Picking at the remnants of my Salad Nicoise, I watch Christophe sip his beer, and he tries not to grimace.

“Maman does not let me drink alcohol.”

I grin, “I am not your mother. Besides, you are seventeen. That is old enough.”

He needs the social lubrication, or it will be a very long day. My cold Bellini is a simple pleasure as we sit al fresco. Around us, life continues as the bubbly chit-chat and the clatter of crockery inside the café. For months, I am a husk and feel nothing. Today, with the sunshine, the alcohol, and this vision of beauty in front of me, my libido rumbles like a malevolent volcano and threatens to erupt.

There is a taciturn quality to the country boy that works on the family farm. He inherited his mother’s genes as a handsome man and his father’s for his build. He is here for a wedding at the weekend, and his parents thought it would be good for him to see the capital city. Staying with relatives, they are working today, and I was at a loose end.

“How are you finding Paris?” I ask.

“Compared to our village in Brittany, there are so many people.”

“You like it, though?”

He shrugs, “I would like to see Stade des France.”

Christophe plays Rugby and wants to see the national stadium, and there is our first clash of cultures. Smiling sweetly, I imagine him muddy and determined, his muscles bulging with exertion. There is something deep and brooding in his eyes, yet he remains guarded and polite without fault. All that sport, fresh air and hearty food have made him into a strapping young man. In a new polo shirt, faded jeans, and so fresh-faced, he has a pristine quality that attracts plenty of female attention.

He might be blinded by his naivete, but I understand the look they give him. Maybe it is my second Bellini, and I choose a faked expression of sexual contentment. My rueful grin in Parisian Red says, ‘Yes, he is fucking me’. He is not, yet from one woman, it draws a silent appreciation of my good fortune, perhaps a little jealousy.

I have my reasons, pretending he is my lover. My life is a staid existence of work, eat, sleep, and repeat. A pang of foolishness tempers my mood. Forty-one years old, still lithe, but why would Christophe have eyes for me? Whilst I made an effort, plenty of younger women were ready to distract him with their wiles.

My figure is captured in a tight bodice and a light summer jacket; I can be alluring or nonplussed. The breeze can easily open it, providing a glimpse that Christophe fails to ignore. With straight-leg jeans hugging my slender legs, they are kept taut in high heels.

Today, I am his chaperone, the responsible adult, and old enough to be his mother. Oh well. I have disappointed many people in my life, and two more will make very little difference – if they find out. What am I supposed to do, lie to myself?

Doing that made my divorce inevitable.

-=-

Walking off our lunch along the Boulevard de Clichy, it is busy for a weekday. There are plenty of overt window shoppers, unashamed of what they are looking for. We remain in the shade under a canopy of sycamores, and this could be in upmarket Madeleine. It is not; this district has a reputation.

I am the picture of innocence. My route to Stade des France is deliberate; sex shops, peep shows, and neon-lit strip clubs. They distract Christophe, and I enjoy watching him struggle. I want his mind to churn, his blood hot, and his body raging.

“This is Pigalle,” I mutter.

“Oh.”

Looking across the road, he is transfixed at some mannequins in a shop window. From a sheer red dress on one through to the last, modelling a bondage harness, collared, with wrist and ankle restraints.

“Yes, it is a very adult playground. I do like that sheer dress, though.”

Darting his eyes forward, I pretend to ignore Christophe’s blushes. His hands plunge into his pockets, trying to hide the manifestation of his wayward thoughts.

“The ground is a little uneven,” I chuckle, “I should have worn more practical shoes.”

Sliding my arm inside his, I hold it.

“There, that is better. I hope you do not mind.”

He is caught off guard. “No,” he splutters, “not at all.”

This coupling is symbolic. I am an independent woman, providing for myself, capable of holding my own opinions. Fierce like a tigress when I want, soft as a kitten when I choose, yet no one is an island. Christophe needs to know what I crave, but my plea requires those bright neon-pink letters to get his attention.

“Women adore a gallant man, and you are doing well, Christophe. I have noticed you walk closest to the road, too.”

“Thank you.”

“I imagine your girlfriend thinks so as well.”

“I…” he stutters, “I do not have a girlfriend.”

It is a shaky delivery as he pretends not to notice Pagalle’s most prominent sex shop.

“Christophe? Really?” My surprise is a feint. “You are a very handsome man. I imagine they are falling at your feet.”

“No. And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I do not have a girlfriend.” I am giggling coquettishly. “Apologies, it is just my little joke. I am divorced and too recently to consider a boyfriend. I am happiest living in the moment for now.”

