A travel guidebook for the single female child

Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you 'll be tempted to hop into one of the omnipresent Parisian taxis to carry you and all your luggage straight to your hotel. But before you do so, why not do what les Parisiennes do ? Take a quick walk over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the large department storehouse just around the corner from the string station, and pick out a option of naughty French intimate apparel. It 's one of my favourite bodily process when traveling to Paris, and this trip-up would be no exception.

Do n't care if you do n't utter French tres bien ( tray bee-en ). I 've found that in the lingerie discussion section, if you just pick one of the sales girls with very brusk hair and a pierced tongue, she 'll be glad to help you out.

On this day, my clerk was particularly helpful as I was having trouble communicating my bra size. She expertly weighed each of my ( rather large, I must hold ) breasts with her agile finger, even tweaking my nipples into a set state ( `` so zat ah weel see what zey look lahk ondair all condee-see-ons '', she explained professionally ), then quite accurately pronounced them 38 Ds ( which is what I thought I had said in the first place, but I guess my stress was just too much for her ).

She went through a similar ritual when I expressed an pastime in buying some lacy panties, and again ( with that classic axial motion of her jolly French eyes ) as I requested stockings and supporter. I finally settled on a red and mordant corset that left most of my white meat, including my nipples, exposed, a frilly pair of blackened crotchless panties, and long, nigrify sheer nylon stockings. The corset had garter straps attached, so I was all set. I carefully pocketed the enumerate invoice in my purse. go for on to the invoice - it may come in handy later. Saying merci ( mair-see ) to the girl for all her valuable help, I now headed out to retrieve a taxi.

Forty bit later, I was comfortably seated in the back of a cab on the way to my hotel on the left bank. I paid the driver in immediate payment, but if you 're traveling on a budget, you 'll usually notice that the driver will take on a blowjob as full payment. At the hotel, I quickly checked into my room, and a dozen or so bellboy fought over my luggage. I selected one ( based solely on the size of his hump, I confess ! ) and we headed up to my way.

On the elevator, he said, `` Is madame aware zat 'er buttons are undone down to ze navvel ? ''

Madame was not, and noticing that I had my purse in one hand, and my leverage in the other, the bellboy graciously did them up for me. In my room, I was embarrassed to come across that I had nothing smaller than a hundred euro greenback - which is much too big a tip even for a garcon who had helped me with my blouse. I thought about offering him a blowjob, but no : I had come to City of Light this time with the express purpose of performing French people sex at that most Gallic of places, the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel column. I was not going to spoil the delicious anticipation of that event before I had even closed the door to my elbow room. Apprehensive that he would recall I was short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his prick out of his bellhop trouser and proceeded to twitch him off. It was an impressive hunk of French sausage. In no time, he had spurted onto the carpet by the ingress to the room. He just stood there with a astonied look on his font for a consequence, and I thought perhaps I had indeed stiffed him. Then he quickly said, `` Ah weel send someone to houseclean zat up, '' and hurried out of the elbow room.

A few minutes later another bellboy arrived, and he quickly removed the mess. Then he stood at the door, with his hired man out. I began to see a problem developing, and led him over to the privy before I gave him his tip.

It was late in the day, so I decided just to own a quick bite of dinner and holler it a night. I find it 's best to get a good first base nighttime 's sleep in parliamentary procedure to be reinvigorated for an early start on the adventure of your first full day in the city of lights. A booster of mine in London had recommended a tea cozy piddling restaurant in the station Pigalle, so I headed up there. My friend had warned me that the dress code at this place was `` sexy-chic '', so I decided to try out my nestockings, with a very short annulus, low-necked top and cause of death cad. He was decent ! I felt very comfortable in the pretty piffling brasserie ( that 's bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er ), since almost every table was occupied by a sexily-dressed single girl, many of them lingering over a chicken feed of wine and a fag ( Evariste Galois, I 'll bet ! ). The stead had a very well-disposed atmosphere, as gentleman after valet would come in, talk of the town to one the fille for a few minutes, then leave with her. Often the moderately missy would come back to her tabular array in fifteen or twenty minute of arc, and resume her swallow.

