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First of all a warning!! This is a graphic story of a sexual liaison between two consenting adults. If you are prudish or underage, then read no further. For those of you who enjoy a little erotic entertainment to pass the time, please read on.

My story is based in Paris, the city built around art, food, romance and sex, and it has never failed to disappoint me in any of those categories. This was one such visit. No excuses for it being a marathon tale, it did after all span a whole weekend, and more! So please take time out whether you are reading alone, maybe in bed with your partner, or even reading it out loud to him or her! If you’re not into a lot of dialogue, and that’s what successful relationships are all about, then this is not for you. Once again, out of consideration to the majority of my female friends, the “c” word is not used, although the ancient variant “cunny, derivative.. cunnilingus” being affectionate and more acceptable, does appear where appropriate.

Those of you who have read “24 HOURS” will recall my reference at the beginning to Lisa the air stewardess, the girl who dumped me in favour of an apparently larger appendage? Although Sue is my current partner, Lisa and I remain friends, and since reading “24 Hours” she has suggested that I tell you how we two actually met and our vibrant weekend together. Since it was such a particularly memorable time, and even Sue hasn’t heard all of it, here goes. To protect both the innocent and the less so, some names are changed but the times and locations are spot on; only the sex is expanded a little. Enjoy in your usual way, and do please take time to vote if you have the stamina to get to the end! Thank you.



She was checking out.

I was checking in.

If you search hard enough within the steep southern slopes of La Butte you will discover the small Hotel Cecile tucked away in a leafy square. To Francophiles this is the hill that commands northern Paris and which houses at its top the touristy district of Montmartre; all of which are overpowered by the huge white domed Basilica Sacre Coeur. Conveniently at hand on the lower slopes is the notorious Pigalle district where man may venture astray, at considerable cost, if an accommodating vagina is not available by any other means. Such solution I have never, touch wood, found to be necessary.

The upper floors of this 27 room ivy covered hideaway are blessed with bijou balconies which overlook a myriad of zinc rooftops that make up the central part of the city; the evenly conserved roofline only broken by Mr. Eiffel’s 900 foot pile of scaffolding and the nearby grim office block edifice called Tour Montparnasse. For those of you not brave enough to mingle with the hordes of multinational tourists, the latter has some good points. You will find the view from its huge flat roof just as expansive as the Eiffel Tower, much quieter and vastly cheaper. Also, as I was to discover that weekend, a good place for some private outdoor foreplay, private that is from anyone without binoculars!

As usual for the final week of the Tour de France, Paris was full, bursting at the seams; everyone in Europe it seems wants to see dozens of cyclists hurtle twice down the Champs Elysees in little or no time at all, and then all get drunk. I was in town for a different reason, the architectural practice that wisely employs me at an extravagant wage wanted me to spend a week in their Paris office, interviewing and training new staff, for which there were five applicants, also to update the branch software. There was one potential female recruit who, from her application photo, looked appealing and, always the optimistic one, I was hoping I might get to spend some quality time with her in activities where language is never a barrier! My decision to travel today was in order to get the initial interviews out of the way and enjoy a free weekend in this my favourite city.

It was around noon on this humid rainy day in July and I had, despite my regular patronage of this hostelry, just been presented with the customary detailed check-in form to complete, requesting all my personal particulars except inside leg measurement. Margitte, the attractive blonde receptionist I recognised from previous travels, possessed an inside leg that was definitely worth writing about, especially as most of it was in view where she sat cross-legged in short skirt on the other side of the glass counter. Carelessly dropping the pen on the floor revealed a tantalising view of her colour of the day! My previous attempts to date her had been fruitless, so I concentrated my attention on the conversation being carried out to my immediate left. To the best of my memory it went something like this:

“But it’s only a few hours more,” pleaded the slim red-haired guest in a faint Californian accent, her curls tied back severely into a tight ponytail.

“I am very sorry, but the room is booked.” The manager M. Plonkere (real name!) shrugged his shoulders.

“But you said they are not arriving until 7.00.”

“Mademoiselle, the room has to be cleaned, and the cleaners leave at 4.00.”

“Surely casino oyna you must have another room, for emergencies like this?”

