The Paris Trip


One of the big events of the year—at least for those participating—at the high school in New Jersey where I work as an English teacher is the annual trip to Paris for the French Club, which is composed of students who have taken French for two or more years.

The cost of the six-day trip in May after all the student discounts is around $1,000 each, which is usually paid by the parents or by the students with money they earn. In addition to the French teacher, Ms. Manet, usually a couple of parents go along as chaperons and any other teachers who want to—as long as they are willing to pay their own fare. I had always volunteered as a chaperon since I loved Paris, and this was the least expensive way to go.

This year, twelve students would be going, eight girls and four boys. One of the students was Michelle Baker, a beautiful long-haired 18-year-old blond of about five-foot seven who also was the top student in my English class. Ms. Manet happened to mention to her that I had already been to Paris seven times since I once worked as a travel writer, and as a result, Michelle gave up her lunch half hour many days to eat a sandwich in my otherwise empty room and hear about Paris.

I told her about walking around Montmartre, where Van Gogh had lived; I told her about the Latin Quarter; I told her about the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomph; I told her about the Paris Opera House; I told her about the Bateaux Mouche boats on the river Seine. She was enthralled.

"I would love to take you on walks through these places," I said, "But most of the trip is on a tight itinerary."

"We do have one free afternoon," she said, "Could you take me someplace then? Just the two of us."


Since the trip to Paris was scheduled in May—just before the high season—Ms. Manet was able to get a good rate at a little hotel, the Hotel Tour Eiffel, from which you could see the Eiffel Tower from all of the front windows. The girls would stay four to a room, and the boys the same. The chaperons naturally were given the best rooms in front. I have never liked having a roommate, so I paid a little extra to get my own room. When I walked out on the small balcony, I could look right up the street and see the Eiffel Tower.

The students had spent the first day on a bus-driven sightseeing tour of the city. I opted out of that since I already had done plenty of Paris sightseeing. But I did join them in dinner that night at a nearby restaurant, Vielle Paris.

I think everyone was very tired by the time dinner was over, and I was expected them to hit the sack early. Rules had been laid down before we started on what they could and could not do after dark, and basically it was: nothing outside of the hotel until the last night, and even then you had to have a chaperon with you.

So it was around 10 p.m. when I was sitting on the bed in my pajamas reading a book and enjoying a glass of chardonnay from a bottle I had bought at a nearby grocery store—when I heard a knock on my door.

Who the hell could that be?

I got up, walked to the door, and opened it. It was Michelle Baker, clad only in a thin pair of white silk pajamas and barefoot.

"Can I ask you a favor?" she asked, clutching her arms about her.


"Can you see the Eiffel Tower from your room?"

"Yeah, there's a small balcony in front. You can walk out on it, and the Eiffel Tower is right there."

"Can I look at it? Our room doesn't have any view."

"Sure, come on it."

She trotted in quickly.

"You look cold," I said.

"I am. I didn't bring any robe or slippers, just pajamas, and they're thin."

"So I see. The balcony's over here."

She scurried over and opened the French doors. The balcony was about five feet wide and eight feet long, with a small table and two chairs. It looked like an ideal place to have breakfast in the morning or a glass of wine in the evening. She walked out and stood at the railing. By this time at night, the tower was all lighted up, from top to bottom.

"God! It's beautiful!" she said. "I've lived my whole life for this."

I walked out and stood on the balcony behind her. She turned and hugged me. "Thank you. You don't know what this means to me." There were tears in her eyes, but also she was beginning to shiver. I went back into the room and got my jacket off the chair. When I returned to the balcony, she was back facing the tower again. I draped the jacket over her shoulders. She turned to me, and now the tears were running down her face. "This has been the dream of my lifetime. It's like a fantasy come true."

I smiled at her. Then I went to the bathroom, pulled a couple of tissues from the dispenser, and returned to her. "Here," I said. She turned around. I wiped the tears from her eyes. "Blow," I said, and she did, with a laugh, causing the jacket to fall from her shoulders. I picked it up and draped it around her as she turned to the tower again. She was still shivering, so I stood behind her and put my arms around her and the jacket. She snuggled back to me, and I could feel just how thin her pajamas were. Good thing she was oblivious to the growing presence in my pajamas. She clasped her hands over my right hand and after a moment slipped it inside the jacket—and inside the top of her pajamas, which had somehow become unbuttoned. "See how cold I am?" she asked, as she placed my hand over the stiff cold nipple of her breast. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement.

