27 Minutes

Adam started my humiliation gently by making me bend over a fair few times to look at things on the bottom shelf of department stores, standing back to watch my skirt slowly rise along with my temperature. I'd like to say having him perv at me from behind didn't turn me on, but I'd be lying. Each time he made me do it, I flushed and loved it.

Bending like this also afforded people standing beside me a peek down my top to catch a dose of cleavage. In one shop, I swung from a crouch up towards a couple of guys browsing wine, and as I sashayed past them down the aisle, I'm sure I heard one of them comment to his friend, "Y'a du monde au balcon." It was lost on me at the time but I looked it up later to find that its literal translation of "There's a world at the balcony" was an idiom for "She has large breasts." Maybe I was a little better endowed than the typical French lady and would have preferred "Elle a une belle poitrine" (a beautiful chest) but since I was acting like a brazen strumpet I guess I deserved it.

Hurrying from the shops giggling like mischievous teenagers at our new game, we boarded an up-escalator in Les Halles and Adam gently exposed me, giving a bunch of lads a few stairs lower something more than shopping to think about. The whoops and delighted banter as they feasted on my bare bottom caused a trickle of juice to escape and roll down my thigh.

Even iconic structures weren't sacred. Beneath the glass pyramids of the Louvre, Adam made sure I hiked my skirt higher than necessary as I took the stairs so anyone behind us would be able to see the treasures usually hidden underneath. It was debauch and I swear the Mona Lisa's expression seemed judgemental.

While we ate lunch, I thought maybe a respite would be in order, but I was wrong. In a crowded and noisy café I was instructed to slide two fingers inside myself beneath the table and feed Adam the contents. "Just to check you still want me," he had claimed as I self-consciously reached across the table and brought my glistening fingers to his lips, watching him hungrily suck my juices from them amid a few disbelieving stares from nearby patrons.

I ought to have felt shame. I ought to have felt abhorrence at my reckless disregard for decorum in such a public setting. So why did I love the feeling so much? Why was there a fierce undercurrent of stimulation jetting around my body? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I turning into a sexual adrenaline junkie and would soon find myself craving a naked skydive to get my rocks off? Or was the city's mystical air to blame? I didn't have any concrete answers, just a barrage of questions, the conclusions to which were laced with equal parts uncertainty and euphoria.

During the hottest part of the day, we sought shade at the Tuileries garden where he told me to bask opposite him in a pair of chairs we were lucky to find. At his insistence I lifted my feet into his lap, unable to resist pressing the sole of a sandal against his obvious bulge, watching him fight his own body's reaction and briefly closing his eyes.

Regaining his composure he diligently and sensually massaged my calves and ankles, which he knew damn well was one of my hotspots, until he deemed I'd taken enough.

Plenty of people -- mostly men -- did a double-take and caught a glimpse of my hot pussy and it kept me on a sexual knife edge all day, to such an extent I considered more than once sneaking off to the ladies' and fingering myself to completion. Although it took every ounce of resolve and discipline I could muster, I resisted my own urges on the basis that it would heighten things later. Adam was good on his word -- always had been -- so I found a way to tap into my willpower reserves and keep myself in check for the sake of the final event.

Mid-afternoon, my display of restraint and obedience earned me a very special treat. He led me up Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to queue outside a shop that made me rub my eyes in disbelief. I gawped at him, and when he confirmed it was no joke, I was unable to wipe the silly grin off my face until we were let inside, whereby the grin turned to awe.

To a self-confessed shoe-lover, being in the gaudy dream world of one of Christian Louboutin's grottos was sheer heaven. I didn't even think Adam had paid much attention to the fact I'd splashed out on a pair a few years earlier, let alone that he knew where the shop was. But maybe I'd mentioned them a little too often, prompting him to look the place up.

Regardless, I was totally immersed in the spectacle, where each pair of shoes on display was lovingly tucked in an arched pigeon-hole like a prized work of art. Gushing at the designs, from the extraordinary to the downright bizarre and impractical, I wanted to try at least a quarter of the stock on.

