris!
My early start the next morning didn’t actually commence
until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called room
service to order coffee, croissants (kwa-sonts) and
aspirin. I smiled slyly at myself in the mirror as I
remembered where the sticky mess came from as I washed
it off my face. Don’t be surprised, as I was, if all
three room service requests are delivered individually,
by different staff members. None of them would accept
money, and seemed content to settle for just a handjob
in the bathroom.
I was grateful that the first thing to arrive was the
aspirin, so that I could begin to cope with the
splitting headache. The young French lad who delivered
it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and
volunteered to provide a special ancient family remedy
that he swore was foolproof. I gratefully accepted, and
discovered that his wonderful massage actually did take
my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I don’t have any
lumps!
Feeling invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I
quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a tight white
cotton dress, cut low in front and short in the skirt,
over it. Then, jumping into a pair of sensible fuck-me
pumps (suitable for walking) and glancing in the mirror
for one last look, I head out. True, the red and black
corset and panties are visible through the white cotton
if you look closely enough, but the stocking tops are
hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my nipples
are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen.
Heading along the Boulevard St. Germain, I descend into
the Metro. My first stop will be the Louvre (lewvrah, or
lewv, or something). I depart the Metro at Les Halles
(lay zall), as did most of the men on the train. Always
the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the stairs
before them – and even wait until I am five or ten steps
up before they begin to follow.
The Louvre is one of the highlights of Paris. Not only
is it the home of much of the world’s best art, it’s
also alive with Paris’ best and brightest aspiring
artists copying the masters for practice. While admiring
a nude, I am approached by a young fellow who engages me
in a fascinating conversation about the way the artist
has captured the skin tones on the model’s nipples, and
enlightening me on the courage of the artist in
foregoing the traditional fig leaf, to paint the vagina
in all its splendid detail.
I’ll never look at a vagina the same way again. He tells
me he knows of some other full-frontal nudes in a
gallery closed to the public, and asks if I’d like to
see them. “Oh, oui! (oh wee)” I exclaim, and in seconds
we are in a locked room, surrounded by some of the most
exquisite pussy ever painted. Pointing at one that I
thought was brilliant, my new friend declares it
amateurish and unrealistic.
“Zere are too many leetle folds – no wooman ‘as zat much
peenk!” he pontificates.
Thrilled with the intellectual debate I have become
engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is wrong.
“Look!” I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling
apart the sides of my crotchless panties, “don’t I look
just like that?”
His answer startles me: “oh, non! Yours is – shav-ed, oh
la la – but lahk zees one,” pointing to another nude who
is clearly less excited than our subject snatch.
Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by
beginning to masturbate. He sees my point, and in a fit
of intellectual stimulation, rushes to my aid. Soon, his
fingers are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to
look a lot like the pussy in the painting.
“Steel not zere!” he declares, casting his critical eye
back and forth between my dripping sex and the
masterpiece. He yanks out his French stick, and plunges
it deep inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the
desert with nothing to live on but potato chips suddenly
finding a well at an oasis. When he spurts inside me
(don’t forget to wear your diaphragm in Paris) and pulls
out hastily, he gazes again at my vagina and at the one
in the painting. “Madame,” he concedes with a bow, “you
are correct.”
From the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries
(zhar-dan day twee-le-ree) and onto the Champs Elysees
(shons ay-lee-say), remembering to tug your skirt down
every few steps – or if necessary, pull your stockings
up. Stop for a late lunch at any one of the myriad
bistros and cafes along the way.
I’ve found that if you let the surly French waiters know
that it’s okay to touch your breasts, they usually lose
the attitude, and you can often get a free refill on the
glass of excellent Chardonnay (shar-don-nay). Next, move
on to the Arc de Triomphe (arc duh tree-omp).
