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A/N: this is part 4 in the Ctrl-Alt-Delete trilogy, but you don't need to have read the others. This is much longer, and a much slower burn, than my previous work. Ratings and constructive comments very much appreciated.

This is all my own work. I am the legal copyright holder. I do, however, allow you to use it, without attribution, however you like, on a Creative Commons Share-Alike basis (i.e. any derivative works must also be on a Creative Commons Share-Alike license).

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Emily lay, half-asleep, on a luxurious super-king-size four-poster. She was sprawled diagonally across the bed and wrapped up tightly in the thick duvet. Her boyfriend, Tom, had told her to book a week off work for a mystery holiday. They'd hopped on a Eurostar to Paris the previous evening, and Emily was now making the most of her time off by gently dozing in their suite in a Parisian hotel.

She heard a soft "beep" and the door to the hotel room opened. Emily opened her eyes and saw Tom, her boyfriend - no, fiancé, she was going to have to get used to that - walk in with a paper bag in one hand and a coffee clutch in the other. He smiled at her, and put down both the bag and the coffee on the bedside table. He sat down on the corner of the mattress and stroked her head.

"Morning, gorgeous," he said, bending down to kiss her. Emily put her hand on his chest. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, thanks," said Emily. "Where have you been?"

"When in Paris..." Tom said, picking up the paper bag and opening it for Emily. She peered inside and saw a pair of croissants inside. Her heart sank. Emily was a coeliac, and she really missed the taste of pastries. They smelled delicious.

Tom spotted the look on her face. "Don't worry, love," he said. He showed her the front of the bag. It was stamped with the logo of a boulangerie, with the words "sans gluten" written underneath. "I thought I could deprive myself of the most delicious protein in the world for you."

"Oh, thank you so much," said Emily, reaching in and pulling out one of the croissants. It was still warm. She took a big bite. It was rich, flaky, and buttery - as good as any croissant she could remember having before her intestines betrayed her. "Oh, god, that's so good!"

Emily wolfed down her croissant before Tom could even take a bite of his. She licked her fingers. She hadn't realised how hungry she was.

"I thought we'd eat on the balcony," said Tom with a smile. Emily looked down. She'd got crumbs down her naked body and on the pristine Egyptian-cotton sheets. She brushed herself down sheepishly. Stretching, she climbed out of bed and picked up Tom's discarded t-shirt from the previous day off the carpet, pulling it on over her head. It was long enough on her to serve as a micro-mini, just about covering her crotch and buttocks.

They sat out on the balcony of their eighth-floor hotel room with their hot drinks - Emily's latte and Tom's dark hot chocolate - and enjoyed the views of the Seine and the majestic Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the morning sky. It was a mild spring day, and the air was cool and fresh. Tom savoured the moment, breathing deeply and enjoying feeling of the cold air filling his lungs. Their seats were a little cold, especially for Emily, but tolerable.

"Do you think your family will like me?" asked Emily, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. Tom saw genuine concern on her face. He knew Emily was confident enough in her own likeability for that to not be her real concern here.

"Absolutely! You're brilliant, Emily," Tom said. "Are you worried about them not understanding our... inclinations?"

Emily sighed and nodded. "Did they ever expect you to get married? They must think I'm pitiable."

"Well, darling, I'm not exactly forthcoming about BDSM with them," Tom said. "They're not going to think you're a freak - although, of course, you are. As far as the rest of my family is concerned, we're a normal couple." He paused. "What about your family?"

Emily hesitated. "I may... OK, I told my mum about our sex life. She's open-minded, but..."

"She disapproves?"

"No, not at all. Not of the relationship, at least. But my dad wasn't a catch, and I think she's a bit afraid that you're not marriage material."

Tom smiled reassuringly and rubbed her arm. "Well, don't forget, love -- it takes two to tango. If your mum isn't sure about me, then I need to let her get to know me better. And if you're really worried, we can help your mum understand our dynamics. That's what we have language for, after all," said Tom.

Feeling somewhat relieved, Emily took another sip of her latte. It was good coffee, and just the right temperature - hot, but not scalding. "You always say such sensible things." She leaned forward slightly, gazing admiringly into Tom's clear blue eyes.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

Tom gave her a reassuring grin, knowing they were united in their commitment to each other. Their love was strong, deep, and steadfast. As they sipped their respective drinks, Tom couldn't resist turning his attention to his soon-to-be wife once again. "You really pull off that grubby t-shirt, you know. You look ravishing."