“We are only a small hotel, we don’t have provisions for emergencies as you call it, however…” he shrugged his shoulders and turned to his beloved computer screen, “… I will try our sister hotels to see if they have any rooms, but please don’t expect anything.”

I half studied the girl while I pretended to complete my form, a scandalous idea already forming in my head, she was without doubt the most delightful female I had seen since leaving London, and she wasn’t even French!

With an exaggerated sigh I tore up my form and beckoned Margitte. “Je regret, I have made a mess of my form, can you give me another please?” She sighed in that bored Parisian style and produced two sheets just in case; meanwhile I continued to absorb the distinctly sexy persona of my neighbour. Although out of her traditional red uniform she displayed around her neck a corded badge proclaiming her to be Virgin Atlantic aircrew, and by the name of one Lisa Andrews. I put her at about 26 and 5’3″ tall. I was amazed to learn later she was actually 35.

Drumming her fingers on the counter top she turned to me, frowned and mimicked the manager’s shrug. “Merde!”

“Shit happens,” was all I could come up with, caught in the act of an admiring approval of her slender figure.

“Tell me about it, this fucking city is driving me nuts.”

“That’s unfair, it’s a lovely city… Lisa isn’t it?” I pretended to notice her ID for the first time.

She nodded. “I’ll just be glad to get back to normal that’s all.”

“I didn’t know Virgin flew to France?”

“We don’t, thank God. We put down here yesterday because of that terrorist thing at Gatwick and now all the others are shut down. I was lucky to get a room last night.” She stared at me with a puzzled expression as I looked at her blankly. “Have you been on another planet?”

M. Plonkere was tut-tutting at his computer, making a great show of pretending to be helpful. Absently I noted his oversize feet, perhaps that was where Margitte was getting it.

“When I can, I always take the train in Europe and try to avoid the news when I can. So what’s happened this time?”

“Oh, a silly woman got through security with a nail file or something, and because she is related to some Afghan terrorist, the whole bloody world comes to a halt.”

“I think it’s daft confiscating things like that because you can buy them again in Boots on the other side.”

“Tell me about it; and glass bottles which are even worse. Silly old world isn’t it?”

“So what happens now, with you I mean?”

“We are supposed to be leaving here tonight, all I was wanting was to stay in my room to shower and change. Is that too much to ask in this civilised age?” She sighed heavily and held her arms out talking loudly to no one in particular, then glared at me as if expecting a solution. I had one, but I smiled and shrugged back, my imagination now centred on her showering and changing.

“C’est la vie,” seemed the appropriate response.

By now Little Tommy was hinting that the answer to her problem was standing right next to her. I patted his head inside my pocket, reassuring him that the situation was about to be under control, just leave it to Big Tom!

I completed my questionnaire without further errors and Margitte took it with a relieved smile. “Monsieur Graham, your room won’t be ready for a few minutes, perhaps you would like to wait in the bar?” She indicated the little room immediately behind me, a place very familiar from previous romantic interludes.

Lisa was still waiting for her answer and I caught her glancing at me very thoughtfully, before smiling to herself and looking away. I tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, I’ve just had an idea. If it’s of any help, I wont be needing my room until six at the earliest, I would be quite happy for you to use it in the meantime.”

She looked me briefly up and down in a very stewardess-like way and seemed to conclude that I looked harmless enough, and muttered her thanks. “Do you mind if I wait to see if he comes up with anything first?”

“Of course not, I’ll be over there in the bar. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh thank you, that would be lovely. Just a beer please.”

It was very optimistic of me to believe that anything might come out of this, after all I had interviews to conduct and she was due to leave that evening. But I have always believed in expecting the unexpected, and I was truly not to be disappointed. Little did I know at the time that this sexy stewardess was also secretly beginning to hope the manager would now fail in his search.

Ten minutes and half a biere later she approached my table, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“The key to your suite sir, or should I say our suite?”

“No room at the inn then?” I asked passing Lisa her drink, the brain in my groin twitching slightly in anticipation of the next chapter.

“Why does this bloody place come to a standstill just for a few cyclists?”

Being fond slot oyna of two-wheeled travel myself I guess I failed to show the required amount of sympathy, but she smiled sheepishly, her pretence at annoyance beginning to wear thin.