One of the highlights of the Arc is the view from the
top, which is often enhanced by the sight of
honeymooning lovers embracing by the wall, with the
splendors of Paris arrayed below them. On this
particular late afternoon, I am lucky enough to find the
crowds have thinned, and there is only one couple making
out in the corner.
Sensing an opportunity for a true Parisian adventure, I
approach them cautiously. A handsome man is French-
kissing his lover. To my surprise, I find that the cute
little one in the short skirt, with exquisite hair and
makeup, is also a man! But I decide to take a chance. ”
Menage a trois? (m’nazh a twa)” I ask.
The cutie breaks the kiss and stares at me. He/she
reaches out and squeezes my left boob. “Oy, noice job,
myte!” he exclaims.
I’ve heard my titties called many things in my day, but
“job” is not usually one of them. “Thanks!” I reply.
The handsome man stares at me critically, then makes a
grab for my crotch. “Kroist, you’re a sheila! It’s a
shiela!” he exclaims in disgust, and the little one
says, “Kroiky, them boobs is the ryal thing!” with an
air of appreciation. “Git lost, ya stiypid cunt”, the
real man says, as he plunges his tongue back down the
little one’s throat.
Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Alone with
the elevator operator on the way back down, I catch him
staring at my breasts. My nipples are hard from the cool
wind up top. “All right,” I smile, and he seems
surprised as I slip his hand inside my top. My trip to
the Arc de Triomphe is not a complete waste, I think, as
I make my way towards my ultimate destination – the Tour
Eiffel (toor ee-fell).
Walk along the Avenue Kleber (don’t worry, it’s not a
French word, so you can pronounce it any way you please)
to the Palais du Chaillot (pal-ay doo shy-oh), and from
there across the bridge to the Champs de Mars (shons duh
mar) and the tower. You’re now ready to pick up the
bloke for the magical blowjob! You may choose to settle
for one of the Algerians selling trinkets, scarves and
carpets at the foot of the bridge, but don’t be fooled
by that old saying about the size of all black men –
these are Algerians, not Americans. See my article,
“Travels with Tessa: Going Down in Dixie”, where I
sample much of the population of the American south.
As an experiment in socio-biology, I made it a point of
saying to my black lovers, “My, you’re hung bigger than
an Algerian!” and every single one of them replied,
“Damn straight!” I concluded from that that American
blacks are well aware of their differences with their
Northern African cousins. But back to Paris.
Sauntering towards the tower, keep your eyes open for
likely candidates. I find one man who looks particularly
appealing. I approach him, and make the offer. He
glances nervously at a woman standing about six feet (or
1.829 metres, as the French would say) away, with three
children. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in
French too fast for me to comprehend, accompanied by
wild gestures, but I think it meant that they were busy.
Next I approach a young man whose bulge is obvious
through his cut-offs, and who had been eying me rather
hungrily, if I’m any judge of human character. “Bonjour,
monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipe? (bon-joor, m’syoor.
vood-ray voo luh peep),” I ask him, which literally
means, “Good day, sir. Desire-you the blowjob?” and is
the traditional way that a French girl would formally
offer to fellate a complete stranger.
He stands wide-eyed and stunned for a moment. I begin to
wonder whether he hasn’t understood my accent, or
whether he’s just not interested, so I go into action.
Remember that I suggested that the itemized invoice for
the sexy underwear might come in handy? Pulling the slip
of paper out of my purse, I hand it to him. Then, I
point to the invoice, followed by my breasts, my ass and
my legs.
Comprehension dawns, and his eyes get wider, if that’s
possible. I guess the lingerie did the trick, for he
agrees, and I lead him to the tower. He graciously
offers to by the tickets for the lift to the top
platform, which cost a pretty centime (son-teem).
The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new friend makes
it even more exciting by sticking his hand up the back
of my skirt and down my new panties on the way up. Was
that a little goose I felt? I pat his bulge, which is
even bigger now than it was on the ground. I take that
as a compliment. His name is Pierre (who’d have
guessed?).
