Open Cafe

Peter loved Paris. It was the city of love, and even if he had come here alone, even if during his whole two weeks here nothing exciting had happened to him, he still loved the city.

It was so old, so full of culture and history. It had meaning, it had depth. It had things in it Peter's life had never had.

Peter was thirty five years old now. He had failed at his marriage, he had failed at his first four jobs. And he was failing to keep his full head of brown hair. He was pretty sure his eyes were failing too. So, he'd come to Paris once his latest and longest termed job had allowed him to on business. Then he'd tacked on the extra week, getting paid by calling it 'vacation' time.

He hadn't planned on having much happen here. He just liked walking around the open markets. It was spring and the weather was wonderful. The tourists were minimal this time of year, but the city was still at its best, cleaning up after the long, dirty winter.

The museums and galleries were open. The shops and boutiques still had holiday prices. And the cafes!

Peter loved that best of all – the cafes were putting their tiny little one and two person tables out onto the sidewalks again. They all had their own little fenced off areas where their tables sat, checkered coverings flapping in the warm breezes that were invading the city. It was heaven to walk down any busy street and be able to just stop at a café and sit down, order an exotic French roast coffee, and just watch people go by.

Peter didn't care who was going by. Sometimes he noticed the beautiful French women. Sometimes they were obvious American or Canadian or British. But they were all interesting.

Sometimes he noticed the other business men in the city for conventions, trips, or what have you. Peter thought they should envy him his vacation time, and sit down in one of the little wrought iron chairs like he was sitting in. And just watch the world go by.

He picked up the coffee cup infront of him in two hands, smiling dreamily out at the city. It would be evening soon. The streets were emptying out. And the wind was blowing stray newspapers and litter up and down the causeways. The hustle and bustle of the city during the day was giving way to the eroticism of the Parisian night.

It was twilight. Peter's favorite time of day.

That was when she happened to walk by.

She couldn't have been more than twenty, Peter knew. But her breasts were large, and her hips slightly wide, giving her ass a rounded peach shape that flared out deliciously. It was the kind of ass a man dreamt of biting into, if only the juice that burst out beneath his teeth promised to be nectar of the sweetest kind.

She wore a striped shirt, white and red, the stripes running across her tits horizontally and just aggravating what looked like an already intense case of Breastus Giganticus that made Peter whistle. She almost had too much tit, but any man worth his weight knew that there was no such thing.

Anyone who said more than a handful was a waste didn't know what to do with the other parts of his body if his hands got busy.

Her hair was a soft coppery orange, her eyes appeared to be golden brown, and she had a pert nose and cupid bow lips that seemed chubby on her slender face.

Her skirt was white and tight, a suede miniskirt that barely covered her thighs. And judging by the lack of lines across her ass, she was commando – panty-less.

That made Peter sit up and take notice as she walked by his table, then turned to enter the restaurant near him. He was sitting in the restaurant's outdoor café area, virtually alone. So he was probably easy to notice for the girl as she walked by, his head turning to follow her swaying hips.

The high heels she wore forced her to keep her legs tightly closed. And walking like that made her ass wiggle in the most intoxicating manner. Peter's eyes were glued to her, his head turning all the way around as she disappeared into the restaurant.

Then, she came out to where he was sitting. She walked matter-of-factly up to Peter's table and introduced herself in French, an accent he hadn't heard before and thus thought must be out of province, in the outer districts of France.

"My name is Michelin," she said, putting out her hand.

"I am Peter," he answered.

He stood up, shaking her hand, then sat back down.

"Do you mind if I sit here? I see you are sitting alone tonight."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"No, by all means, join me if you like."

They sat down together, and Peter watched as the waiter came by. Michelin ordered a cup of mocha and promptly began to stare Peter down.

"Was there something else you wanted?" he queried.

"Yes, I was wondering if you had found it easy to have sex in Paris?"

Peter was stunned.

What kind of question was that to ask?

And he was flustered.

"I haven't really tried," he confessed, feeling his face flush hotly in embarrassment.

"It is not as easy as you might think," she said to him in a wise voice.

Peter didn't know what to say. Was she some type of hooker, a prostitute bold enough to just plant herself next to any man who looked lonely and desperate?

Did he look desperate??

The woman crossed her legs, one arm resting on the table as the waiter came by. When the uniformed man bent over to put her cup and saucer on the table, she slowly uncrossed her legs, leaving her thighs parted. And on cue, the waiter stepped back and looked right up her skirt.

Then he smiled and winked at Peter and left the two strangers alone.