“I am sorry about that.”

“No need.” I squeeze his arm. “Do not give it another thought.”

I know he will, walking so close together.

We veer left, towards Abbesses Metro Station, and I stumble. Suddenly gripping his arm, I bring my heel down hard. The crack is a delight to hear.

“Shit! My shoe!”

Christophe crouches immediately, inspecting it.

“The heel is broken.”

“Damn it! I will have to go home and change them. I am so sorry.”

“No problem. I am glad you did not fall over.”

Holding his shoulder, he looks up, uncertain what to do.

“Take them off for me, please. We can get a taxi.”

Venturing a doe-eyed look, Christophe clasps my ankle. As a connivance, I am at my most overt. My apartment, us alone, what could possibly happen?

He knew what, and by his flushed expression, it was written all over his face.

-=-

All the way to my apartment, Christophe remained silent.

From the kitchenette, with the fizz of gas and the clink of the bottle tops, I walk back into the lounge with a bottle of beer each.

He is looking at it, hanging on a wall, and it makes the perfect statement. A naked woman languishes amidst the cushions of her boudoir. Trying to overlook it, Christophe diverts his gaze towards the ephemera on the bookcases and shelves. From the frying pan into the fire, averting his eyes from my volumes of Anais Nin.

I hand over his drink. “Cin cin.” And they clink together.

“Thanks, nice place you have.”

“Thank you.” I gesture to the picture. “That is a Louis Icart.”

His cheeks are prickled with heat.

“Do you like it?”

He nods as his face blooms with embarrassment. Amplifying his plight, I remove my jacket. The bodice reveals the ovaline curves of my breasts, and I primp my hair to fall over my shoulders. Smouldering, this requires finesse, not too much to scare, just a hint to fire his imagination.

I place my hand on his forearm. “I adore how contented she looks. I imagine she has a skilful lover.”

He burns for me now. Bending forwards, I place my beer on the coffee table, providing a view of my cleavage.

“I need to wash my dirty feet.” I walk towards the bathroom. “Sit, make yourself at home.”

Wriggling from my jeans, I throw them into the hallway, beaming as the belt clatters on the wooden floor.

“I want to know your thoughts about that picture when I return.” It echoes off the tiles.

Towelled dry, the cool floor meets my silent footsteps. The jackrabbit alarm of quickened blood dries my mouth. With stealth, reduced to my panties, I creep closer towards Christophe. Kneeling, I slide my hands over his eyes, he is startled, but my giggling calms him.

“Well? Describe her for me.”

“Giselle.” It is a hopeless protest.

“Indulge me, Christophe. To impress a woman, you must be able to appreciate art. It is the very soul of romance.”

“There is no art amongst cowshit.”

“Christophe,” I tut, “describe her.”

Peering down, I can see the outline of his trapped erection. I am ablaze and cannot ignore the compulsion to have him inside me.

“She is beautiful.”

“Aw… try harder. What do you like about her?”

“She looks so….”

I resist the urge to finish his sentence. “Go on. You cannot shock me.”

“Happy.”

“She is fulfilled… sexually,” I purr. “What do you like about how she looks?”

“Giselle….”

“Christophe. Humour me.”

The magnetic pull of his erection taunts me. I ease closer; he will feel the heat of my breath on his cheek and the scent of my perfume.

“Tell me,” I whisper, “What do you like about her?”

“Her body…”

“Her breasts, Christophe. Do you like those?”

“Yes,” he gasps.

I remove my hands, “You can open your eyes, look at them.”

“Do you like breasts like those or something a little more?”

“A little more.”

I can feel how he trembles as my hands slide down his torso. He is so muscular, hewn from oak.

“How about mine? Do you like mine?”

Christophe hesitates, “Yes.”

Pressing my lips to his cheek, my fingertips glide over his arms, soft as feathers.

“Giselle… we… we should not.”

“We should,” kissing his neck, “because I know you want to. Would you like to see my breasts? Would you like to touch them?”

The pause is too much. I am walking a tightrope, and I might fall.

“Yes.”

Craning his neck, he tracks my seductive gait as I glide around the sofa. His eyes roam everywhere except meeting mine. Ogling them, they sit just right and flare slightly from my body, and my sensitive nipples are erect from so much temptation.

“So, you like these?”

Swallowing to clear his mouth, he nods with a nervous twitch.

Kneeling between his legs, I take his hand; it trembles. Guiding it, I show him how I like to have them caressed and request the delicate pinch of my nipple between his fingers. It is a charge of lightning through me. Christophe’s breathing hitches as I bring his second hand to them.