Adam brought me back to planet Earth, patiently explaining that we wouldn't have time so I needed to be selective and, of course, there was a condition attached: I had to show my pussy to the sales assistant with each pair I tried on. Bah! Even being spoiled had a proviso.

In light of this information I went straight for an elegant pair of Simple Pumps; the 85s. Classic and practical styling with those to-die-for red soles. As the assistant knelt to slip on the gorgeous footwear I 'accidentally' parted my thighs. The reaction was fleeting but definitely there, and the double whammy of wearing such powerful shoes in this dream location and acting like a slut in them made me colour. I suddenly craved my man. Wanted to charge him, slam him against the wall in the three-and-a-half inch heels, mouths connecting, tongues duelling, hands irrepressibly clutching at each other through our clothes until they snaked down between us, seeking the nucleus of our desires without concern for the surroundings. Me breathlessly rubbing his steel outline; him probing my impatient honey trap, nibbling my ear as the clientele and assistants stopped to stare at the sight of two people lost under each other's spell.

Realising I had to get out before I actually did it, I quickly paraded in the heels, loving the power they gave me. Despite myself I couldn't resist trying on a couple more pairs of equally elegant shoes -- flashing the assistant again as Adam had instructed -- before deciding on the 85s after all.

Clutching my purchase like a kid with a new toy robot as we left to continue our sightseeing, I was on cloud nine and figured things couldn't become any sweeter. Then everything changed: the journey back from La Defense truly took my breath away.

After admiring the view along the Axe Historique from the mighty superstructure of La Grande Arche we boarded the Metro from the business district at the start of rush hour. The carriage was packed full of commuters and we were jostled about for the first few stations, shoved this way and that as people pushed past in both directions. It was sweaty and unfresh and for the first time in the city I wished there was a nicer way to travel.

Things settled down around Porte Maillot a few stations later, and we found a spot near the centre of the carriage where we were not pushed as much. I was strap hanging so my belly button was exposed and skirt was riding a little high; a small mercy in the hot, sticky confines of the train. The skin-to-air ratio no doubt kept me cooler than the suits around me.

Adam had one hand on my waist to steady me and was gripping the overhead rail with the other. I sensed him pressing right up behind me and knew the closeness of our bodies would make him horny. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn't tried to jump me at numerous occasions throughout the day and admired his patience. Certainly he had opportunities, and I was partly disappointed he hadn't. The things he'd made me do -- things I didn't expect to enjoy to the extent I did -- were as much for his benefit as mine and I'm sure he was equally relieved to be going to the hotel so he could have me all to himself. That thought alone made the journey bearable. It went without saying that I'd give myself completely to him; whatever he desired he could take. I doubted he'd hold out very long anyway, so whatever he chose would have to be rapid and unbridled. Perfect!

As part payment for all the day's torture I pushed back a little, using the irregular momentum of the carriages to gently grind and swish against his cock. It quickly and predictably began to swell as he felt what was mere millimetres away from him; so close yet so far. I smiled to myself. Even under these unpleasant conditions I still had it.

Then I felt him ease me away and creep his hand down over my perspiring midriff onto my skirt. Very slowly, he circled his palm over my bottom, tracing the curvature and making me shiver at the touches. As my erogenous zones switched on yet again, my senses sharpened while his hand travelled lower to cup my butt. He rhythmically squeezed my cheek, then gently slapped my behind. I glowed, longing for him to do it again. Instead I felt the material of the skirt begin to pinch up, and shot him a sceptical expression over my shoulder. He gazed back at me, eyes twinkling, and continued edging the skirt ever higher. He couldn't be serious? Here?!

I tensed and looked fearfully around the carriage as the skirt slid higher to reveal my pert cheeks, his hand meeting the crease of bare flesh at the base of my curvy rear. Nobody seemed to be paying us any attention as he walked his fingers around into the cleft and nestled the leading edge of his finger right into my crack, again kneading the flesh of one cheek.

Everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder around me was oblivious to what was happening below waist level and my mind flashed, figuring out ways in which he might fuck me in the middle of the commuters without detection. Inexplicably, I began to grow excited at the prospect, wondering how I'd keep quiet enough to not cause a ruckus. On reflection, it was interesting I chose to consider the logistics of the act rather than immediately rule it out. That probably said more about my character than an army of psychiatrists could; although they'd ultimately arrive at the same conclusion: I was a dirty bitch.