Non-plussed by the waiter's gesture, Michelin sipped from her steaming cup.

"Is that all you wanted to know?" Peter asked, watching as she set the cup back down onto its plain white saucer.

Her golden eyes stared at him, half lidded.

"Have you had sex lately?" she asked boldly.

Peter gasped, feeling flustered.

"Well no, I haven't, actually."

"Me neither."

"Why are you asking me all these questions?" he finally demanded.

"Because."

"Because why!"

Michelin stared at him for a moment, taking in his flushed red face and exasperated look.

"Because there are things I want to do, and I can only do with you."

Peter was stunned.

Only with him? She didn't even know who he was.

"I have set goals for myself," she continued.

"And I can tell by the look of you, I need you to complete them. Only when you have helped me will I have finished."

Peter shook his head slightly. It was all so baffling. What could this French vixen be talking about?

She calmly sipped from her coffee, seeming to revel in the rich almost chocolate taste. Then she looked at Peter.

He had no idea what to say.

"Have you ever had fellatio while sitting at a table in a restaurant?" she asked.

Peter gulped, shaking his head 'no'. His fingers were tight on the edges of the little round table, knuckles white as he gripped it.

"I've never given fellatio under a table, in a restaurant. As soon as I saw you, sitting here, and almost no one around, I realized now is my chance to finish my goals."

"I'm not going to pay you to – " "Do not insult me, sir. I don't want money. Have you never wanted to do something no one else around you has ever done,

just for the sake of doing it?"

She seemed to almost sneer at him, but her mouth was too pretty to look mean.

Peter had to nod in answer to her question. No one he knew had managed to spend a day, much less two weeks, in gay Paris.

But it was something he'd always wanted to do, and now he could say he had done it.

"Then you should understand why I want to suck your cock beneath this table. Right now."

She was lifting up her side of the table cloth, and hiking her skirt up to her thighs.

"You aren't going to tell me no are you?" she asked, looking at Peter quizzically.

He couldn't breathe, much less speak. His mouth was working, trying to talk, but nothing was coming out.

"Good. When I am underneath the table, be sure to push the table cloth over me. Or we will be seen, and we won't accomplish what we came here to do."

"But I – I didn't -!"

There was nothing else to be said. Young Michelin was under the table now. Quickly Peter flicked at the table cloth, standing up slightly to make sure it was over her side of the table. The red and white checkered cloth hung all the way to the stones of the patio, covering the girl's feet easily. Now he was just sitting alone at his table again, as he had before.

Peter could feel her hands on his ankles as she spread his legs. But he didn't dare look under the table as she pulled the cloth up over his knees, making a small tent for herself that covered his thighs and his lap. Peter rested his chin on his hand, trying to think of anything but what was going on under the table.

The sky had turned a pretty purplish-pink color. And the old gaslight style street lamps were all turning on slowly as the sun disappeared behind the ancient cathedral type buildings of this district.

It was going to be a wonderfully warm and exotic night. Already Peter could smell the special evening smells, meat slow roasted and just now coming to the proper juiciness and tenderness. The sweet smell of too much wine was beckoning pedestrians into several of the casual restaurants and taverns and lounges that lined the street, so there were very few people walking at all.

Peter was grateful for that. It meant less people heard his abrupt squeal as he felt Michelin's fingers enter his opened fly and touch his flaccid member.

"Aren't you excited in the least bit?"

Peter couldn't really answer because it would look like he was talking to a table or an empty chair across from him. He coughed lightly, and suddenly his cock sprang to life in the woman's capable hands.

"Much better," she cooed from under the table.

She was moving her hands against the insides of his thighs now, rubbing his slacks.

"I need you to be excited, Peter, if I'm going to accomplish my mission. I will have to work harder on you, so you can be harder for me."

Then her hand was slipping into his pants again, this time cupping his balls inside his briefs.

Peter groaned.

"Don't be too loud, or you will be asked to leave the café," she cautioned.

With Michelin fondling his heavy balls, Peter coughed to cover up his grunts of pleasure. He tried to scoot forward in his chair, but she was so close between his knees he had no room to move.

"Here is fine. I can touch everything I need to touch. Feel that?"

There was a hot, wet touch on the tip of his now rigid member. Was that her tongue?

"I'm going to lick you now. I hope you like it."

And she began to lap at the head of his cock. Peter could feel precum beginning to ooze in a single drop from the tiny slit on the head of his penis. Michelin's tongue soon found it, and she ran it all over the droplet, smearing it around and around on his sensitive cockhead.