“Yes, do not be shy. Enjoy them.”

“Giselle… I…”

His probity tires me, so he sees my tigress eyes. My hands travel along his thighs, almost to the thick outline resting at an oblique angle. Watching how he crumbles, I skirt around it, close but not touching. He is gentle, brushing my hardened nipples with his thumbs.

Looking at his lips, the distance between us narrows. The moment of truth and my fragile heart can not take any more rejection. I enjoy their tactile pressure against mine; he is either coy or nervous. I press, and he responds. I ease back, and he surges forwards. Opening his mouth, my tongue slides against his. A stifled whimper should allay his concerns. It is a moment of approval that I hope emboldens him.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” he mumbles.

He is a good kisser, and perhaps this is the limit of his experience. Leering into his eyes, he has the paralysis of intense arousal. The buckle yields easily, his belt relents, and I open his jeans. Pulling at the denim, he lifts his hips. Tugging at his briefs, they rest around his ankles.

I have him in my hand, and our kiss stifles his muted groan. Hot in my grasp, and its unyielding strength is already too much. It is something to treasure, and the craving to fuck runs on an endless loop in my mind. I am the cat with the cream and purr in appreciation. He looks like a rabbit caught in open country. Admiring his erection, placating him with my delighted eyes; it is beautifully curved, with plenty of girth and a pleasing length.

From the flames that flickered for hours, an inferno takes hold. Christophe is agitated by nerves and arousal. The seconds will feel like minutes as I hold it, my sultry eyes burning into his as I kiss along its length. The tip of my tongue licks around its swollen head, savouring how it twitches for me.

Nuzzling it, I press it to my cheek, “Do you want me to continue?”

“Oh God, yes.”

-=-

I am a pornstar, his only point of reference, so I will give him an unforgettable performance. Slurping on his length and swirling my tongue around it, he has not blinked.

Shiny in my hand, I lick around the head. “Mmm, this is a very nice cock. You like this?”

Did he have any choice? No. Plunged into my mouth, Christophe grips the armrest and gasps with conviction. Bobbing up and down, my hand provides a corkscrew caress. Only seventeen and inexperienced, his shaking hands run through my hair, and I expect him to push me down on it. He should be careful; I would deep-throat this easily and provide an immediate release. Teasing his ass would be too much, too far, but he would spray his seed like a fountain.

Despite my own need, he is kept simmering on the boil. I want him to wonder how many times I have done this. I have lost count, but he is obviously starting his sexual odyssey.

Bulging, all its veins are pronounced. It is swollen, and my slender fingers just about meet around it. Slippery with saliva as I stroke it, Christophe is struggling, and I cannot hide my amusement. He sees my devil-may-care grin, a wayward caress brushes his nipple, and he groans.

“Mmm, Christophe, do not hold back. I want you to cum for me.”

“Uh-huh.”

He might be here in body, perhaps in spirit, but the rest of him is in rapture. I have to touch my sex, letting him watch. Breeching its folds, narrowing my eyes, a cascade of arousal flows. Dipping a finger into the torrid heat, I could impale myself on him with ease. I show him my fingers glossy with my juices, savouring the bittersweet flavour as I suck on them.

“Just doing this for you makes me very wet. Do you want to fuck me, Christophe?”

He nods excitedly, gasping for shallow breaths.

“You need to cum first, and then I will fuck you.”

Grinning, I quicken my hand; it is an unmistakable signal, and the alacrity in his eyes says it all. Glancing down, I am torn. I want to see how much he has, spurting from this livid cock. Yet, my inner slut wants to give him something he will never forget.

I might spoil him; he might never experience that again.

Vulnerable at the apex of orgasm, he has an almost angelic expression. Beaming, encouraging him to yield, he groans in defeat. His body tenses and this is the cry I have waited for. Aimed at my breasts, the first volleys arc onto them, brilliant white and thick, warm on my skin. I cannot resist and plunge for it, taking him deep.

Gorging on it with murmurs of appreciation, Christophe twists and writhes with plosive exhalations of air. More follow, punctuating how it spasms, racing fast, and I nurse it to the final twitch.

Swallowing it down, it is the perfect exhibition of what I am.

Not that he would understand that – yet.

-=-

Virginal is such a horrid word; chaste is better. Uncorrupted has the promise of corruption written inside it. I like that word the most because I did that to him.

I am alone now; it is late, and twilight yields to the dark of night. Christophe is back with his relatives, sated, with a set of memories to last a lifetime. My bedsheets carry his scent, my sex aches with the echoes of his shaft, and what embers remain must be extinguished. I have more than memories inside me, and I must expel what is left of my reawakened lusts.

