Naughty Paris

CHAPTER THREE

Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?

Zzz-zap. Zzz-zing. Bang.

Energy pulsated through me like a thunderbolt, giving me the wildest orgasm I’ve ever had. It started at the center of my vagina, way up inside me. Sizzling like a hot fireball, pulsating, increasing in size until it filled my pussy. Then my clitoris burst into flames, and dazzling fireworks exploded before my eyes. Silver, red, blue.

Hot, hot, hot.

I experienced the most exquisite, soul-melting ride: my whole bod jerking with each jolt, my legs thrashing in midair as I flew through space, an electrical shower falling around me, singeing my skin and making me yell out. I moaned so much, I sounded like I was crying. Long rhythmic shudders traveling up and down my body thrilled me, telling me the peak of my passion, my climax, was near. Then my pussy began a series of spasms, clamping so tightly on—

Hold it. How could all this happen with no penis filling me up? Plunging deep, totally possessing me? My pussy muscles tried to draw him in deeper and deeper.

No go. It was all in my mind.

Or was it?

Paul Borquet.

I swear I saw him through the slits of my eyes, leaning over me. His manly scent ignited my desire for sex all over again, and his arrogance at taking what he wanted set off my emotions in a frustrating state of upheaval. I felt his hands squeezing my breasts, then rubbing his thumb over my rigid nipples, sliding his palm down across my waist and digging his fingers through my pubic hairs. Oh, it was delicious.

Him. Moaning, gasping. His body tense, hot, slick with sweat.

Me. Tingling. Glowy. Trembling, aching for him to touch the soft mound between my legs, push aside my pussy lips, insert a finger—

Then he was gone.

Where?

And where the hell am I?

Isn’t it time we answered that question?

I walk with my arms swinging, bare thighs rubbing together sans panties, feet burning, striding up rue Saint-Merri, looking everywhere at once. I see a few electric lights glowing in the nest of small streets crowded together, mostly gaslights from the grand houses throwing a yellow tone upon the cobblestones and tossing eerie shadows everywhere. An exquisite haze, barely a mist, covers everything like a delicate veil. I see a man standing on the corner, tending to a big copper cauldron. He pulls down his black felt hat, then flips up his coat collar as he rattles the steaming-hot chestnuts roasting in the pan. The nutty fragrance floats across the square and tempts me to stop, ask the questions lingering on my lips. I don’t. I want to see more.

I’m not disappointed. I see horse-drawn carts, wagons, a horse cab, even a lone bicycle at this early hour, the traffic flow following no specific order. The clop-clopping sounds of horses’ hooves fill my ears. You’d think I’d get it, wouldn’t you? But I don’t. Can’t. It’s still too weird.

I keep walking, pulling the red velvet cape closer around me, shutting out the early-morning chill. I love this cape. Lined with a slippery red satin as soft as nude skin, I snuggle within its folds, lapping up its luxuriousness with a greedy hug. Sooo sinfully elegant. Where did it come from?

When I came to after the best orgasm I’ve had in years, the cloak covered me from head to toe, but my clothes, my waist pack with my money and passport, everything had disappeared. A girl needs more than red velvet to find her way back home.

Or back to the hotel. That’s where I’m headed. I intend to go to the police and find out what that old artist did with my stuff.

I’m still groggy and drained from climaxing like I was the star attraction in a ménage à trois, but here’s what happened when I woke up. Darkness invaded the studio except for an electric light with an opaque, fluted shade. One electric light? I questioned, noting someone hung a pink chiffon scarf over it, giving the room a soft glow. That should have been a dead giveaway, but I didn’t let it sink in. I was more fascinated with the wardrobe of costumes I found. Petticoats, stockings, garters, button-up shoes. No underwear. But in my present state of undress, I couldn’t be choosy.

I wiggled into a soft white petticoat with layers and layers of frilly lacy ruffles and pert pink bows, then slipped on a silky apricot-hue dressing gown so thin it was transparent. I let out a girlish giggle when I saw my breasts standing up and not sagging and my hard nipples popping through the silk like I was nineteen again.

Isn’t that what expensive lingerie does for you? Makes you feel sensual and thin?

Or was it something else? Something black magical?

After tying a silver cord around my waist—which seemed smaller—I laced up a pair of tight-fitting pearl-gray leather button shoes with stubby two-inch heels and threw on the gorgeous red velvet cloak. No mirrors, so I couldn’t see how I looked, but everything fit perfectly, as if I’d lost a few pounds. Very strange. I wanted to believe the statue had worked its magic on me, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

My calf muscles pull, legs tighten in the morning chill, and I walk stiffly across the boulevard toward what I hope is the rue Saint-Honoré. Up in the sky the fading moon ignores me, along with the dark clouds trying to blot out its glow. No storm clouds. No thunder, and God help me, no lightning. No rain puddles, either. But it’s cold, much too cold for an early summer dawn breaking over the elegant edifices of the pink-brick and white-stone mansions. A cool breeze plays with the heavy velvet whipping around my ankles, as if it knows I’m pantyless and wants a peek. I pay it no attention. I have to get some answers, and fast.