Something stirred within Emily. "Thank you. Now you mention it, I'd quite like to be ravished. Ideally right here on the balcony."

It was tiny and momentary, but Tom flinched. Emily's heart sank.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"There's a line between "not being ashamed" and "willing to have sex in public in the middle of Paris"," Tom said.

"Oh, come on," said Emily. She got up and bent over the balcony rail, holding tightly to the cold wrought iron. Nobody on the streets below paid her any mind. "You've introduced me to so many kinks. How about I introduce you to exhibitionism? Or if that doesn't work for you, then there's the thrill of trying not to get caught."

She gave her butt a wiggle, which had the desired effect. Tom got behind her and unbuckled his belt. He lifted up Emily's "t-skirt" and slid his erect cock into her slick vagina.

They fucked slowly. Emily initially restrained her moans in line with Tom's reticence, but she did notice a couple of other hotel guests on their balconies glancing up at her. Some were deliberately avoiding looking, while one older man was watching very intently with a dirty grin on his face. Tom, lacking Emily's advantageous vantage point, was blissfully unaware of how much attention she was attracting.

It was only a couple of minutes before Emily felt Tom ejaculate inside her. She used it as an opportunity to fake an orgasm, letting out a long, loud groan. Some of the passers-by on the ground below glanced up. Emily knew they wouldn't be able to get a good look at her from that far away, but they also would be under no doubt about what they had witnessed.

"Come on, let's finish up back inside," said Tom, tucking himself away and putting his hand on Emily's shoulder.

"You did finish up," said Emily, turning to look at him.

"I did, but you didn't. You're a terrible actress."

Emily blushed. "I... nobody's ever caught me faking before."

"The difference is that those guys have never seen you have a real orgasm."

"Alright, you got me," said Emily. She strutted back in, swaying her hips as she walked. She pulled off the dirty t-shirt and discarded it on the floor again. She sat on the edge of the bed and lay backwards. Tom mounted her. He put one hand on her cheek and kissed her. His lips tasted of chocolate. He began to descend, kissing under her chin, and Emily licked her lips, savouring the lingering taste of the hot chocolate. Oh, how she wanted him. Normally she'd savour the experience of him going down on her, but she was already fired up, and now she just wanted him to stop going down and just get down.

Tom seemed to sense her impatience. He didn't dwell as long as he normally would on the delightful softness of her breasts, or on her smooth stomach, but instead made a beeline for her clitoris, which, on this occasion, Emily was grateful for. He swirled his tongue around her sensitive nub, pressing it flat against her flesh and tasting her. Tom teased the section of her clit that protruded out from the clitoral hood, giving her the most intense pleasure, then he sucked on her like she was a straw in a tall drink. Emily was afraid that she'd start to go numb, but then Tom switched things up, tracing the circumference of her outer labia in a big, slow lick.

"Oh yeah, that's good..." Emily said. She could feel his exhalations as he pleasured her. Her fingers dug into the bedsheets and her face contorted with pleasure. Tom returned his attention to her clitoris, sucking her off while humming "La Marseillaise". Emily was overcome, and this time her orgasmic moan was genuine.

After a few minutes of gentle spooning, Emily got up and showered. She wrapped up in a fashionable trenchcoat with a waist tie that accentuated her figure. Together, they strolled down from their hotel in the 8th arrondissement down in the vague direction of the Jardin du Luxembourg in the 6th. They started out in one of the more beautiful areas of Paris. Tall, elegant blocks of apartments above shops and cafés lined the wide avenues. The two of them headed south-east, crossing the Seine and then walking east across southern Paris.

Spring had truly sprung in the Jardin. They sauntered along the promenades, admiring the buds and blossoms and the birdsong. Emily, who had visited Paris more times than Tom, showed him to the statues of Beethoven, Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Sand. Eventually they found a bench near the Medici fountain, the splashing of water a charming background noise.

"I have a question," said Emily. "You told me to take a week off work, but you only booked us into our hotel for two nights. What's the plan for Sunday night? I'd like to calibrate my expectations."

Tom smiled sheepishly. "Well, there's actually two options for you to choose between. We can get the TGV down to Avignon..."

"Ooh la la, très bien!"