"Mmm, you taste well cared for. I like to taste you," she purred.

Peter had to cough again as his face flushed with excitement.

Now Michelin was putting her mouth around the slit, around the head of his cock. And she was making soft suckling motions, pulling the head in and out of her lips.

She moaned, and he could feel the vibrations of her mouth around his shaft as she pushed her lips further down his thickness. She was openly mouthing him

now, her lips tightly wrapped up and down his shaft. He could feel her every movement, but positioned as he was, he could do nothing that he wanted to do.

Ideally, Peter wanted to reach under the table and grip her on either side of her head, and begin to buck his hips and fuck her sweet, tender mouth.

But he was her prisoner now.

Suddenly the waiter came up.

"Monsieur, where did your lady friend go?"

"Oh, her? Um, she had to leave really quickly. Something about something she had to finish, I guess."

"Monsieur, she left her bill, and her purse here."

"Oh. Oh yes I see that now."

"I should call the authorities at once."

"No!"

Michelin continued to suck Peter's cock, even as he objected loudly to the waiter's suggestion.

"I mean, I can take care of her bill. And she may come back for her purse. No need to call the police just now. Who knows, maybe she just went to freshen up!"

The waiter walked around the table and pushed the chair in, not bothering to look down and see why he only got it half way under the small table. Peter just smiled falsely as the man picked up Michelin's cup and saucer and left him alone.

"Perhaps I need to hurry up, yes?" Michelin queried from under the table.

Peter gulped, agreeing quietly.

"Maybe if you helped me, if you put your hand down here and showed me how you like it, hmm?"

It sounded like a good idea. The sooner he could cum, the sooner he could extricate himself from this situation. Being sucked from underneath a café table hadn't been one of his biggest fantasies. But it sure was turning out to be very exciting. So exciting his cock was too hard to cum very quickly!

Peter put a hand at the base of his cock, looking around at the few people who were walking by. He smiled a fake smile at anyone who made eye contact, his elbow moving slightly.

It probably looks like I'm jerking off, he groaned inwardly.

But Michelin's mouth was on his cock now, and her hand was ontop of his, learning his rhythm.

Then, wonder of all wonders, her hand took over, and she moved his own to her head. His elbow still bobbed but now he closed his eyes, ignoring anyone around him on the streets or in passing cars.

Michelin's mouth was tight, a hot, wet vacuum around his stiffened cock. He tangled his fingers in her coppery hair, so silky in his hand. She groaned at that and he took it as a good sign. Excited even more now, Peter began to pull on Michelin's hair, controlling her movements over his dick.

"Yes," he groaned quietly, dropping his face to pretend he was looking down.

"Just like that. Yes, that feels so good." The girl's mouth was moving up and down incredibly fast now, sucking his throbbing shaft and swollen cock head so hard that he could feel the back of her throat. He pushed up slightly with his hips, rocking in his chair.

"I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum, yes, swallow it all," Peter hissed.

And Michelin did. The French stranger suckled and swallowed the great gobs of cum Peter shot into her mouth, and he could feel her throat muscles working. Her hand on his shaft stroked him as she drank him dry, squeezing every last drop into her tight mouth hole.

Even after he had cum deep down her throat, and released her hair, Michelin stayed with her lips sealed around Peter's cock. He could feel her tongue working over his limp member, cleaning him thoroughly. Then, politely, she put him back into his pants and briefs, and did up the zipper.

She peeked out from under the table cloth on the other side of the table, then pushed the chair out of her way, and sat down. The waiter noticed her returned to the table, and walked over.

"Madame, I thought you had left Monsieur alone. I am glad to see you are returned after all."

"Of course. But I will be leaving now. Where is my bill?"

"No no," Peter objected.

"I can cover her part of the bill. Add it to mine, please."

"Of course, Monsieur," the waiter said, leaving them.

Michelin stood up, fussing with her lips and wiping them with a napkin. Then she smiled at Peter.

"I have accomplished at least one thing I had always wanted to. Thank you, Peter. I hope you have a good evening." And with that, she was gone.

Peter sighed, staring dreamily out into the street, chin in hand.

I've actually gotten fellatio from a real French tart, he smiled sardonically.

Across the street, Michelin was on the phone, calling back home to Quebec, Canada, to her sister in their French village.

"Monique, guess what! I finally did it! I finally gave fellatio to a real Parisian man! And it was good, he tasted so different! Now I can say I've done men from North America and from Europe! Isn't that exciting? I will be coming home now right away!"