Why did the Marais studio look so different when I came to? Where was the old artist? How long was I unconscious?

And what about Paul Borquet?

He couldn’t have been real. I only imagined him.

I exhale deep lungfuls of air that puff in front of me like smoke. Yet I’m sweating despite the chill. I hear only my own panting, the swoosh of my long cape hitting the pavement as I plod along the cobblestone streets in two-inch-high button shoes with squared-off toes that wouldn’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. I don’t want to accept the crazy notion skirting through my orgasmic-maxed-out brain. Nothing I’ve seen is real, I tell myself. Can’t be. The reality is I’m lying in a Paris hospital, tubes coming out of my nose, my mouth, everywhere, my mother hovering over me while she flirts with the handsome French doctor who assures her I’ll wake up soon.

Only a bump on the head when she slipped on the floor during an electrical storm, he tells her.

My mother reacts. You said she was nude? And holding on to the erection of an Egyptian statue? My daughter?

Yes, Mother. Your daughter, who’s having the sexiest wet dream of a lifetime and I have no intention of waking up just yet. So, let’s get on with it! I want to see what happens next…

I look to the pavements. A soft sigh escapes from my lips, frustration following, as if my breath catches on a feather and hangs there a moment. I see construction, houses the color of milky limestone going up, streets being widened, as if the city of Paris is getting a facelift.

I can’t put into words my fascination, but I feel it down to the core of female sexuality. As if I’m the city of Paris and my body, my spirit, my fucking sex life, is reawakening and filling me up with so much energy, so much furiosity I feel my body regaining its suppleness, its curves. I’m lethal, baby. A sex pistol.

This sensual feeling takes possession of me and won’t let go. I breathe it in. Suck it in, dammit. Power is a thrill ride. Sexual power is a thrill ride in overdrive. So, power up, because here I go.

I cross the street, the intoxicating floral scent of nature in an aroused state—ask any bee—seducing me. Moisture glistens on the canvas awning of a flower stand. Underneath I see an old woman wearing a tattered black shawl and a long, heavy dark skirt lovingly arrange her roses, lilies and violets. The woman pulls the shawl back from her face and smiles at me. I’m so absorbed in watching her I don’t see the man come up behind me—

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” drawls the young dandy, bumping up against me. Wearing a polished black hat and evening tails, he weaves past me in complete bewilderment of either me or his surroundings. I wrinkle my nose. The strong smell of alcohol lingers in the air. I assume the slender shape of a wine bottle holds more appeal for him than the curves of a woman. The young man dawdles down the boulevard, muttering to himself, when from out of nowhere a ragged creature with a wicker basket strapped to its back shuffles closely behind him.

I turn my head, sniffing. Did the air just get heavier with a foul scent? Unpleasant, as if they haven’t washed in weeks.

Carrying a lantern in one hand and a sharply pointed hook in the other, I watch in amazement as the creature picks several items out of the young man’s coat pocket with its hook then tosses them into the basket.

“Watch out, monsieur!” I yell out, trying to warn the young man, but he’s too tipsy to realize what’s going on and dawdles on his way without looking back.

“Mind your own business, mademoiselle.”

Is it a woman? The voice is gruff, gritty but definitely female.

“I will not,” I shoot back, insulted. “You’re a thief, madame, or worse.”

None of this is real, I keep telling myself, so I edge closer, fascinated by this creature.

“Sassy, ain’t ya, mademoiselle?” Surprised by my boldness, she stands down, shifting her weight under the heavy pack. I judge her to be around forty, but her hunched-over posture makes her appear much older. Swathed in gray-stained rags with an occasional patch of fancy silk plaid showing through her torn muslin petticoats, she has the look of a woman worn out by poverty, but crafty nonetheless. What surprises me are the fine black leather boots on her feet. She notices my stare. She grins with glee. “You like?”

“Where did you steal them?” I ask her, smirking.

“Yesterday these fine boots belonged to a fancy lady on the rue Saint-Honoré.” She raises her skirts with her hook and shows off her boots. “Now they adorn Old Mathilde’s callused feet, ma fille.”

Did she just call me a ho?

“You may be a thief,” I insist, “but I am not a whore!”

“Eh, bien? Really? What else could you be with that red Titian hair, mademoiselle?” I flinch when she reaches out and touches my hair, but I don’t pull away. Something about this woman intrigues me, as if she’s a key player in this melodrama. “I’ve never seen hair this color except on a beautiful demi-mondaine, gentleman’s mistress, decked out in fancy feathers and soft silks and smelling like faded carnations and Rachel Rose powder.”