Stripping him naked, his lean musculature sent a fizz of excitement through my body. Broad in the shoulders and narrow at the waist, the definition of his torso and abdomen was irresistible to admire and touch. Most of all, I craved his untapped strength with powerful thighs and biceps to match. I knew he would take me if I could awaken the primal in him.

From so much potential, how it started felt so prosaic. On my back, with Christophe nestled between my open thighs and my legs bent. The undulations of my naked body were a magnet to his caress. Holding it there, rubbing it up and down my drenched folds. The expectation in his features, and I revelled in how they melted when he took his place inside me.

“Oh fuck!” I drew in a sharp breath, “You are very hard. Stop, and let me get used to you.”

I watched how the sensations overwhelmed Christophe as the realisation dawned on him. Flexing my hips, their latitude providing the massage to goad his confession.

“Am I your first?”

“Yes…” and a gasp of relief followed, “I… I always wanted to do this with you.”

“Then enjoy this moment, Christophe.” I had to gasp as his rod of steel pressed at the walls of my sex, “Fucking enjoy it.”

I pulled him in, gathered into my limbs as a spider might consume a fly. Rubbing my legs against his, the sweep of his thick shaft matched how my fingertips roamed over his flexing back. Back and forth, and my blunt heels called out the rhythm as a human metronome.

From these beginnings, what I took in my mouth blunted his ardour. We might have minutes, maybe longer. There would be surprises plenty, and he would unlock all of my desires. It started as a fuck by numbers, a missionary position to establish his addiction and fuel his confidence. Locking his elbows, I wanted him to see how timid I could be, tempting his need to take charge. Pulling him in close, running my fingers through his hair to nuzzle my breasts.

Sucking on my nipple, I moulded him to drive his thrusts, pulling on his hips to make circles. Writhing as a lizard trapped in a tin, that lumpen shaft began to plunder my cunt. Not so much to make him release; this was my unforgettable lesson to him for later.

Pushing on his shoulders, whimpering for his mouth on my sensitive clit. Wriggling, looking down into his helpless eyes. Steering him, with florid words of encouragement, to the point of a mellow climax and all its glorious intimacy. He rose, bolder in stature, proud, more assertive, and eager to slide into me as we kissed passionately and snorted for air.

Gripping his pumping behind, my rasped words demanded how I wanted it. Harder… harder still, locking my legs around his waist, making my breasts tremble. As a taller summit to conquer, I writhed against him, out of sync until we found it together. My instructions became more and more feverish as Christophe grazed that place within. I was pleading for the sawing action at that sensitive spot. There was no escape for Christophe and gallant to the last, I could see how hard he tried to hold back. Wiping his furrowed brow, his eyes were full of concentration as I began to tense.

“Yes, yes, give it to me, please… please cum inside me.”

“Inside you?” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

Pressing on his behind, whimpering softly for his seed. My gasped words demanded his inundation as deep as he could put it. I repeatedly begged, saturated in bliss, and he relented with a timorous groan. Mollifying his anguish with a loving caress, Christophe did not stop thrusting, responding to my clamouring hands.

Faint whimpers stiffened into softer moans, and my sudden cries described how the immolation took me. Glowing inside as the spasms subsided, I ran my fingers through his hair. He was a man, new, fresh out of the box, and drained inside mine. Tight in my embrace, slotted together, we panted as a sweaty, slippery mess.

-=-

Christophe was not a man of many words, and pillow talk is always something I enjoy. This was no backseat fumble or a quick grope when no one was looking. He was mesmerised as his seed leaked from me, watching how I toyed with it, fingering my drenched sex. My confidence provided a beguiling need that powered his rapid recovery.

His inhibitions shorn, comfortable in his nakedness with mine, I fed him back into the soaked cauldron, and we fucked as swallows danced. Poetic in movement, effortless in its give and take. Our clean bodies soon sullied as he discovered his assertiveness. Simple instructions, moments of levity and laughter delivered the gasps, whimpers and cries of sensual pleasure.

We grappled and giggled as bodies contorted, hands skidded, and our sexual union provided such mutual pleasure. I rode him, smearing my hips, driving for a climax as he pawed me. I crouched, my legs wide open, letting him watch how that rigid shaft dragged on the lips of my cunt.