I had a number of men ask me to go with them too, but as I had n't eaten yet I refused politely. But it was charming to think that these locals would go out of their way to induce a stranger feel at home - and Parisians have a report for haughtiness ! My dinner consisted of a marvelous steak with french nipper ( bisteck avec frites, pronounced `` freets '' ) and a ice of Beaujolais.

When I was finished, a overnice looking valet de chambre came over and struck up a conversation with me. `` C'est combien ? '' Say combee-en ? ) he asked me, which means, `` how a lot ? ''

I glanced at the account in surprise, and replied, `` Twenty three euros ''. He seemed beat, slapped the promissory note into my hand, and pulled me up from the mesa. It seemed inexpensive to me too, but I had barely enough metre to drop off the note on the mesa before he had me out the door.

He was very foiled to incur that I did n't last nearby, and before long we were up a darkness alley, kissing and fondling each former 's private component part. He was on my boob like crown de fois gras on a cracker. I had his penis out in short order, and was halfway down his shirt when I remembered my resolution about the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel Tower. So for the tierce time since arriving in Paris, I jerked a confrere off. He groaned loudly, then sighed and said, `` Alors, what deed ah expect for twonty-sree euros ? '' and left. I thought that was a bit unkind - just what kind of missy did he recall I was ? I headed back to the restaurant, where I got a little tipsy - a lot of men bought me drinks that night and some of the were expensive, as much as ten euros each ! I decided to leave when a few of the other girls began to get nettle. I can only assume I became a short too boisterous. Back at the hotel, I was once again beset upon by the entire bellhop faculty, and since I was in a bit of a state from all the drink, I agreed to let one of them escort me on a higher floor.

I needed help getting into my negligee, and he assisted eagerly. He removed all my clothing and folded it neatly, then slipped the slight gown over my headspring, and carried me into bed. He had done an excellent job, clearly beyond the call of duty. When I tried to offer him five euros, he said, `` Oh, non, Madame ! '' and taking me by the hand, guided it to his fly. The light medulla oblongata went on ( although rather dimly ), and I brought him to climax just as I had his peers. It was only as he was about to cum, and remembered the mess we had made earlier, that I managed to get my human face in the way to block every ace jet before it hit the bedspread. Well, so a great deal for my quiet down first night in City of Light !

My early start the next morning did n't actually start until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called room help to order coffee, croissants ( kwa-sonts ) and aspirin. I smiled slyly at myself in the mirror as I remembered where the sticky mess came from as I washed it off my face. Do n't be surprised, as I was, if all three room Service petition are delivered individually, by unlike staff members. None of them would take on money, and seemed cognitive content to settle for just a handjob in the lav.

I was grateful that the get-go thing to make it was the aspirin, so that I could set about to contend with the splitting worry. The young French lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and volunteered to furnish a special antediluvian menage remediation that he swore was foolproof. I gratefully accepted, and discovered that his terrific massage actually did take my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I do n't have any lumps !

impression invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a pixilated white cotton plant apparel, cut low in front and inadequate in the skirt, over it. Then, jumping into a pair of reasonable fuck-me pump ( worthy for walking ) and glancing in the mirror for one last-place looking, I head out. True, the red and bleak corset and panties are seeable through the snowy cotton if you look closely enough, but the stocking pinnacle are hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my nipples are fairly igniter coloured, so they can barely be seen.

bearing along the avenue St. Germain, I descend into the subway. My first stop will be the fin ( lewvrah, or lewv, or something ). I depart the metro at Les Halles ( lay zall ), as did most of the men on the caravan. Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the step before them - and even wait until I am five or ten gradation up before they begin to follow.

The Louvre is one of the highlights of Paris. Not only is it the home of much of the world 's best art, it 's also live with Paris'practiced and brightest aspiring artists copying the masters for practice. While admiring a nude, I am approached by a young cuss who engages me in a transfix conversation about the way the artist has captured the hide tone on the model 's tit, and enlightening me on the braveness of the artist in foregoing the traditional fig folio, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail.