I make a face. “Don’t ask me what you smell like—”

Before I can stop her, the creature bumps into me, then rips open my long flowing cape, nearly tearing it off me. My bare breasts peek through the silky material of the dressing gown, my nipples brown and pointy, the apricot-hue giving my skin a natural peachy tone.

The woman’s eyes widen. “By all the angels in heaven I’ve never seen anyone, not even a dégrafée, unhooked one, running through the streets of Paris in her underwear.”

I pull my cloak closer around me. “Someone stole my clothes.” I have no intention of explaining further.

Old Mathilde fiddles with her smooth, wooden rosary beads. “I know, mademoiselle. I’ve been watching you.”

“Me? Why?”

When did she hop on for the ride in my orgasmic wet dream?

Stooped over, her wicker basket heavy with the night’s pickings strapped to her back, she sniffs me. “I followed you through the streets from rue Saint-Merri, past the boulevard de Sébastopol to rue Berger.” She chuckles softly. “You have the smell of sex on you, mademoiselle.”

I roll my eyes and wet my lips. “You have no idea.”

She smirks. “Is that artist as good with his cock as they say he is?”

In the early-morning mist, I can see she enjoys toying with my emotions. “Artist? Who?”

“Paul Borquet.”

I grab her by the shoulders, though the smell overpowers me. Think vinegar with dead rats floating in it. “What do you know about Paul Borquet?” My pulse races. “Tell me!”

“You must have a hot cunt, mademoiselle. All wet and juicy and tight. Ripe for a man to slam his hard cock into and shoot his heavy load.” Licking her lips with her wet tongue, she points it at me. The effect is more comical than sexual, but her comment unnerves me.

“I’ve had enough of your tricks,” I yell. “Tell me what you know about Paul Borquet.”

“He’s looking for you, mademoiselle,” she hisses. “And when he finds you, beware! He has an appetite for sex that derives its power from the occult.” She crosses herself. “He’s a master of the Black Arts.”

Creepy chills come over me. I pull my cloak tighter. Black magic? Then the old artist was right about the power of the Egyptian statue. Oh, shit, then that means…

…this isn’t a fantasy?

The old ragpicker says, “He can make any woman his slave.”

“Any woman?”

Even a woman from another time?

“Yes, mademoiselle. Even a woman as young and beautiful as you.”

Young and beautiful? Red Titian hair? Small waist?

Before I have time to contemplate whether or not I really have sold my soul to be young and sexy, I lose my balance when the creature jerks my arm back and grabs at my breasts and squeezes them. Hard.

Something snaps in me. Regaining my balance, I throw a punch at her. She bounces backward but recovers quickly. With a disgusted grunt, she shoves me to the ground. I go down hard, hitting with such force my teeth rattle in my head. Before I can react, she shifts the basket on her back, then takes off, wobbling down the street faster than I would have believed possible. She’s wearing leather boots that fit. I’m not so lucky. The chick who owns the shoes I’m wearing must have only four toes.

I shout at her to stop, but she looks back at me and laughs.

“You won’t get away with this!” I yell, taking off after her. I see the elusive creature weaving down the boulevard, paying no attention to whether or not I’m following her. She knows the streets better than I do, but I can’t lose her. She’s my only link to Paul Borquet.

I kick my stride into high gear, pushing myself to the max. I ignore the Exercise Overload red light flashing in my brain. Anger, like good sex, has a way of making you endure. I’m not even gasping for breath. I see the street thief about twenty feet in front of me. My long legs pumping, arms swinging, red velvet cloak blowing up around my bare legs like a battle flag. I’m no marathon runner, but when I’m desperate I can move out. Fast.

I catch sight of her turning onto a crooked little street so narrow only pedestrians and baby carriages can fit through its open-air portal. Pumped with adrenaline, I rush down the street. Where did she go? Inside a house? No, everything’s shuttered up tight. Where then? The scene in the street looks like something out of an old black-and-white film noir. Plain, multistoried row houses, broken stoops, uneven cobblestones.

I shiver as a misty breeze tickles my bare neck. Sweat oozes down my cheek and settles on my lower lip. Salt mixes with what’s left of my pink lip gloss. I lick off the sweat and wrinkle my nose. The pickpocket has disappeared, but her dirty smell lingers in the air. I race down the street, looking everywhere at once. I’m not sufficiently paranoid to think I’m being led into a trap.

I dart into one doorway, then another, trying to follow her tracks. I bet she’s watching me from her hiding place, laughing at me, waiting for me to give up. I won’t.

Won’t. Get it, you old ragpicker?