Christophe threw me off, and not to be outdone, I got on all fours and demanded it from behind. Slapping his muscular body against my ass, gripping me tight, he met all my needs. Ploughed harder, my face buried in the mattress; he nailed me as I tried to wriggle free, pressing me down to take what he wanted. Laid prone for him, rifled, taken, and brought to the boil, I shook vehemently. Christophe met my demands, fucking me through my climax, filled deep with his masterful tool.

To our denouement, in a lotus position, seated on top of him and flexing on his shaft. Leaning back, I writhed at our pivot, fully penetrated, braced by my hand clasped behind his neck. Christophe explored me with a rousing caress that would never cease. He exploited all my weaknesses with a determined subtlety.

The ensemble of everything we had combined, instinct triumphed over self-consciousness. Now, we were lovers. All his callow awkwardness melted away; this was more than a fuck. In the way he held me, cradled in his strong arms, his eye contact, scanning for every nuance of my pleasure. His devotion surpassed many who have shared my bed. This was the sexual catharsis of the undesired divorcee and the cure for his teenage angst. Clamouring for his seed, the current flowed, the electricity suddenly sparked, and I ignited. My orgasm gripped him, rumbling through my quivering body, and every convulsion etched onto my features.

Squeezed against him, pressed tight against his hewn body, I took it from him, grinding in a languid rhythm back and forth, soaking his balls with his spilled seed.

“Wow, Christophe. You do learn fast.” I fanned myself as he grinned. “Come on. We need to cool down.”

Under the spray of tepid water in the shower, I glowed with relief. Christophe was there, his flawless skin shiny with moisture. I could not remove my hands, savouring the definition of his body. Yet, my feet were not the only thing I had cleansed. I did not wake up this morning thinking this would happen. More filthy words made Christophe fiercely rigid.

Soaped up, stroked in my hand as I seduced him all over again. Temptress eyes and the escalating passionate kisses made demands only a young man can fulfil.

“You fucked me, came inside me. I want this, Christophe. Fuck me in the ass. Own it. It is yours.”

Slickened, I braced against the tiled wall of the shower and splayed my behind. Old enough to know better, too old to care, my tightest hole violated, and Christophe’s unflagging erection jammed up my ass. Slow at first, and his groans matched my muted yelps. The hot sting of tight muscle ebbed away into the churning intensity of ecstasy I adore.

The only thing filthy under the jets of water were my words. Demanding that Christophe called me a ‘dirty slut’, I provoked his brooding menace. Many times, I was a slut while married. I courted the need for sex like this and was often disappointed. A novice gave me what I craved, and honest Christophe fulfilled his most depraved fantasy. Fucking me, a family friend, in that taboo place, baying for his seed.

The clatter of our bodies echoed with our cries as if we were mortally wounded. They rang out through my apartment. Holding Christophe’s fingers there, obedient to the last, they darted over my swollen clit. The slam of his body, the tempo and the merciless heat of his impalement edged me closer to the precipice.

“Oh God, Christophe…”

“I know,” he growled, “me too.”

“Do it… take it.”

Convulsing, trapped tight and surging towards a stormy orgasm, he bucked his last, providing a lingering gift as deep as he could put it. Its vibrant pulses threw me over the edge, held tight in his arms as I croaked and shook on trembling legs.

It is dark in my boudoir, and behind closed eyelids, I quake again. The vivid memories bring me to the apex of a final climax. I am exhausted, yet I know I can prise this one free. I arch, quiver and jam my fingers inside. His seed is still there as I flail, grip the sheets, and welcome the crashing waves.

Cramping, hazy and floating, I am at peace.

Thank you, Christophe. Thank you for making me feel like a woman again.

-=-

Grappling with the picture, I hang it back in my lounge, an oil on canvas of Place du Tertre. The fulfilled woman will return to my boudoir as before, and she is the perfect metaphor for my state of mind. As the mid-morning sun begins to warm my apartment, I still feel his rampant shaft inside me.

“Would it be such a crime if he was, Cami?”

I swap the receiver to my other ear, “Well, no, he is not. Christophe is definitely into women.”

“Cami! You set this up! His parents had better not find out that he fucked the shit out of me.”

“Yes, he did. No, I am not lying. Four times!”

“Cami!” I squeal with delight, “Yes, he was magnificent. He is going to make a special woman very happy.”

“Promise me, Cami. You do not know this happened, and no teasing him.”

“An invitation to the wedding party? Where is it?”

“Montreuil, tomorrow. Okay, send me the details.”

“Cami…” I pause, “If I do, I will not tell you I have fucked him again.”

“Yes, I would, in a fucking heartbeat.”

“Okay, fine, fine,” I giggle, “Ciao ciao.”