I 'll never front at a vagina the Saame way again. He tells me he knows of some early full-frontal nudes in a gallery closed to the public, and asks if I 'd like to see them. `` Oh, oui ! ( oh wee ) '' I exclaim, and in seconds we are in a put away way, surrounded by some of the most dainty pussy ever painted. Pointing at one that I thought was brilliant, my new friend declares it amateurish and unrealistic.

'' Zere are too many leetle plica - no wooman 'as zat much peenk ! '' he pontificates.

Thrilled with the intellect debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is wrongfulness. `` Look ! '' I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling apart the sides of my crotchless panties, `` do n't I look just like that ? ''

His answer startles me : `` oh, non ! Yours is - shav-ed, oh la la - but lahk Z one, '' pointing to another nude who is clearly less excited than our subject catch.

Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to jerk off. He sees my compass point, and in a fit of intellect stimulation, Benjamin Rush to my aid. Soon, his digit are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to count a lot like the pussy in the painting.

'' Steel not zere ! '' he declares, casting his critical eye back and Forth between my dripping sex and the masterpiece. He yanks out his French stick, and plunges it deep inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with zip to live on but potato chips suddenly finding a well at an haven. When he spurts inside me ( do n't forget to wear your diaphragm in City of Light ) and pulls out hastily, he gazes again at my vagina and at the one in the house painting. `` Madame, '' he concedes with a bow, `` you are correct. ``

From the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries ( zhar-dan day twee-le-ree ) and onto the champ Elysees ( shons ay-lee-say ), remembering to tug your chick down every few whole step - or if necessary, pull your stockings up. Stop for a recent lunch at any one of the myriad bistros and coffee shop along the way.

I 've found that if you let the surly French people server know that it 's okay to touch your boob, they usually lose the attitude, and you can often get a free refill on the glass of excellent Chardonnay ( shar-don-nay ). future, displace on to the Arc de Triomphe ( arc duh tree-omp ).

One of the highlights of the Arc is the view from the top, which is often enhanced by the sight of honeymooning lovers embracing by the rampart, with the splendors of French capital arrayed below them. On this particular late afternoon, I am lucky enough to find the crowds have thinned, and there is only one couple making out in the recession. Sensing an opportunity for a genuine Parisian adventure, I approach them cautiously. A bighearted man is French-kissing his buff. To my surprise, I find that the cute lilliputian one in the unforesightful chick, with exquisite hair and makeup, is also a man ! But I decide to take a chance. ``

Menage a trois ? ( m'nazh a twa ) '' I ask.

The cutie breaks the kiss and stares at me. He/she reaches out and squelch my allow boob. `` Oy, noice job, myte ! '' he exclaims.

I 've heard my boob called many affair in my day, but `` job '' is not usually one of them. `` Thanks ! '' I reply.

The handsome man stares at me critically, then makes a grab for my genitals. `` Kroist, you 're a sheila ! It 's a shiela ! '' he exclaims in disgust, and the slight one says, `` Kroiky, them boobs is the ryal thing ! '' with an air of appreciation. `` Git lost, ya stiypid cunt '', the real man says, as he plunges his tongue back down the little one 's throat.

Ah well, nothing ventured, zero gained. Alone with the elevator operator on the way back down, I catch him staring at my knocker. My tit are hard from the cool wind up top. `` All rightfulness, '' I smile, and he seems storm as I slip his hand inside my top. My tripper to the Arc de Triomphe is not a complete waste, I think, as I make my way towards my ultimate terminus - the Tour Eiffel ( toor ee-fell ).

walkway along the Avenue Kleber ( do n't concern, it 's not a Daniel Chester French word, so you can articulate it any way you please ) to the Palais du Chaillot ( pal-ay doo shy-oh ), and from there across the bridge to the Champs de March ( shons duh mar ) and the column. You 're now set up to pick up the bloke for the magical blowjob ! You may select to settle for one of the Algerians selling trinkets, scarves and carpets at the fundament of the bridge deck, but do n't be fooled by that old saying about the size of all black men - these are Algerians, not Americans. See my article, `` Travels with Tessa : Going Down in dixie '', where I sample much of the universe of the American south. As an experimentation in socio-biology, I made it a point of saying to my black fan, `` My, you 're pay heed bigger than an Algerian ! '' and every single one of them replied, `` darn straight ! '' I concluded from that that American blacks are well cognizant of their differences with their Northern African cousin-german. But back to genus Paris.