Because the street is bending and winding, with crumbling Gothic stonework caving in on either side of me, and because the alley is the only escape route visible to my eye, I surrender to my female impulse. I proceed without caution into what I believe is a small alleyway. Deserted. Quiet. I walk up and down the alley, going a little deeper into the darkness. Any excuse not to go to back to the hotel and face my mother and the French police and end this thrill ride. I don’t want to lose the feel-good vibes surging through me from my fantasy fuck.

I’m having too much fun.

I cock my head to one side, looking for any sign of the old ragpicker. I slow down, painfully aware I’ve lost her. Just when I was getting started. I’m pumped with energy, like I could run all day. I don’t turn back, not even when a cold wind penetrates my red velvet cloak, slicing through me like the steel blade of a knife. My teeth chatter. Dampness inches under my clothes, pricking my skin with tiny bumps. The alley leads me into the back entrance of a large, run-down building.

A curious urge guides my footsteps into the cool vastness of the gigantic wrought-iron framed hall. I crane my neck and look upward. An awesome panoramic view. Dizzying. Breathtaking. It’s as big as an airplane hangar, stretching off to a misty vanishing point. The gigantic umbrellalike building with wrought-iron-and-glass roofing looks old, very old, and goes on for what appears to be miles. I count as many as ten pavilions with iron girders and skylight roofs, as well as large cellars for storage. Then I hear voices. I turn around and see merchants unloading their crates of wares and piling them ten, maybe twelve feet high, between rusty-looking scales and anywhere else they can find room.

At the same time, a steady congestion of traffic of hand carts and vendors passes by me, delivering their produce or selling their trade outside the market to the early morning shoppers. What time is it…5:00, 6:00 a.m.? Knife sharpeners, dog washers, even a fuzzy burro pulling a cart of rush-bottomed chairs with the rush badly broken, passes by me. Retail meat sellers, coffee, soup and milk stall keepers, fruit merchants and oyster sellers hustle and jostle each other for the best position to sell their wares.

I sniff the air. The scents of mint, thyme and tomatoes all mix together under my nose. It’s overpowering. Rough, raw, lusty sights and smells and sounds. Rats running in and out of the vegetable sweepings strewn about on the ground. Prostitutes soliciting from shadowy corridors. Accordion players piping out a melancholy tune. Mountains of pea-green cabbages. Orange pumpkins. Crates of ripe red tomatoes.

Funny-looking goose bumps pop up on my bare arms. Pointy, like needle marks.

Where the hell am I?

The crack of a whip catches my attention. I spin around, alert. I see a man weighing at least 250 pounds with long, dark, curly hair and a big, black beard hurrying up what I assume is his poor wife. The pitiful woman is attached to the cart by a harness and pulling a heavy load of vegetables, her labored breaths making each step painful.

“Hurry up, bitch!” the man screams at the woman, then turning around he snarls at me. “Out of my way, stupid!” The man pushes by me, cursing.

“Watch who you’re calling stupid, you patapouf!”

“You whore!” he yells.

Crack! comes the sound of a whip striking a wooden post near me. Startled, my heart pounding, I can’t move. The impact is so hard the splinters break free and breeze by my cheek, grazing it slightly. Blood trickles down my face and into my mouth, but I don’t taste it. I spin around and see this same ferocious bear of a man coming straight at me, wielding a whip in his hand.

“Arrête! Stop, thief!” he yells, “or I’ll shred the flesh from your bones with my whip.”

“I’m not a thief!” I cry out. The nerve of him. Just because I called him a tub of lard, he calls me a thief. Blood curdles in my veins when I see the man raise his arm and crack his whip in the air like a dragon’s tail. I swallow hard. This time he won’t miss.

I fling myself on the ground and cover my head with my arms, rocking back and forth, ignoring the sting of wooden scraps and sawdust cutting through my cloak. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering. I clasp both hands to my head, striving to understand what’s happening to me. It’s harder to hit a moving target, so I roll into a dark corner away from the man with the whip, then get to my feet.

I bolt through the market, bumping into carts and knocking over crates of vegetables and fruit. I keep going. I have to get out of here. How to escape? The market entrance is blocked by piles of crates stacked up high over my head. I look the other way. Blocked as well. I run faster, experiencing a rush to my brain I don’t understand.

With the wind ruffling the stray wisps of hair escaping from my hood, I keep running until—

“Not so fast, my young thief.”

“Stop calling me a thief!” I spin around as a strong hand grabs me by my red velvet cloak and grips me so tightly I can’t breathe. I hear the crackling of his long cape hitting the ground before the heavy woolen material slaps against the backs of my calves, stinging me. The man’s other arm goes firmly around my waist and he lifts me off the ground as if I were as light as a poupée, a doll.