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There are few feelings more suffocating graduating from college, returning home, and facing the prospect of grinding out the years in the middleclass mediocrity of small-town America. Or so I thought. I had dreams to be a writer and to live the life of an artist. Which is to say, I was jobless, and found few sympathies among the residents of Minnetonka, Minnesota, where everyone wanted to know if I’d follow in my fathers’ footsteps as a urologist.
After a few months, I wised up and bought a one-way ticket to Paris. I let a tiny fifth-floor room in the Hotel La Louisiane in the 6th Arrondissement. The hotel sits amid a maze of close streets lined with art galleries and cafés. It was a favorite of Jim Morrison. I had promised myself to take my art seriously, and the hotel seemed perfect, with it’s small, spare rooms. No TV.
I moved like a ghost among the crowds; I wanted to retain my anonymity, and I spent hard hours in writing, but little came of it. It was in the midst of this austere experience, perhaps because of it, that I happened to become involved in the most extraordinary sexual encounter of my life.
I had been in Paris about five months, and Spring was just in evidence as the early daffodils were shooting up in the gardens, and the new green leaves bursting forth on the trees. I was sitting alone in the back of the eleventh-century church of St. Germain de Pres, waiting for the concert to begin, when the two girls sat down next to me. I smiled. They were pretty. French. The music started and I turned away. Beethoven has always moved me, and amid the loneliness of my Parisian existence, the feelings of warmth and old ties that the commanding Ode to Joy called up in my caused me to wipe my eyes with a corner of my sleeve. It was that tear, Bernadette later said, which started it all.
It began with a few words on the way out of the church, a coffee in a nearby café, then more-frequent meetings at night in the Café de la Palette. Bernadette was no sentimentalist; indeed, she was a hard case, wild, flamboyant. She and Anju were in their mid-twenties and had come to Paris recently as an escape from their own small-town existence in the Lorraine, as dedicated to tasting every pleasure Paris had to offer as I was to avoiding them and staying true to my work.
Why those two chose me I cannot know. I became the gravitational force in their wide orbit; I would go to the clubs and watch them dance, stay at the table until dawn switching to coffee when the wine was gone and they switched instead illegal bahis to Kahlua. After several weeks, another young loner named Girarde was looped into our orbit by Anju. A brooding young philosopher with black hair, knit eyebrows and a hunched, thin frame, he was in a sense a French counterpart to my own American version of a young Hemingway in Paris.
The Spring warmed, and Girarde and I struck up an easy, if distant, friendship. The magic of Paris, with a new girl and the world at your footsteps, is intoxicating even for a tightly-wound artist-to-be such as me. Bernadette on my arm, Anju on his, we would sit on the footbridge over the Seine and watch the sun set with a bottle of wine, amid other groups of ex-pats and local French students. I was happy, dangerously happy.
Yes, of course. Bernadette and I began having sex, and she had an avidity which I had never experienced before in my few American girlfriends. Incredible as it may seem, I left her wanting more, because I couldn’t release my promise to dedicate my vital energies to work, and what she wanted was a complete and total immersion into a world of sensuality. I am fairly sure that, during some of this frustration, she dallied with other men. I did not see her every night, and our liaison was a loose one. No commitments, no promises. I often wondered whether she and Anju would return, and yet they always did.
We had intrigued them, Girarde and I, we were a useful counterbalance in their life of the moment, which I sensed was an explosion and rebellion from the confines of their own, prior life.
It was this curious state of affairs, then, that led to this most unique event. The four of us were sitting at a back table, tucked away in Café de la Palette and I was listening intently to Girarde’s explanation of his theory of memory and identity, which had just been published in a small academic journal. We were ignoring the girls, and Bernadette ran her hand across my lap and flopped against me, head on my shoulder.
“Hey, not now,” I said, my train of though interrupted.
She pouted. “Not now. Always not now you say. Not ever! I say.”
“He cannot be as cold as Girarde,” said Anju, smiling at her. “What does a girl have to do to get a little satisfaction?’
“This is the problem with artists… they can hold their pen up, or their penis up, but not both,” said Bernadette in a loud voice, warming to the subject. Girarde and I tried to interject, in our embarrassment, but to no avail. Though I prided my self on my restraint illegal bahis siteleri and discipline, it was altogether embarrassing to have these women proclaiming my frigidity amidst a café where more and more faces had become familiar over the months.