We clinked glasses. “Cheers. If it weren’t for them I wouldn’t be sharing drinks with the most attractive woman this side of the Seine. The name’s Graham by the way, Tom Graham.” All that was missing was the Walther PPK and the shaken-not-stirred.

“Very corny Tom. Cheers anyway. And what’s with the women on the other side of the river?”

“Give me time, I only just got here!” I explained the reason for my trip, and while I talked I took the opportunity of studying her in more detail.

“See anything you like?” she teased, locking on to my roving eyes

“Am I that obvious? I confess I only look at things that really impress me!” I smiled.

“All men are obvious, and totally transparent.”

“I guess that’s what you like about us then. You can see right through us on to the next one.”

“Exactly. You haven’t answered my question.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I joked.

“Try hard then.” Her lips curled in an impish grin that set my heart fluttering. Her hair was fringed at the front, her eyes a startling Irish green.

“Well, for a start I do like that little sexy hair tie, Rymans rubber band?”

“Sorry, fiver in Accessorize!”

Unfazed by her mockery I continued. “Your eyes remind me of a Caribbean sea.”

“Day or night?”

I grinned, treating fire with fire. “I would have to take you there to test that one out! And in your line of business those soft pink lips will have wanted to be kissed by a million travellers.”

“That’s just in just one year,” she giggled getting into the moment.

I raised the tempo. “You have the body of a nineteen year old and I have no doubt the bikini was invented just for you.”

She pulled her shoulders back accentuating the outline of her firm little breasts.

“Thank you kind sir, I never seem to get the chance to wear one now though, not on the North Atlantic run.”

“Terrible imposition on mankind keeping that all covered up.”

“You certainly now how to make a girl’s day Tom, please don’t stop.”

Encouraged, I grinned and carried on. “And as for those legs, may I just say … wow?” I had earlier digested the outline of her slender calves, her above-knee length skirt concealing most of her stocking-clad thighs. She responded by uncrossing and crossing them again in true Sharon Stone fashion but without the ultimate exposure, the hiss of nylon upon nylon playing havoc with my senses. “And by some fortune should you not leave this evening I would be most honoured if they accompanied me to dinner.”

She smiled coquettishly but answered with a question of her own.

“So what else brings you to Paris, surely it’s not all work?”

“Wine and song.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh? What happened to the women bit? Are you gay?”

I shook my head vigorously. “Definitely not, and to be honest I was hoping I had just solved the women part, or woman rather,” gazing intently into her eyes.

She shook her head slowly, with I discerned a hint of sadness. “No chance, I am flying out tonight… at least so they tell me,” she added, looking at her watch. That reminded me I had a schedule to keep.

“Anyway, joking apart, my room is all yours. I just need to dump my stuff in there and won’t need it until about six. Does that work for you?”

She nodded and we chatted about nothing in particular while we polished off our beers, then set off together to the tiny elevator. I pressed the 5th floor button, she pressed the 2nd. “Shall I bring my stuff up then? I need about ten minutes to get my bits together.”

“No rush, I need to unpack a few things myself, it’s room 512 by the way.”

“I know,” she laughed, “I saw the key, remember?”

I had barely unpacked and hung up the items that needed to decrease and was outside leaning on the balcony rail when there was a tap at the door.

“It’s open,” I called.

“Bloody hell! How did you get this room?”

“I’m a regular here and know which one to ask for.”

“It’s much smaller than mine though.”

“Doesn’t bother me, it’s the price you pay for getting a view.” I offered my hand. “Come take a look.”

I held her arm as she clambered over the high door sill, her shoulder pressing against mine as we squeezed together outside in the tiny space. Accompanying the warmth of her trim body was the heady smell of Opium that hadn’t been present before. I was beginning to wish I didn’t have to leave her here. Enjoying the temporary halt in the rain we admired the view together; I pointed out the twin towers of the Notre Dame, off to the right the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the mist, and further round to the west the modern commercial towers of La Defense. Immediately below us an old lady opened a window in her tiny rooftop apartment, glanced up and waved, grinning toothlessly at us, assuming we were lovers.

“God, her flat looks so small. I couldn’t live in there.”