Tom enjoyed this little piece of cod French from Emily. She was, in truth, an excellent French speaker. Tom could get through the first line in a conversation, but would then stumble, unable to respond. He also spoke with an obvious English accent that made most French speakers immediately switch to English for him, something he found mildly frustrating, even though it was well-intentioned and helpful. Emily, contrastingly, was confident and near-fluent. The Parisians viewed Tom as English, but Emily as something like Swiss - foreign, yes, but still native Francophone. Consequently, Emily had something of a natural tendency to showboat, bringing up reflexive verbs and the pluperfect tense while Tom struggled to remember how to conjugate "alle". All this to say that Emily's break-out into simple, stereotypical French, rather than a complex run-on sentence with flawless grammar, was a show of restraint for Tom's benefit. Her considerate gesture did not go over his head.

"I've booked us a nice room in a hotel near the Palais des Papes," Tom said, although what came out of his mouth was closer to "Palais du Papes". "It's a good central location, but we can get our money back if we cancel this evening."

"Don't cancel, I've always wanted to go to Avignon."

"I haven't told you the other option yet."

"It's going to have to be pretty special to displace Avignon for me."

"Prague?"

"OK, I love you. Yeah, that's an upgrade upon Avignon. I'm excited."

Despite Emily's positive reaction, Tom still looked sheepish.

"There's a catch. I booked the hotel in Avignon, but I haven't actually paid anything towards our Prague trip. A mutual friend of ours would be putting us up."

"This mutual friend," said Emily, mildly suspicious, "she wouldn't happen to be a pocket dynamo Domme who has expressed an ongoing interest in doing terrible things to my butt?"

At a fairly early stage in their relationship, Tom had introduced Emily to an old flame, Nina. Like Tom, Nina was dominant in bed, which had left them sexually incompatible. When Tom started seriously dating Emily, he introduced them for a mutually-enjoyable threesome, allowing Emily to experience BDSM with another partner and Tom to have sex with the two women he found most attractive at the same time. Nina, who was bisexual, had taken a real shining to Emily, although the three of them hadn't hooked up since.

"Nina has an apartment in the Old Town," Tom said. "It's a two-bed, so we wouldn't have to share with her if you didn't want to. But Nina's much more committed to the BDSM lifestyle than we are, and I'd quite like to try out some of her equipment."

"I like Nina," said Emily. "I'd also like to be able to sit down on the flight home."

"You might not have to," Tom said. "Nina booked us business class seats."

"Doesn't make much difference on a short-haul flight," Emily said, though she was smiling as she said it. She paused for a moment. "Is it raining?"

It had indeed started to spit, so they went inside a nearby café. Emily ordered for them both, and made the waiter laugh with a joke Tom didn't quite understand. They both had salads - Emily gave Tom her tomatoes in exchange for his rocket.

"Thank you for letting me choose where we go," said Emily. "It means a lot. I know how much you value your sense of control."

"I'd have liked for the whole thing to be a surprise," said Tom, "but I don't think it would have been right to spring Nina on you unannounced."

Emily stroked his leg. "I really appreciate it. Come on, eat up. We'll miss our timeslot at the Louvre."

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They flew from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris to Václav Havel in Prague. Tom hated flying, especially how the changes in pressure caused pain in his sinuses, and when they landed he was feeling under the weather and slightly grouchy.

"De Gaulle doesn't deserve to have an airport named after him," Tom declared confidently as they were waiting for a bus from the airport to the Old Town.

"He did win World War 2," said Emily.

"Yeah, but other than that he was a total shit, wasn't he?"

"I think you're exaggerating, rather unfairly," said Emily. "He was admittedly a bit of a dick towards Britain, but he had a progressive attitude towards the colonies, and he wasn't afraid to go against the pied-noirs."

"OK, fine, I guess he might deserve an airport," said Tom. "But Václav Havel, there's a man who definitely deserves a national airport. Maybe two. We could rename Heathrow in his honour."

"Well... he did release a lot of violent criminals," Emily said.

Tom affected shock. "Emily, I can't believe you're a conservative on criminal justice."

"I'm not! I just prefer histography to hagiography. Real people are complicated."

They got on the bus and validated their tickets. They stood on the bottom deck with their suitcases, crowded in with far too many sweaty tourists. Unlike Paris, Prague was unseasonably balmy, and the bus was stuffy and unpleasant.