"I'm not supposed to be doing this," I said.

"You're not doing it; I am—and I won't tell."

Well, if that was the case, and if this was Paris, and if she was a beautiful barely-clad girl—which she was—I might as well go for the whole thing, I thought. I'm not going to get a chance like this again. I slowly lowered my hand until I reached the waistband of her pajama bottoms. Then I slipped it under. She was not wearing any panties. I slid my fingers down her belly until I felt the soft silky nest of her public hair. She drew in a sharp breath. "Should I stop?" I asked.

"No," she whispered. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"It's always been a fantasy of mine to be able to make love in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. And since my boyfriend is three thousand miles away—and didn't even want to come—and this chance may never come again, I wondered if you would be willing to do it?"

"Do what?"

She turned, with my hand still inside her pants. "You know what I mean. Make love to me."

"You're putting me on," I said, "This is some kind of a dare."

"No, I'm serious. Would you?"

I thought about it for a moment. If the chance might never come for her again, it certainly would not come for me again. I pulled the my jacket from her shoulders and tossed it inside. Then I pulled the open pajama top from her shoulders and tossed it inside. I got on my knees and pulled her pajama bottoms down to her feet, observing at the same time that she was a real blonde. Then I got to my feet. "Does that answer your question?" I asked.

She clutched her arms around her breasts. "Yes, it does, but I'm freezing!"

I picked her up in my arms, carried her over to the bed, and deposited her on the coverlet. I also had picked up a bottle of Courvosier brandy in the afternoon, which was on the nightstand. I poured a little of it into a glass and handed it to her. "Sip this. It will warm you up."

She did, and her eyes grew watery. "Wow! This is strong."

"As your teacher, I'm not supposed to be giving you liquor," I said, "But since I've already taken off all your clothes, I guess this is okay."

She laughed as she curled up on the bed. "I can see the Eiffel Tower."

"That's what you wanted."

"I also can see there's a hotel or apartment house across the street from us with a lot of lights in the windows. Can they see us?"


"Can we turn off some of the lights then so I can see the tower better?"

I turned off the overhead light but left on the dim nightstand lamps.

"They probably can still see us," she said, "But I don't want to close the drapes: It would block the view."

"Then let them enjoy themselves. There's nothing a Frenchman would like better than seeing a beautiful American teenager having sex."

She laughed. "Needless to say, I've never done anything like this before."

"That makes two of us."

"What should I do?" she asked.

"Well, the first thing we're going to do is to get you well lubricated," I said. "Lie down flat on the bed and spread your legs." She did so. I got between her thighs and lowered my lips to the most delicious piece of fur I had ever seen. Once I slipped my tongue inside of her, I found it did not take much lubrication; she was already wet and slick.

Instead I straddled her body and moved up until the end of my rigid cock was only inches from her face. "Now you can do the same for me," I said, "But since this was supposedly invented by the French, why don't you say hello to Pierre in the room across the street."

She turned and waved to an imaginary presence. "Hi---Bon Jour, Pierre!"

I was beginning to like this more and more. I lowered the head of my cock to her mouth, and she opened it. For awhile, I let her play around with the engorged head, sucking on it. Then I gradually tried to push more of it in. At four inches, she began to choke.

"Sorry," she said apologetically as she took it out.

"That's okay. Just take in as much of it as you can and suck on it. You don't have to worry about me coming in your mouth. I have other plans. And you don't have to worry about birth control. I had a vasectomy ten years ago, so I'm only shooting blanks." She nodded. "I like seeing you try to talk with your mouth full."

When I felt I was about to burst, I took it out and scooted down a little. Then I lifted her narrow hips up about eight inches from the bed so her furry muff was right in line with my cock. "Still want me to do it?" I asked.


"Then wave to Pierre to make sure he's watching."

She turned her head and waved. "Hi Pierre."

I slowly slipped the head of my cock into her tight pocket. When I had it in all the way, so that our pubic hairs were mingling, I began to slowly pump her back and forth. I would have liked to have made it last much longer, but I could not. I exploded inside of her. I don't know if she had an orgasm or not, but she was certainly wet inside. I pulled my dripping cock out of her and scooted up to her face. "Lick it off," I said. And she did.

"Did you ever think of the Eiffel Tower as a phallic symbol?" I asked.

"I do now," she said with a smile.

And she also did for the next four nights.

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