“Everything canlı casino siteleri is small in Paris,” I explained, “except beds and boobs.” Glancing at her small chest I immediately regretted the comment but she decently refrained from remarking on my blunder.

“I have noticed” she grinned, glancing back into the room.

“The French do have their priorities you know!”

“Pretty sensible ones I guess.” She stared intently into my eyes as if expecting a comment.

It started to rain again so we clambered back into the room. I noticed that she leaned against me a little more than necessary as we squeezed through the narrow doorway. I had a sudden vision of throwing her on the bed, ripping aside her panties and having my wicked way with her, followed by a strange feeling she might not have objected either. She told me later that she had picked up my thoughts and would have resisted, but only a little!

“Thank you so much for the room Tom, I wouldn’t have been so bothered if it hadn’t been pissing down.”

I handed her the key suggesting she leave it at the desk when she goes, and as an afterthought produced my card. “Just in case you are stranded in Paris again, or anywhere for that matter.”

As I left with my briefcase I received an unexpected kiss on the lips, more than the perfunctory peck but not long enough to suggest anything more. However, a body-to-body hug at that moment would have proved embarrassing!

She glanced at my card. “Well, if you are ever there I could use you in Washington, those rooms are even harder to obtain!”

“I’ll remember that,” I laughed.

She was still peering at the card. “Your name Tomasino, is that Italian?”

“Yep, my mum was from Turin, my dad an Essex man.”

“I like Italian men,” she grinned as she closed the door on me. Leaving a desirable woman behind in a hotel room while I went off to work and knowing she would be gone by return, was not a rare experience for me, but under normal circumstances there would have been a considerable quantity of sex prior to my departure, so this situation felt quite strange. All the way to the office I seriously considered postponing the interviews because I had felt there was a strong spark between us. But then I did have two female candidates to consider!


My interviews in the Marais district were to be with two females and three males, and one of the latter didn’t show up. The position was for architectural assistant with some knowledge of AutoCAD, the computer drawing system used by designers worldwide. Technical ability aside, personal attitude was also important because the appointee would be meeting with clients in their own places of work or home. Each applicant would be invited to dinner with me in the coming week to test their social skills, if of course they passed the first interview.

As they filed into my office one after the other my mind still dwelled upon Lisa, wondering what she was up to in my room. Was she asleep in my bed, leaving her aroma on the pillow for me to savour in the night? Or maybe standing naked in the little shower cubicle soaping those petite breasts? I could just picture her tweaking her perky nipples with foamy fingers, the other hand washing thoroughly between her thighs. Little T supported a much stronger fantasy, that she might just be enjoying one of the erotic movies I had contributed to in my booking. And, unlike UK hotels, these are extremely hardcore. With those thoughts breaking my concentration most of the interviews were conducted in a pretty horny state, and increased to full arousal when the third applicant Marie-Claire blew into the room. From the start she made it quite clear she was determined to get the job and non-too tactfully hinted in a delightfully accentuated English that she was prepared to go to any length to get it; hopefully my length I thought! For the first time in an hour I stopped thinking about a certain red-haired stewardess.

Marie-Claire had all the qualifications required, so I felt fairly confident about dismissing two of the remaining applicants. Marc the remaining male was heavily into IT, so I invited him to dinner on Monday, and Marie-Claire the following evening. She was 22, tall and skinny to the point of being thin, but exuded that extreme sexual confidence peculiar to most French women. With long black hair, dark Parisian eyes and violent red lips, her tight dress revealed the roundest of asses but very little in the way of breasts. So far it didn’t look like being a tit week for me, and in Paris of all places! But her aura cried out ‘fuck me.’ I looked forward to obliging her. Tuesday. Little did I know at the time that I was the one who would get fucked!


Hotel Cecile is only a short walk up the steep hill from the art-deco station of Abbesses, but I stopped for a customary beer at a popular little bar half way up. Having been aroused by two females in a short space of time I was really not looking forward to spending the night alone. From Waterloo I had made some tentative phone calls to past encounters in the hope that my large Parisian bed would be put to some active use this coming week, but all were in vain, although Vanessa, an ex student friend had texted me back to say that next Saturday would work for her if I was still here. I took a rain check on that, my return ticket was for Friday.

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