A Night Out in Paris

He'd never been to Paris before; in fact he'd never been much of anyplace before. Even though he was with his wife and kids, he was struck by the romance of the city, from the Christmas lights at night to the endless couples, young and old, sitting at the multitude of cafes, drinking wine and people watching. There were street musicians playing music in the metro stations; sometimes it was jazz, sometimes classical, sometimes not even really good, but in the cavernous underground spaces there was a haunting quality that got under his skin in a way he couldn't quite identify; it made him feel melancholy and unsettled. He felt vaguely dissatisfied, without really knowing what was wrong or what he wanted to change.

The kids were old enough that they could go out on their own or hang around the hotel in the evenings, so he and his wife had some time to themselves to explore the city. One night they went to Pigalle, a famous and slightly seedy area of town, known for its sex shops and strip clubs. They walked around for a while, half amused at the storefronts and passersby, and half titillated. They debated going into one of the 'gentlemen's clubs' but were unsure whether it was public or private, whether the wife would be allowed, and whether they could manage it all in French. In the end, they had a drink at a bar nearby and watched everyone else. They saw several men go in and out of the two sex shops across the street. After a while, a group of three young women emerged from one of them; they had been in there far too long to have just been looking at the merchandise in the tiny store; he wondered whether there was a back room and what the three of them must have been up to. After they paid and left the bar, they went in to take a look at its sad collection of grainy and obsolete porn videos and dusty lingerie. You spotted a couple of unmarked doors in the back and assumed that was where most of the customers really spent their time.

When the couple got back to their hotel room, they were both aroused by what they had seen that night. The sex between them had always been good, but tonight was different. The alcohol, the exotic location, the evening spent surrounded by everyone else's sexual activities all combined to make them want to try something new. The second they got in the elevator, they went at it; he pulled the neck of her sweater down and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth. She moaned and stroked his cock through his pants until they got to their floor. They managed to hurry to their room without anyone seeing them and rushed inside. He pushed her up against the wall and kissed her hard while he yanked her skirt up and her panties down. She was wet and ready for him. She unzipped his pants and got his stiff cock free. He was going to enter her like that, standing against the wall, but he changed his mind and led her over to the wooden desk instead. He bent her over, facing away from him, and entered her from behind. He held on to her hips and thrust hard, eyes closed, imagining that he was in the back room at the sex shop, with one if the girls he had seen there that night. He reached around while he plunged into her, and rubbed her clit.

She cried out, "harder, harder", not typical for her, but she felt like a different person, one who was reckless and wanton. She pushed back against him with increasing intensity; "Come inside me", she moaned. That was enough to put him over the edge; he groaned one last time and exploded into her, still fantasizing about an anonymous French girl, bent over and coming in the back of a sleazy, tiny store.

His wife fell asleep quickly after that, curled up against him, but he was a bit restless all night; it was hard to settle down to sleep. There were too many half-formed thoughts swirling around his brain. He was starting to regret his timidity earlier that night; he decided that he was going to try to get back there and experience the part of Paris he had seen but been too nervous to try.

The next day, he told his wife that he was hoping to go to a late exhibit at one of the local museums, something about France's military history. He knew that no one else in his family would have the slightest interest in that. As he had hoped, his wife said that she and the boys would opt out and go to dinner and wander around without him. He had one night of freedom to indulge himself.

He tried to prepare for his adventure; he googled the club that had interested him the night before, and determined that it was open to the public, what the dress code was, and the admission fee. He withdrew cash, a lot of cash. He thought he would probably need enough to drink heavily, and extra for whatever was going to come his way. He made a mental note to intercept next month's credit card bill before his wife got to it.

Once his family had left for the evening, he changed into the dressiest clothes he had. It wasn't quite what he would have liked, but it would have to do. He set out for the metro, heart pounding. He was tempted to give up and just go for a walk instead, but decided not to give in to his nervousness. He arrived at the club and stood across the street, watching men come and go. He pretended to be on his phone to give him time to observe, to decide. Finally he took a deep breath and approached the hostess at the door. She said something he couldn't quite understand; he guessed that it had something to do with the entrance fee and handed over the amount he had seen on their website, hoping it was right. She looked down at the money in her hand and nodded, gesturing for him to enter.

It was fairly dark inside; his first impression was of a lot of red everywhere- the walls, the curtains, the tablecloths. There was cigarette smoke everywhere. The music was loud, pounding in his ears. A waitress, dressed in something black and lacy, and showing a lot of cleavage, asked if he wanted a drink. He ordered a beer that seemed to be popular in the area; he didn't feel up to deciphering a menu or asking questions in his awkward French. When it arrived he drank half of it in one big gulp and finally turned his attention to the rest of the room. It was enormous; he could see different small stages scattered around, each surrounded by a couple of rows of chairs and sofas. Most of the stages had a girl dancing, on a pole in the center or on an elevated platform with flashing lights. It was dark, but he could see that some of the men were in slightly bigger chairs that seemed to recline; most of those men had a scantily clad woman in their laps, writhing and squirming while the men sat back. A flash of understanding hit him.

