City of Light

I take Mrs. Zee -- the Belgian Defense Minister's wife, long neglected, recently bored, and by then trying hard to mend her own broken heart -- about once a week.

I don't take her anywhere special, necessarily. I simply take *her*.

If you know what I mean.

I take a taste, at the very least. Sometimes -- and when mutual circumstances permit and time allows -- I get my fill of her. As a man.

I once took her on the Eiffel Tower.

I didn't *take* her there. Thats where we met.

Around midnight.

I had a friend who could get us special access. So we both could go up there individually, in order to be discreet. She just *happened* to run into this stranger up there. One with a certain bedroom look in his eyes, and a devilish way with his words  -- well, I've been told.

I am a stickler for schedules though. I insisted we wait precisely til midnight. Somewhere right then some medieval French cathedral bell struck once -- those jerks, considering the hour. At least it wasn't twelve times, I guess?

Anyway as the sound of that deep bass metal thrum rolled out in waves across the City of Light I told Madeline to brace herself well. She leaned forward a little and gripped the railing. I flipped her skirt up in back. Yanked her slut panties down to her knees, though I don't know why she bothered with those damn things. I undid my buckle and belt fast, unzipped trousers, with a hand I brought out my hard prick and quickly positioned it right up against the entrance to her by-then sloppy wet vag.

"This... is because of what your *husband* did to me," I reminded her then, with the most authoritative tone I could muster.

"I'll be getting back in spades from now on, paid out in the coin of your cunt. You beautiful and thankfully so 'open to cheating' little French bitch of mine."

I growled those words into her ear from behind and then rammed my hard cock up inside her velvet smooth but gripping twat.

My initial stroke inward went deep and probably hurt her: the way she preferred.

She gasped.

I put a hand on the back of her head and coiled up her hair in my fingers, in my fist, getting a strong grip on my new bitch. I pulled her head back by her hair.

It was important to make her *feel* a certain way then. My cock in her pussy was a part of it, of course. Also my masculine aggression and harsh words. My fistful of her hair, too, and controlling her like taking the reins of some willful mare. The old city of Paris was part of it.

Speaking of Paris, the view that night especially was incredible -- no clouds, just the lights, the sounds, all that history, and those great stories -- Casablanca anyone?

At some point I told her to bring out her breasts: she obeyed, quickly. As we continued to fuck, without stopping, she managed to undo her top and to undo her bra's front clasp, freeing both of her perfectly sized tits.

Anyone looking up from below that night, with good enough eyesight -- or looking out from the top of some other tall building with a telescope perhaps, in just the *right* direction, would see my bitch's tits exposed and bared, proudly, for all of Paris.

The night was chilly and the cool air made her nipples harden into bullets. The way I liked them. I have it on good authority that some men would bite them or stick needles into them, just to see the reaction on Madeline's face. Its always better when its a wealthy French woman's face.

Anyway I fucked my rich bitch for about an hour like that, up on the top deck of perhaps the most famous landmark in all the world. I guess you could say its how I operate? How a man of great quote-unquote sophistication and skill in the art of women might arrange matters.

To be honest? I had merely improvised. I didn't plan much ahead when it came to sex.

I had just tired of fucking Madeline in back alleys and public parks and decided a change of scene would be in order. I had even forgot to bring condoms that night. When I penetrated the slut I took her bareback. I did want to put my seed in her, eventually, of course. Consequences were not my concern: she had been begging me for my baby plenty of times. Granted that was said in the heat of the moment, usually in the alley behind the dance club where I had first arranged to run into her all innocent like. When she said it previously she clearly had been in a state of lust or even crushing for this bold new American man in her life who, in her view, I imagine, knew how to handle her pussy right. Or perhaps she had just been in the more ordinary, garden variety state of... cocklust. Either way a condition I would not unapprove of, as a man.

I didn't want my new French whore to freeze so I did eventually show mercy: I let myself go. Came inside her. Ejaculated up inside that upscale, married, yet tight hot twat of hers. Whether she *herself* came was not my concern, as previously stated. I withdrew my member and tucked back in. It was getting cold.

"You will stay like this for 20 minutes," I told her. "And never look back. Technically you don't know who I am or ever will. Thats your story. I want that to be in your mind's memory of what happened here, forever. Its so much better than real that way. I could have been anyone. Its the way that faithful wives like you prefer it. Always, I know."

And then I leaned in, and took one of the woman's earlobes between my lips and then teeth, gently. I did not bite down. It was an act of dominance over my female animal, post-conquest, as one last memento before we parted ways.

I let go and stepped back a little. With both my hands I gave a full fondle of each of her bared buttocks, as if to give my own sense of touch one last memory too, perhaps, of the erotic shape and elliptic curves and the full sensory feel and utter *realness* of this woman's magnificent French feminine ass.

"Obedience is key, Madeline. With me, always." It was one last directive.

And then I turned on a dime and strolled off. I was long gone before she made her own descent to ground level. Long gone before she even pulled her panties back up.

Within an hour I was back "home" -- such as it was then -- in bed in my hotel room and doing a little reading before sleep. I had been re-reading a little history of the rise and fall of Nazi Germany, by William Shirer -- you know, as one does, late at night, in Paris, just after sex with a rich married woman -- because among my other pursuits in life, when not being a terrible gigolo and the occasional lover of needy beautiful women the world over I had a personal mission to try saving democracy itself. Saving it everywhere, ideally, where I might help, but especially in my own country, the mighty United States, and before it was too late. Again: as one does.

Anyway my phone lit up.

Text from Madeline.

Letting me know she got home safe too. *Such* a good girl -- obedient. That was key.

Also, and she said she didn't mean to be a pest or rush me or anything, but...  she *was* wondering *when* she might see me again. Would Friday night work? Saturday afternoon? To just let her know. Also she let me know that she refused to douche herself out afterward or take any pills. That whatever happened... would.

I... well, I had mixed feelings on that.

I *did* like that she texted me. The key to great sex is to start by fucking with a woman's mind and then somewhere along the way to introduce a little foreplay and ideally post-play, as well.

For sex is just love in another form and love itself a game. Though one played out with the human heart -- so, be careful, you cruel bastards out there. If there *was* one place in all of history which understood that -- deep down -- I *do* believe it was Paris.

And that, my friends, was why I had came there. And that too is why I met Madeline of Paris there, and why I had came inside her and did it there, and nowhere else since, to this very day. As that entire city -- I would bet anything -- had either slept without knowledge of our sins that night, or, they all watched us, without shame.