I thought I'd washed thoroughly in the showers before leaving the gay sauna. But somehow the smell of the young man lingered on my hands. Musky and masculine, with just a hint of funk and condom rubber, the smell was unmistakably him and not me. I cursed the soap gel dispensers at that sauna, which always seemed to be half-empty, and difficult to use. A lot of guys there took their own toiletries, I'd noted. It seemed a rather French thing to do, but I resolved to do the same in future. Still, I sniffed nostalgically at my hands as I walked down the historic Rue des Artistes. Maybe I'd been too busy washing my head hair, as somehow or other, I'd accidentally managed to get a large dollop of lube in it. Then I remembered what fun we'd had. I'd spanked him for ages in a private room, le vice Anglais indeed, and then we'd shagged each other senseless in front of an eager cosmopolitan audience in the cinema room. The feeling as his thick bell-end eased and probed its way into my tight tunnel was just exquisite. Mmmm, such happy days!
Just a couple of weeks later I found myself cutting through the leafy park on my way to the car dealers. The sun shone like molten gold on the boating lake as I stopped and sat myself down on one of the green-painted metal bench seats. The ducks were quacking merrily and I could almost hear Debussy in the air. Instead, I heard the purposeful exclamation of my erstwhile lover from the sauna, muscled young Henri, "Jim, it's you! I can't believe it's you! I had assumed you were a tourist!"
"Oh no, Henri! I'm no tourist, I live and work here!"
"In that case we have something to celebrate, Jim! Hey, why don't you come back to mine? Now!"
"I'd love to but I can't. Car trouble. Got to pick it up. They've fixed the main problem but I've got to take it back again in another couple of days. So much for fucking French engineering!" Indeed, my locally-sourced Citroen had turned out to be a bit of a citron.
"Pfft! Always whingeing, you Little Englanders! Here, let me give you my number." He tore a page from a diary or some kind of French Filofax thing and scribbled away with a chewed blue BiC ballpoint pen. I took the paper from his beefy hand and gave him a sly wink.
With indecent haste, just a couple of days later I was over at his apartment. It was located off a swish and swanky little mews not so far from me. He greeted me like a long-lost friend, kissing both my cheeks like many foreigners and the French always seem to do. We sat down on a leather chaise, cuddling and kissing as the prelude to our hot afternoon. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a glass-topped table displaying a martinet and a beastly-looking riding crop. Clearly my friend had a taste for corporal punishment games.
"Yes, my good friend," he said, "They will both see some use today, don't you suppose?" I nodded and was just about to say how much I agreed, when he interrupted excitedly, "I have something else here that may interest you. Something quintessentially British!" He wasn't wrong. He was right. He picked up the item from behind the sofa and waved it at me saying, "Look dear boy, it's a cane!"
"I can see that! Give it to me!" I bent the thing almost double before scything it through the Parisian air and whipping it down on a nearby plump cushionette, saying, "Where on earth did you get this? These fucking hurt, you know!"
"So I've heard, my friend. But I don't really believe it. More Little Englander exaggeration."
"We'll see about that! Anyway, you haven't answered my question about where you got it from," I snapped testily back at him.
"I bought it at a sex shop, of course. Where else? It was - how you might say - an under the counter item."
"I doubt that!"
"They had a few for sale. Some straight and some, like this one, with that funny curved handle thing."
He'd chosen well, I decided as I bent the rattan again, saying, "Come on then, bare your arse for me!" He dropped his pale blue slacks and his burgundy underpants. He looked faintly ridiulous standng there in just his Sasha Distel-stylee polo neck top. So I ordered him to take that off too, and totally naked bent him over a chair near the window. He had to stand on tiptoes due to the high back of the chair. "Six strokes is traditional," I informed him.
I whipped the rattan down with venomous intent. The poison took immediate effect as my French friend gasped with undisguised horror. "Quelle horreur!" he must have thought to himself. Absolutely nothing prepares a virgin for that first stroke of their first caning! Still, I wasn't going to dwell on that thought, after all I had another five strokes to deliver. I whacked the second one down, just below where the first one had landed. "No!" he cried. I feigned complete deafness as I raised the cane again. I aimed lower still, landing a real beauty on his naked flesh. "No more, Jim! Please!" he pleaded. I chuckled inside with sadistic delight, for I had this French Fancy just where I wanted him. He should have known better than to have so flippantly underestimated the power of the cane.