Kinky French Honeymoon

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We leave the cafe and amble aimlessly through the heart of Paris, absorbing the atmosphere of our romance novel fantasies. Lola drags me into every haute couture fashion boutique along the way, trying on this Dior dress and that Chanel pantsuit. Later on, we turn a corner on the Rue de Rivoli and run headlong into the Louvre.

"Oui-oui!" Lola exclaims. "I want to see the Mona Lisa!"

She leads me into a massive royal palace that was converted to an art museum, and drags me right over to Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece.

"Why do you think she's smiling?" I murmur.

"Because Leonardo was making a bold proto-feminist statement. Back then, women weren't allowed to smile in paintings, or at anyone besides their husbands."

"Really?"

"You wouldn't believe how shitty life was for the ladies in 1506. All these spoiled Millennial bitches need to shut up and enjoy la dolce vita."

We fall into awkward silence, hypnotized by Lisa Gheradini's surreal beckoning expression. One of those rare transcendent moments when everything in the world suddenly makes sense. Lola is my dark soulmate, and I need to do everything in my power to keep this magic alive. Much more domination and masochistic pleasure, giving our selfish lives a vague sense of purpose.

We wander through the endless winding corridors of the Louvre, then we spill back out into the streets of Paris. Another glorious sunset frames the Eiffel Tower on the near horizon.

"I'm definitely enjoying la dolce vita with you, mon chéri," Lola beams while clinging to my shoulders in front of a McDonald's.

"Me too. But white guilt is really gnawing at me in this uber-classy town."

"Why don't we go into that big ol' church over there, and expiate some of that guilt?"

"Good idea. I'm in a real medieval mood."

We saunter into Sainte-Chapelle, the second-largest paleo-Gothic building in Paris after Notre Dame. Another towering symbol of old-school Catholic decadence. There's a loud hip-hop music festival going on in the adjacent park, so we have the church all to ourselves.

"Amazing," Lola murmurs as we soak in the gold-plated walls and priceless stained glass windows. The bass-thumping "music" blares right through them and reverberates across the medieval stonework. Rap is my second least favorite genre.

"It reminds me of Notre Dame, before the roof went poof."

"There's a lot more stained glass in this church, and enough gold to choke a camel."

"The lord is my shepherd, and he leadeth me to the jewelry store for mad bling."

We sit down in a pew and gaze about in silent reverie. Our lives have indeed been wasted, but it's never too late to be "born again." I stare blankly at a life-size likeness of Jesus Christ, suffering on a cross for our sins. The ultimate masochist.

A few minutes later, Lola gets that familiar naughty expression in her big green eyes.

"Let's have some fun, Jerry-boy."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

She gets up, drags me into an ornately carved confessional booth, and shuts the door. Sainte-Chapelle has been a non-functional monument with no priests ever since the French Revolution, so there's nobody sitting on the other side of a lattice screen. I know exactly what she brought me here for, and I'm happy to play along. She sits on her knees on the wooden bench, straddling my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck.

"How long since your last confession, mademoiselle?"

"I've never confessed, Father. I'm an unrepentant sinner."

"You better repent, or face the wrath of god."

"God doesn't scare me, and neither do you."

"I'm tired of all these impious entitled brats. I better teach you a lesson."

I reach into her purse and pull out the pair of handcuffs that she carries around for public kink-outs in restrooms, broom closets, and whatnot. We've had fifty of those over the past five years, in Philadelphia, New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo, Rome, Munich and Paris.

"That's right, cuff me up and rough me up. I know you love that shit, Father."

"Shut your dirty fucking mouth."

I cuff her hands nice and tight against her fire crotch. Then I stare her dead in the eye, and she giggles girlishly.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, woman."

"Make me."

I slap her face lightly, and she giggles again. I slap it harder, and she giggles louder, with nobody around to hear it over the loud drum machines and lyrics like: "I thought I killed you hoes before / it must be deja vu."

"I'm gonna do something your daddy should have done a long time ago."

I hoist her up in the air and slam her torso down on my lap, with the handcuffs banging against the medieval oak panels.

"Fuck yeah, spank my tight little ass, Father!"

I pull down her Christian Dior slacks and Simone Perele panties, and spank that heart-shaped derriere over and over.

"Harder, Father!"

The crisp sound of flesh on flesh reverberates in the claustrophobic chamber. The fear of getting caught makes it twice as hot. I dig through her purse and pull out a portable telescoping riding crop.

"Ooh, lookie what I found. You're not just a sinner, you're a kinky fucking sinner."

"That's right, Father. I confess to whipping hundreds of naked men, and dozens of naked women."

"You're a little lamb lost in the woods, Lola. And I'm a good shepherd, getting your naughty ass back in line."

I turn her milky derriere nice and red with the riding crop, and she begs for more.

"No, that's enough. You've learned your lesson, so go in peace."

"Not yet, Father." She gets up and straddles my lap again with a sweet smile. "I want you to fuck me."

My jaw drops open with pleasant shock.

"For real, girl? You finally ready?"

"I'm fucking ready, Jerry-boy. Take me right fucking here."

She stands up, turns around, bends over, and puts her cuffed hands right above the lattice screen. Her wet pussy peeks out irresistibly.

"I need absolution, baby. Nice and hard."

"Thy will be done."

I get up and pound her pussy like the dog she is. A surge of triumph races from head to toe as I void her claim to morality, crashing into her ass cheeks over and over and over. This is my first real fuck in five years, ever since I banged Barbie Bennis against a bookshelf in the remote cavernous depths of the Harvard library. That blonde bimbo law student had nothing on this ginger goddess.

Lola groans awkwardly with each thrust. Her red head bounces back and forth as she stares into the empty chamber on the other side of the screen.

"Fuck yeah. Fuck it like you bought it, boy."

I spank her ass for emphasis, and spank it some more. No way I can make this last.

"Call me Your Holiness, bitch."

"Yes, Your Holiness. I love the way you fornicate. Harder, your Holiness."

I follow her order, breathing louder and louder. It can't possibly get any freakier than this, can it?

"Get ready for my good seed."

"Yes, your Holiness."

She turns around, gets down on her knees, and opens her mouth real wide. The climax is even better than the climb. I have to cover my mouth to keep from screaming to the high rafters of Saint-Chappelle. Covering her tongue with sour cream, and feeling so good I almost faint. She swallows it with a sweet giggle, then brings herself off with purple-painted fingertips.

"Now we can go in peace, you fucking Irish harlot."

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"That was awesome," Lola murmurs dreamily as we traipse through the Second Arrondissement.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd bang anyone in a fucking confessional booth."

"Me neither. You never plan crazy shit like that, it just happens spontaneously."

"How much more shit is gonna spontaneously combust on this French honeymoon?"

"I'm betting on a lot more, baby."

I pause to admire the stone-carved books on the exterior wall of the Bibliotheque Nationale, and Lola gets yet another naughty look in her eyes.

"Seriously, boy. I want to have a menage a trois."

"You . . . do?"

"It's been my biggest fantasy ever since saw Les Valseuses at the Landmark Ritz Five. I simply must cross it off my bucket list."

"Well . . . it does sound crazy-fun, but . . . I dunno."

"Come on, Jerry. Drop that false veil of morality, and seize that envie de vivre."

"Well . . ."

"Remember what you said on our wedding night?"

"Whatever Lola wants--"

"Lola gets."

"All right, all right. I've also been itching to fuck a real Frenchie."

"Let's not waste any time, then. Let's swing on over to the Red Light District, and make it happen."

She drags me northward on the Avenue de Clichy; leaving the classy gaslight section of Paris and heading toward our neon destiny.

(To be continued . . . )