notice me trembling.
He placed his left hand on my thigh to
steady himself and rubbed the pearls against my teeth. I thought I might faint
right there and then.
“You see, fake pearls are smooth. Can you
feel the roughness of them as I rub them against you? No? These are as natural
as fucking and eating.”
And he was right. I could feel the
roughness of their texture and knew I had the real deal.
When that waiter returned with the bill, he
looked twice as handsome as the first time I’d seen him. God, he was hot. And
so was I!
My new friend nonchalantly passed over some
money to the waiter as the two passed some pleasantries that could easily have
been mistaken for birdsong.
“Exquisite.” I was referring to what had
just been. To his hands. To the bulge in his trousers. I don’t think he
guessed.
“For us in France, a pearl necklace can
mean many things,” he said.
“And to us in the States, too,” I told him
and wondered if he felt like giving me a pearl necklace, preferably within the
following half an hour.
From then on, the day was perfect.
As we wandered between the artists on the
square, he grabbed my wrist. Firmly.
Sat me down in front on an easel and asked
the man to sketch. The artist looked old, as if he’d been there since the days
of Toulouse-Lautrec himself. The cigarette stayed at his lips as he talked and
the beret on his head was tilted at such an angle that it looked like it was
trying to escape without being noticed.
As I feigned protest, he reached down to
the neckline of my dress. Undid the top two buttons between my breasts to
reveal a little more that I would normally show in public. I almost wished I’d
worn a bra, but the wine meant I didn’t care as much as I should have.
While the artist sketched with his pastels,
my friend stood and watched. He’d look at me, then the picture and then back at
me. I imagined him undressing me with his eyes, not that there was much
undressing left to be done.
As the pastels brushed the paper, I imagined
my new friend stroking my hair, caressing my neck and letting his fingers snake
down my body until it reached my pussy. The heat I felt down there owed nothing
to the strong sun that was beating down on us from above.
When the old man had finished, he turned
the picture towards me.
I could have fallen off my chair.
I looked stunning. Like I was ten years
younger and ready to start college or something.
The way he’d seen me as was with a pink
flush to my cheeks.
I felt a real flush glow at my face when I
looked down the picture. My dress was hanging open and he’d captured the shape
of my breast and the space beneath like he was Henry Moore. There, just
underneath the orange fabric of my dress, was the crescent moon of the side of
my nipple. I wanted that nipple to be kissed.
The men chatted, their babble like the
music of a stream. The artist seemed to be giving the picture to my friend for
nothing. My friend accepted with a regal grace, bowing his head modestly and
bringing the picture back to me.
The artist moved forward and kissed me on
the left cheek, then the right, and backed away smiling.
“Pour tu,” my friend said.
“Mercie bien,” I replied. Those years of
studying had clearly not been entirely wasted. “He gave that to you, didn’t
he?”
“Yes he did.” It was as if such things were
a regular occurrence the way he took it into his ample stride. “These things
happen.”
“Not to me they don’t.”
“It has something to do with working for
the magazines.”
“You’re famous?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly famous for what?”
He slid his hands into his pockets. I
looked down and them and then at the shapely hill between them.
“Photography. I take photographs.”
Maybe it was the heat or the wine or a
combination of the two, but my mouth spoke before I’d had a chance to think.
“Would you photograph me?”
He smiled and stopped there on the
pavement. A man carrying a
He placed his left hand on my thigh to
steady himself and rubbed the pearls against my teeth. I thought I might faint
right there and then.
“You see, fake pearls are smooth. Can you
feel the roughness of them as I rub them against you? No? These are as natural
as fucking and eating.”
And he was right. I could feel the
roughness of their texture and knew I had the real deal.
When that waiter returned with the bill, he
looked twice as handsome as the first time I’d seen him. God, he was hot. And
so was I!
My new friend nonchalantly passed over some
money to the waiter as the two passed some pleasantries that could easily have
been mistaken for birdsong.
“Exquisite.” I was referring to what had
just been. To his hands. To the bulge in his trousers. I don’t think he
guessed.
“For us in France, a pearl necklace can
mean many things,” he said.
“And to us in the States, too,” I told him
and wondered if he felt like giving me a pearl necklace, preferably within the
following half an hour.
From then on, the day was perfect.
As we wandered between the artists on the
square, he grabbed my wrist. Firmly.
Sat me down in front on an easel and asked
the man to sketch. The artist looked old, as if he’d been there since the days
of Toulouse-Lautrec himself. The cigarette stayed at his lips as he talked and
the beret on his head was tilted at such an angle that it looked like it was
trying to escape without being noticed.
As I feigned protest, he reached down to
the neckline of my dress. Undid the top two buttons between my breasts to
reveal a little more that I would normally show in public. I almost wished I’d
worn a bra, but the wine meant I didn’t care as much as I should have.
While the artist sketched with his pastels,
my friend stood and watched. He’d look at me, then the picture and then back at
me. I imagined him undressing me with his eyes, not that there was much
undressing left to be done.
As the pastels brushed the paper, I imagined
my new friend stroking my hair, caressing my neck and letting his fingers snake
down my body until it reached my pussy. The heat I felt down there owed nothing
to the strong sun that was beating down on us from above.
When the old man had finished, he turned
the picture towards me.
I could have fallen off my chair.
I looked stunning. Like I was ten years
younger and ready to start college or something.
The way he’d seen me as was with a pink
flush to my cheeks.
I felt a real flush glow at my face when I
looked down the picture. My dress was hanging open and he’d captured the shape
of my breast and the space beneath like he was Henry Moore. There, just
underneath the orange fabric of my dress, was the crescent moon of the side of
my nipple. I wanted that nipple to be kissed.
The men chatted, their babble like the
music of a stream. The artist seemed to be giving the picture to my friend for
nothing. My friend accepted with a regal grace, bowing his head modestly and
bringing the picture back to me.
The artist moved forward and kissed me on
the left cheek, then the right, and backed away smiling.
“Pour tu,” my friend said.
“Mercie bien,” I replied. Those years of
studying had clearly not been entirely wasted. “He gave that to you, didn’t
he?”
“Yes he did.” It was as if such things were
a regular occurrence the way he took it into his ample stride. “These things
happen.”
“Not to me they don’t.”
“It has something to do with working for
the magazines.”
“You’re famous?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly famous for what?”
He slid his hands into his pockets. I
looked down and them and then at the shapely hill between them.
“Photography. I take photographs.”
Maybe it was the heat or the wine or a
combination of the two, but my mouth spoke before I’d had a chance to think.
“Would you photograph me?”
He smiled and stopped there on the
pavement. A man carrying a
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