I would have been happy to have him climb the railings
at the corner of the top platform and brace himself
against the girders, so that I can blow him from a
standing position, but Pierre seems to want a bit of
privacy. I can respect that. We head out onto the open
staircases that extend from the ground to the top of the
Eiffel Tower. It’s a wonderful compromise between
Pierre’s desire for privacy and my own, well, slightly
more exhibitionist nature. There – the secret’s out!
Pierre’s lovely big coq (kok) is free of its coop in no
time. It’s in my mouth faster than a hardon in a
whorehouse. He manages to pull my white dress up to my
neck. He buries his face in my “beeg fawkeen teets”, as
he called them, and his fingers in my very damp “moof”.
This man is a stud! I blow and I suck and I blow some
more.
His prick bangs against the back of my throat time and
again. “Did you know that in English, this is called
Frenching?” I ask, smiling at the irony, dragging my
mouth off his manhood. But he doesn’t want to talk.
He places his hand on the back of my head and jams it
back down onto his waving penis. It seems a troop of
teenaged English schoolboys have decided to forego the
expense of the lift and climb the stairs, because we
soon have an audience clad in gray trousers and maroon
jackets, commenting on our performance in charming
cockney accents. Pierre is shocked at first, but he
chooses not to stop just then.
Within seconds, however, he shoots a large load of cum
down my open throat. I swallow every single drop – I
want this to be the perfect French blowjob. Pierre is
gone in seconds, and for one glorious moment I think
about blowing all these young lads. But no, I don’t know
what the age of consent is under French law, and I’m not
into kiddie stuff. I’m no pervert. They do seem anxious
to help me get dressed again, and when I finally walk
back out onto the platform, I’m confident that my dress
is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no
wrinkles, and that my breasts are neatly back into their
half-cups.
Pierre is still waiting for the elevator. We ride down
together, although we didn’t speak much. He seemed very
interested in the view. When the doors open back at
ground level, a large crowd awaits us, and we get a
standing ovation. Imagine that! For oral sex in Paris!
It feels a bit like beating the English at football.
Pierre has disappeared into the throng.
Back at the hotel, the usual crowd of bellboys vied to
see who would escort me to my room. After such an
exhaustingly sexual day, I was feeling a little naughty
myself, so I decided to see if maybe I could seduce one
of these garcons up in my room. Once again (I am a
little vixen, aren’t I?) I surveyed the crotches of the
bellboy trousers, and pick the most impressive one.
Back in the room, I quickly closed the door and before
he could even ask for his tip, I threw off my dress. Was
this seduction ploy going to work? Yes! Standing before
him in the corset, crotchless panties, long black
stockings and heels, breasts and pussy exposed, I
watched him unzip his fly and whip out his very erect
penis.
Before long, he had everything else off, and he was
banging me doggie-style on the bed. I climaxed in
seconds, and he was not far behind me. Conscious of not
wanting to take advantage of the boy, I tipped him
twenty francs, which he accepted gratefully and left.
That night, I decided to avoid the temptations of Paris
completely and settled for room service.
Once again, my order was delivered in stages, and once
again, nobody wanted to accept money as a tip. They even
delivered dessert and coffee (separately, as was the
custom), which I hadn’t ordered! I thanked heaven that I
had managed to get the Oral at the Eiffel out of the
way, so that I could tip these hardworking boys with the
blowjobs they really deserved.
The rest of my trip was consumed with sex and
sightseeing the way only Paris can offer it – including
a wonderful afternoon at the flea markets of Porte de
Clignancourt (just as it’s spelled).
For you single girls traveling to Paris, here’s my
advice: don’t forget your contraception; don’t fear the
expense – you can find plenty of ways to keep your costs
down; don’t be a cheap tipper – it’s worth it in the
long run and these people work hard for a living; and
don’t worry about bringing all your naughty underwear –
there’s plenty to be had in Paris!