Adam pushed his hand firmly into my crack, making sure to massage the entrance to my anus in the process, and little sparks of joy leapt from thigh to thigh. He knew it would turn me on and gently eased me forward. At that moment I knew I was in trouble. I should have left him alone instead of trying to be clever and torturing him. Should have remembered my role. Now I sensed I was going to pay for the insubordination, and obediently bent at the waist a few degrees from vertical, pulling on the strap for support. His hand followed the contour of my arse lower until his finger met the base of my pussy. Before I had time to react, his digit snaked inside me to the first knuckle.

I must have gasped, as the guy reading the paper a few feet away shot a curious look in my direction then returned to the business pages. The density of passengers made it impossible for anybody else to tell what was going on, but it wouldn't take much to alert them so I battled inwardly to control my actions while Adam probed.

As passengers fought their way on and off at Argentine and the unmistakably French odour of new bodies assaulted my senses, I was confident the only person that appreciated what it felt like to be fingered on public transport was me; the tender persistence, somehow hurriedly executed, making me hotter. A bead of sweat trickled slowly from the top of my sacrum, around my side and caught on the waistband of my skirt, its path across my pores a momentary welcome in the stifling closeness.

Adam continued, in and out becoming more of an abstract concept than a series of discrete movements in one locale, setting my fires smouldering and connecting regions of my body through neural pathways and spiritual meridians. Although my skirt was still just low enough to cover my pussy at the front, it was lewdly scrunched up at the rear and the thoughts of how the everyday people would react if they caught sight of my naked bottom fuelled my body into producing more of my very own sex drug. It flowed rapidly from head to toe, then returned and I felt myself radiate heat as nerve endings stood in readiness.

The only problem being, I wanted more.

And more.

Finding enough space between someone else's feet, I stepped out my left foot half a pace, still straddling the bag containing my new shoes. That was all the encouragement Adam needed. He lowered his position against me slightly further and I felt his index finger glide all the way into my sticky chute. It was exactly what I needed; more love drug coursed my veins and my body eagerly lapped it up. With no requirement for extra lubrication, Adam sawed his finger back and forth as I closed my eyes and let the situation take me away.

The swaying of the carriages made me feel as if I was floating; as though my legs were drifting behind me while I dangled on a rope from a hot air balloon. In my mind I looked down to see Paris from the air; the slow-moving traffic along the Champs-Élysées; Montparnasse towers; the bustle of people in the streets trying to complete their purchases before the boutiques closed for the night. And as I passed overhead, people would look up and point because they could see up my skirt; catch a glimpse of my pussy glistening in the early evening sun as fluid oozed from it, clinging to my entrance. The shoppers couldn't help staring up at the strange British lady, sans panties, who had spent the day discovering the sheer release and electric thrill of a little exhibitionism. Someone for whom this latest chapter in her sexual awakening would continue to define her as she explored her desires more and more with the man she loved.

That man chose that moment to glide his finger out of my tunnel and I returned to the reality of the carriage as my body craved his next touch. I arched my back cat-like and pressed against his hand, willing him to continue. After a long, teasing moment he didn't disappoint: his finger went in again, slowly, tantalisingly, and I felt fuller than before. It took a few strokes to register he was using two fingers: wow, that felt wonderful. He slid them forward time and again, plumbing my depths, trying to locate the source of wetness and produce more. The angle made it difficult, if not impossible, for him to reach the spot that would really set the juice generator in motion, but that didn't stop him trying. He wiggled and pressed the back of his fingers against the front wall of my sex, patiently adjusting and refining the technique, hunting for the button that would give me ultimate pleasure.

Truthfully, at that point it didn't matter to me if he found it or not: I was already well on my way to a crushing orgasm. The receptors in my brain were processing signals as fast as they were fired, shooting waves of energy downward to the train floor and back up my legs, circling my engorged labia, punching straight through my proud clitoris, swirling my hips to where Adam's hand supported my bare bottom, and racing up my spine to meet the next wave.