Once they'd got into town, they got off the bus and caught Line A on the metro, which was much more comfortable. They got off in the historic Old Town, the first district of Prague and full of buildings from various different architectural styles - Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and even Art Nouveau, all crammed in closely together in an organic way. Emily took in the city's splendour, but noticed that Tom was withdrawn. She put Nina's address into her phone and led Tom, who was carrying their bags, through the bustling streets. They got to Nina's road, and found that the buildings didn't have their numbers on the doors. Nina had sent them a picture of her building, but there were a couple of others that had the same buff sandstone exterior. Emily approached the nearest one and checked the intercom - yes, Flat 1 had Nina's name by it. She pressed the intercom.

"Hello?" Nina said in her clipped voice.

"Hi, Nina, it's Emily and Tom," Emily said.

"Come on up!" Nina said, buzzing them in.

The common area of the building was bare-bones: cracked terracotta tiles on the floor, exposed stone walls, concrete steps, and a wrought-iron bannister. Keen to do her share of the work, Emily tried to carry her suitcase up the stairs, but was clearly struggling, and she didn't object when Tom offered to carry them both from the landing.

Nina opened the door to her flat. She was dressed in jeans and a blue tank top - a far cry from the sharp suits Emily was used to seeing her wear. She gave Emily a big hug. "It's so good to see you both!" Nina said. She broke the hug. "Though I must say, you both look terrible. Rough flight?"

"It wasn't great," Tom said. "No turbulence or anything, I just hate flying. I need a lie down."

"Of course. Come on in. I'll get you some paracetamol and show you your room."

Nina's apartment was much nicer than either the exterior of the building or the common stairwell. They took off their shoes and stood on the soft, thick-piled carpet. Unlike Nina's flat in London, which was sophisticated and minimalist, this flat felt like a home. There were photographs of Nina with other people hung on the walls, alongside eye-catching artwork. Emily was particularly taken by a cubist painting that reminded her of Picasso. That said, the narrow, dark corridor that ran to their right hinted at the flat's communist past.

Nina brought Tom a glass of water and two paracetamol. He put the bags down and swallowed the pills. "Thank you," he said.

"You're sleeping just through here," Nina said. Tom grabbed the bags again and followed Nina down the corridor to the furthest bedroom.

"Ah," Tom said, stepping inside. There was not much room to manouvere. There was a double bed that was surely big enough for him and Emily, but there was precious little space around the bed. The room was packed with erotic furniture: a cage, a sex swing, a medieval rack, and most prominent of all, a St Andrew's Cross.

"I hope you don't mind," Nina said. "The spare room is also the fun room."

Tom had known that Nina was deeper into the BDSM lifestyle than he was, and she'd even told him about some of this equipment, but to have so much of it crammed into such a small space... well. He was too tired to complain. He was vaguely aware that Emily might be overwhelmed by it all, but mostly he just wanted to lie down. He dumped the bags on the floor.

"Thanks, Nina. I'm sorry, I'm not myself right now."

"Don't be sorry. It's not your fault. Get some rest. I'm sure we can handle ourselves without you," Nina said with a wink.

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Emily was admiring the cubist painting in Nina's living room. It was a mess of purple, blue, grey and brown, divided by black lines and curves.

"You like it?" Nina said, walking back into the room.

"I do. I know it's not a Picasso... a Braque maybe?"

"It's Josef Čapek. He was from Prague. All the art I keep here is by local artists. Prints, mostly."

"What's it called?" Emily asked.

"It has a Czech name that I can't remember, but it translates to "Nude Woman". Couldn't you tell?" Nina traced her finger along one of the curved lines and Emily blushed. "Deary me, you are painfully straight, aren't you?" Nina caught herself. "Sorry, Emily, I'm slipping into Domme mode. Usually I can make it through a conversation... anyway. Would you like a drink?""Please," said Emily. "A red wine?"

"If you'd like," said Nina, "but what would you say about some French brandy? Have you ever tried Armagnac?"

"I haven't. Is it strong?"

"Stronger than wine, yes. We'll just have enough to taste. Is that OK?"

Emily nodded. Nina took her through to the main room, a open-plan kitchen-diner-living room with large French windows leading out onto a balcony, and a drinks cabinet set up between the sofas. Nina poured them each a finger. "Cheers."