“He cannot be as cold as Max,” said Bernadette, giving me a little elbow in the ribs. “Always it’s: ‘Not in the morning, I have to work,’ and ‘Not again, I need to rest.'” She waiver her hand and called to a buff, ballcap-wearing American who was walking past our table, and said, “Hello? Yes, well, do you think I am a beautiful woman? How about her? If we had sex, would you stop after the first time?”
The young guy, who was somewhat taken aback, chuckled, smiled broadly and in his most he-man voice said, “Maybe he’s gay. Baby, come sit with a real man.”
But this guy wasn’t Bernadette’s goal, I saw, she rebuffed him with, “I’ll let you know when I find a real man. I don’t see any here.” And she turned back and hugged my arm.
“Well, you are wrong. I think I’ve got the bigger challenge in Girarde. The more I want, the less he gives!” said Anju.
“How can we settle this important question of which man is more frigid?” said Bernadette, eyes lighting up. She withdrew and lit a cigarette, and then blew out some smoke.
“Tonight we will each go home and make love madly to our men, and tomorrow we will see who has done it more times!” said Anju.
“Ah, but what if one of us cheats, and does not give the seduction her all?” said Bernadette.
“You are right. You are right. What shall we do?”
Bernadette drew long on her cigarette and stared up at the ceiling of the café for a moment. “Oh,” she said. And she hustled round and crouched near Anju, whispering in her ear. Anju’s eyes lit up. She was nodding and smiling, then whispering back. Bernadette stood up, with a satisfied, impish smile, and sat down again next to me.
“There once were two kings,” said Bernadette, “who were arguing over which had the slowest racehorse. The could not figure out how to have a fair contest, until the wise magician said that each should pick his best jockey, and have that jockey ride the other king’s horse. The first jockey across the finish line would win, proving the other king’s horse was faster, and that his own king’s was, indeed, the slowest.”
I must say that, my fingers were tingling as she said it. And, all of a sudden, I felt something brushing my knees, and then a hand on my lap and I looked and Anju was not in her place. canlı bahis siteleri It was all so sudden and so surprising that I started to stand up, but Bernadette put a hand on my arm and very quickly my zipper came down, and I felt a warm, firm mouth around my swiftly engorging cock.
“Quietly, now. Finish your coffee,” said Bernadette. Anju was clearly visible if someone looked into the shadows, protected only by the light traffic at the back of the café. I could feel the blood coursing into my cock with each heartbeat. With each beat, I could feel it expanding, pushing forward and up, forcing open Anju’s mouth and hand. The pulsing continued, and I stretched further, fuller, longer, into the warmth and wetness below the table. Now I could feel the strain building and flexed my hips and pressed down to force that turgid maximum stretch, and all of a sudden Anju bumped her head on the underside of the table. Girarde, looked at the ceiling, and laughed and said “French women! Bernadette, did you drop something under the table?”
I held the small cup of coffee in my now-trembling hand, as the sensation below the table built rapidly. She had the angle right now, and she was running one strong hand up and down on it as she took it into her mouth. My cock was on fire as she increased the friction, and then increased the pace. It was a sprint from the start, and I started gasping rough deep breaths as the feeling rose and then overflowed. The feeling quickly became overwhelming and I could barely tell one lightening sensation from another.
My breaths came faster and hotter, with open mouth my eyes and head cast downwards over the table, still holding my coffee cup shaking in my hand. I came with a shuddering force, pumping many hard streams of hot cum into her mouth, hidden and hungry beneath the table, and I heard a small mew of surprise from Anju as I did. A wave of warmth flushed my skin, and my face felt hot. I felt as though a series of pins and fasteners had been removed from my spine and neck, and I slumped back into the seat and let out a long breath.
The tension and excitement of the conversation passed, and I was content to sit there, as though my joints were all not loose in their sockets. I felt my cock pressed, hot, against my stomach and zipped into place. It was all over in less than a minute.
Anju sat up, wiped the corner of her mouth, took a large gulp of her wine, and smiled at Bernadette. “I think I am going to win,” she said.
With that we all fell to laughing, me in somewhat of a state of disbelief.
The game was carried out that very night. 24 hours they decided on, to meet back for dinner the following night at La Palette. That night and day would prove to be the most singular erotic experience of my life.
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