Amid the electrical disturbance inside me, I became vaguely aware of the train stopping and a surge of people pushing us forward, almost losing my balance as I struggled to recognise where external heat ended and internal fires began. If it wasn't for Adam stepping with me to keep me steady I'd have toppled into the lap of the man whom I found myself facing. People milled around us, pressing, shoving, settling into the cramped train. The driver made a tinny, mumbled announcement and those that deciphered it shuffled more before the buzzer sounded and the doors promptly rolled shut. Over the seated man's shoulder I could just make out the station name as the Metro rumbled forward: Charles de Gaulle - Étoile.

As the train was swallowed by the blackness of the tunnel, the gentle in and out of Adam's fingers resumed in mine. Sometimes the motion of us hitting a corner would thrust them deeper inside me and I'd bite my lip or let out a tiny gasp that was absorbed by the noisy carriage and dense body of passengers. Other times he'd slip right back to the entrance and I'd feel my petals close in his wake, trying to return to shape despite the imprint of his fingers remaining like memory foam, only to be split again moments later.

There were people nudging against both sides of me, hips banging hips as the train lurched and I clung to the strap, hardly believing what was happening. I looked down at my body through glazed eyes; long bare legs, slightly parted to allow for Adam's continued onslaught; skirt barely covering my pelvis; a strip of clammy stomach reflecting the fluorescent lighting; the halterneck trying to contain my straining bosoms; nipples proud and clearly defined as heat spread through them on its way to flush my neck. I was probably quite a sight, and I wondered if the man ahead of me might notice.

He was barely into his fifties, very French with thin rimmed glasses and silver hair, reading Le Monde and seemingly ignoring his wife chattering next to him; responding only with the occasional grunt or "Oui". I could only partially see her because of the passengers flanking me, but from what I could tell she was a matronly figure, wizened by the European sun.

Inside me, Adam's fingers continued to glide and my breathing was becoming more laboured. I wasn't sure how much more I could take, rapidly approaching the point where control of my actions disappeared and raw instinct took over to decide the fate of my body's release. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he didn't, but he gently pulled out and I'm sure I whimpered. Something at least caused the Frenchman to look up from his paper and make eye contact. He looked quizzically, fleetingly, then self-consciously returned to his paper.

My insides screamed for Adam's touch. What the hell was his game? He couldn't leave me like this, balancing on a sexual tightrope without a safety net. All I could feel were his fingers curled and supporting the crease beneath my bottom. Maybe he was fiddling with his dick, freeing it from his pants. Perhaps the next thing I'd feel would be his rigid shaft pressing at my drooling entrance. I nearly came with anticipation of what I was sure would be the most daring sexual act we had ever entertained, bracing myself for the invasion of his magnificent cock in my silky confines.

Instead he pushed his finger between my exposed cheeks to touch my rosebud with its tip, circling and tickling the nerve endings all around my dark opening. My body responded immediately, bouncing delightful messages along my subcutaneous network, joining the neural with the physical and leaving me yearning for more. I wanted him inside me so badly I felt like screaming at him to drill me where I stood.

His finger probed a few millimetres into my back passage, preparing me. But for what? He couldn't be serious? Fucking me was one thing; anal was off-the-chart depraved. How did he expect to slip his dick into my butt -- even just the first adorable inch or three, the hardness pressing against all the right places despite barely moving inside me. The simple act of thinking about it made me shudder at the memory of his many conquests in my dark, tight behind. Recalling the suffocating orgasms and hours of joy afterwards as I floated in the afterglow.

He shifted a little and I tensed, waiting for the moment to arrive, trying unsuccessfully to relax the muscles in my groin to make whatever he had planned easier and less likely to cause a commotion. The wait was almost painful and as I concentrated on the areas between my legs I was startled to feel his breath on my ear, whispering urgently.

"You want more?"

I nodded impatiently, unsure what "more" meant but almost past the point of caring: I wanted showtime. Naturally, he knew I was going to say yes and I'm sure he was enjoying my discomfort, even though it must have been almost as tough for him to hold back.