Kinky French Honeymoon Ch. 02

"Good girls, taking every last drop in style."

"Please can you take these clips off now, monsieur?" Brigitte murmurs pathetically.

"Oui, madame. You have learned lesson," I reply smugly, mocking her native accent. "Won't be naughty femme again, oui?"

"Oui, monsieur. I will be good girl."

I remove their clamps slowly and methodically, savoring their loud expressions of painful relief. My dick rises once again to full mast.

"You ladies must be hungry after that kinky workout."

"Hell yeah, I'm starving for some fine French cuisine," Lola beams.

"Me too. Buy us fancy dinner, Mister Greedy Lawyer."

"Let's just order some room service. Tonight's special is Cock a la Mode."

I grab the back of Brigitte's head and shove her mouth right against the tip of my penis. She opens her little mouth wide and takes it right to the back of her throat, gagging right off the bat. She keeps sucking it like hell, twisting her head and neck with each thrust and moaning loudly, sending me quickly toward the edge.

"Slow the fuck down, Frenchie!"

"Yeah, bitch," Lola grunts. "I'm her fucking husband, so let me show you how he likes it."

Lola shoves her piss-soaked body aside and takes her hubby's dick deep into her mouth. She sucks it slower and better. I can't get enough of her fine fellatio. She's been going down on me every single night for the past five years, ever since I met her at a hipster coffee joint near Fair Harvard. My first menage a trois is starting off with a bang; living up to the hype of my wild fantasies.

"Learn from the best, Brigitte. Patience makes perfect."

"Fuck that shit. I want your cum to drink right now!"

Brigitte shoves Lola aside and resumes her manic face-fucking. Her own wild fantasies are pouring out in a tidal wave. I let her go for it, because this probably won't be a one-night stand. I try to hold back my spunk, but it's like trying to hold back a cannonball in the Napoleonic wars.

"I'm gonna cum, Frenchie! Get ready for un putain de visage plein!"

She pulls out, tilts her head back, and opens her mouth wide. Lola does the same, smooshing their pretty faces side-by-side. I have another epic orgasm, but not much comes out, unsuprisingly. Just a few white drops on their chins. Brigitte moans triumphantly and sucks out the dregs. Then she french-kisses Lola with her piss and cum-soaked mouth.

"Piss on her face, Frenchie. Piss all over my fucking wife."

"With pleasure, monsieur."

Lola gives me a dirty look as Brigitte stands up and assumes the position. My wife gets even yellower, and moans even more. I love the feel of that hot tinkle as it trickles around my feet toward the drainpipe.

"Good girl," Brigitte coos. "April in Paris, with golden shower."

"On your fucking knees, both of you!" Lola growls. "I ain't a good girl, and I always punch back."

I drop reluctantly to my knees in the tub, and Brigitte follows suit with a girlish giggle. Lola returns the nasty favor on our faces with a triumphant evil cackle. It feels so good in the best perverted way. The fancy clawfoot tub is literally drenched with urine, and the atmosphere is literally electric. I've never felt so alive in the City of Lights, but the best is surely to come.

We take a non-golden shower together, cleaning off the filth with luxurious Provencal lavender soap and tender loving care. Then we dry off with luxurious Turkish towels and lie naked above a silk comforter on a king-size canopy bed. I gaze up at my naked reflection on a big ceiling mirror, while my American wife and my French lover spoon me like John Lennon on Yoko Ono. I burst out laughing.

"What is so funny, Monsieur Jerry?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Bridge."

"I can believe anything, baby."

I laugh even louder. "All right, brace yourself. Twenty minutes before we went to that sex show tonight, I fucked Lola in a confessional booth at Saint-Chappele."

Brigitte laughs louder. "Saint-Chappele? No fucking way!"

"I role-played a dirty priest, whipping her ass with a riding crop and fucking her six ways from Sunday."

"Oh mon dieu, you guys are so fucking crazy."

"I'm crazy in love with this hot redhead."

"Like a thousand-page novel just begun. I am so jealous."

"There'll be plenty of time to be jealous after we go back to Philadelphia," Lola murmurs while massaging Brigitte's tiny tits. "In the meantime, I want to have so much kinky fun with you."

"Fuck yeah, let's have good long menage a trois. I am on spring break from Sorbonne, but I will study much love with you."

"I second that motion," I proclaim eagerly. "Let's have a ten-day French fuckfest that would make Ernest Hemingway green with envy," I remark.

"Like Garden of Eden, oui-oui," Brigitte beams.

It's getting rather chilly, so Lola pulls the fancy comforter over our bodies. Brigitte turns out the bedside lamp, and we cuddle in pleasant darkness. Far from pitch black, with a bright blue glow filtering around the curtains from the massive metropolis of Paris. A police car speeds by six stories below, with that harsh European siren sound: beeee-doh-beeee-doh-beeee-doh.

It gets colder, literally and figuratively. An alarm clock on the night stand reads ten o'clock on the dot. The Notre Dame bell tower would normally ring a loud spiritual call at this very moment, right outside the window, if it wasn't silenced by an unholy inferno. The taboo thrill of the three-way wears off, leaving me weary as hell. I'm just a greedy American lawyer, on vacation from Greenberg and Goldberg. I've spent most of my life in blind pursuit of material wealth and carnal pleasures, leaving my soul a pathetic shriveled mess. But maybe Brigitte will awaken my half-asleep mind, leading me through many artistic cosmopolitan scenes and setting me on the path toward sophisticated enlightenment. (Or maybe that kind of shit only happens in stupid French indie flicks.)