He picked up his drink and moved to one of the empty armchairs. He sat down and downed the rest of his beer. The waitress came back and he signaled for another one. It was brought back by a different woman; she placed it on the table and waited. He looked up and his mouth went dry. She was striking, the embodiment of a burlesque dancer from a book of old vintage prints. She had very white skin, with long straight black hair and enormous eyes, almost black in the dim light and emphasized with black mascara and eyeliner. Her lips were painted crimson.

He looked down at her body; she was wearing a sort of lacy, nearly see-through corset and panties, deep red to match her lipstick. He could see her breasts, oversized with the nipples showing through, and her pubic hair, dark like the hair on her head and trimmed into a neat triangle. On her legs were matching lacy stockings held up by a garter belt, and spiky, shiny high heels. He swallowed hard; she saw his response to her and smiled. She leaned down and whispered something in his ear; he didn't understand what she was saying, but her breath was warm and soft, and her voice was low and husky. Out of her mouth, the French words were almost foreplay. He felt himself hardening in an instant. Whatever she had said, he was in. He nodded. She rubbed her thumb and fingers together, the universal sign for money. He took out a couple of bills and handed them over. She smiled again and tucked them into her cleavage. She picked up his hand and used it to stroke her breasts through the lacy costume she was wearing.

Suddenly, she was on top of him, straddling him. He could feel her rubbing her barely covered pussy into his groin. She ground against him, up and down; even through his underwear and his jeans he was already on the brink of coming. He moved his hands up to her breasts and smoothed his hands over them, lightly at first, then harder. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples; he could feel how hard they had become at his touch. He tried to bend his head down to brush them with his tongue, but she pushed him away. Instead, he reached down and cupped her ass; he felt the warmth and smoothness of her skin under the slight roughness of the lace. He groaned as she kept riding him; he couldn't think of anything except pulling off the few millimeters of fabric that separated them and fucking her. He tried to push his huge erection up at her, trying to figure out a way to get his pants open and his cock out and inside her. Just as he was straining upward, five seconds away from orgasm, she stopped and stood up.

He groaned again, this time with frustration and almost anger. He made a "what the fuck?" gesture with his hands. She smiled and again made the sign for money. He got it. She had him, almost literally, by the balls. He nodded, his lust overriding his worry about the cost, or the consequences of his decision. He was too far gone to stop now. He handed her more money, a lot more. She pointed to the back of the room where he could just make out a neon sign that said "cabines". He didn't know what that meant, but he went back and stood near the sign until a man, one of the bouncers in the club, opened one of them and motioned him inside. He sat down on the leather sofa. The man said "Un moment" and closed the door.

He waited a minute, then decided to unzip his pants and unbutton the tiny button on his boxer shorts. He hoped he would have a chance to complete the act this time. He felt a little ridiculous sitting there exposed like that, but was willing to endure it. His erection had faded a bit by this time, but he was sure that would change soon enough. She came back in the room and closed the door behind her; he breathed in sharply at her appearance. She had changed her outfit; the shoes and stockings seemed the same, but instead of the red lace corset, she was in a bra of the same color lace. There were cutouts so that her small, pink nipples poked through. The bikini was different too, the same kind of fabric, but skimpier. She turned around to model it, and he saw that the back was a thong.

When she was facing him again, she took his band and put it between her legs. That's when he realized that the panties were crotchless; he could feel the soft curl of hair and the warmth and wetness of her pussy. He rubbed a finger along her slit; his erection was back, harder than before. He moaned with pleasure and anticipation; he pulled her toward him and she climbed up and straddled him again. Once she was on top of him, he finally managed to free his rigid, throbbing, aching cock. He penetrated her with one fast thrust, both of them moaning now. She rode him, slowly; she rose up so that he slipped almost completely out of her, then slammed back down so that he was engulfed to the hilt. She did this over and over while he finally, desperately, got his mouth around her exposed nipple. He sucked one and then the other and teased them with his tongue. He licked them and gently blew across them; they seemed to harden even more while he watched. Once he bit down, hard, making her squeal with what he hoped was pleasure. He squeezed and pinched the other nipple with his other hand.

As she kept fucking him, speeding up and getting more and more frantic, he moved his hands down to her naked ass. He held her so that he could control the speed and depth of the thrusting. He could feel the tension building in his groin, his breathing ragged, his heart feeling like it was about to burst out of his chest. He felt the moment that he loved, when he knew that orgasm was only a few seconds away. He groaned again and pulled her down on him even harder. A few more thrusts and he came, hard, shooting up into her, feeling like it would go on forever. He kept holding her tightly for a few final strokes while he finished coming. He stayed like that for a minute, trying to catch his breath. Finally, when his heart rate seemed to be close to normal, and his soft, spent penis had slipped out of her, she stood up again and smiled at him for a moment before turning and walking out of the room.

He didn't know if they would let him stay in the room much longer, so he zipped and buttoned himself back up. He felt a little wobbly when he finally stood up, from the alcohol or the excitement, or both. He walked out of he club; the manager wished him a good night with a smirk, and he walked toward the metro station, feeling in his pocket for his ticket. On the way home he was going to have to come up with a fact or two about the exhibit he was supposed to have been at; he knew that no one would be interested enough to ask him more than a couple of perfunctory questions. He was sure of two things: that he was going to have to come back to Paris alone sometime, and that, from now on, he was definitely going to like that shade of red.