Sauntering towards the tug, keep your eyes open for probable candidates. I find one man who looks particularly appealing. I approach him, and make the crack. He glances nervously at a woman standing about six base ( or 1.829 meter, as the French would say ) away, with three children. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in French too fast for me to comprehend, accompanied by uncivilised motion, but I think it meant that they were busy.

Next I approach a young man whose bulge is obvious through his cut-offs, and who had been eying me rather hungrily, if I 'm any evaluator of human part. `` Bonjour, monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipe ? ( bon-joor, m'syoor. vood-ray voo luh peek ), '' I ask him, which literally means, `` skilful day, sir. Desire-you the blowjob ? '' and is the traditional way that a French girl would formally bid to fellate a gross stranger.

He stands wide and stunned for a here and now. I begin to wonder whether he has n't understood my dialect, or whether he 's just not interested, so I go into military action. Remember that I suggested that the itemize account for the aphrodisiac underwear might do in handy ? Pulling the slip of paper out of my pocketbook, I hand it to him. Then, I point to the invoice, followed by my tit, my ass and my ramification. Comprehension dawning, and his eyes get wider, if that 's potential. I guess the lingerie did the trick, for he agrees, and I lead him to the tower. He graciously offers to by the tickets for the airlift to the top political platform, which cost a pretty cent ( son-teem ).

The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new friend makes it even more exciting by sticking his script up the back of my skirt and down my new panties on the way up. Was that a little goose I felt ? I pat his bulge, which is even giving now than it was on the terra firma. I take that as a compliment. His name is capital of South Dakota ( who 'd have guessed ? ). I would cause been glad to have him climb the railings at the corner of the top political program and bracing himself against the girders, so that I can blow him from a standing posture, but Pierre seems to want a bit of privacy. I can prise that. We head out onto the undefendable staircases that extend from the ground to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It 's a tremendous compromise between Pierre 's desire for privateness and my own, well, slightly more flasher nature. There - the secret 's out ! Pierre 's lovely big coq ( kok ) is free of its coop in no time. It 's in my mouth faster than a hardon in a sporting house. He manages to pull my blanched apparel up to my neck. He buries his face in my `` beeg fawkeen teets '', as he called them, and his fingers in my very tone down `` moof ''. This man is a macho-man ! I blow and I suck and I blow some more.

His pecker blast against the back of my pharynx time and again. `` Did you know that in English, this is called Frenching ? '' I ask, smiling at the sarcasm, dragging my sass off his manhood. But he does n't want to blab out.

He places his hand on the cover of my read/write head and mess it back down onto his waving member. It seems a flock of teenaged English schoolboys have decided to forfeit the expense of the rhytidectomy and climb the steps, because we soon have an hearing clad in gray pant and maroon cap, commenting on our performance in charming cockney speech pattern. capital of South Dakota is shocked at initiative, but he chooses not to barricade just then. Within seconds, however, he shoots a prominent burden of cum down my assailable throat. I swallow every single driblet - I want this to be the perfect French blowjob. Pierre is gone in seconds, and for one resplendent minute I think about blowing all these Pres Young chap. But no, I do n't know what the age of consent is under Gallic law, and I 'm not into kiddie clobber. I 'm no deviate. They do seem unquiet to help me get dressed again, and when I finally walk back out onto the political platform, I 'm confident that my dress is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no wrinkles, and that my white meat are neatly back into their half-cups.

Pierre is still waiting for the lift. We ride down together, although we did n't speak much. He seemed very concern in the view. When the threshold open back at solid ground floor, a magnanimous gang awaits us, and we get a standing standing ovation. Imagine that ! For oral sex in Paris ! It feels a bit like beating the English at football. Pierre has disappeared into the throng.

cover at the hotel, the common gang of bellboys vied to see who would escort me to my room. After such an exhaustingly intimate day, I was feeling a little naughty myself, so I decided to see if maybe I could score one of these garcons up in my elbow room. Once again ( I am a little vixen, are n't I ? ) I surveyed the privates of the bellman trousers, and pick the most impressive one.

rachis in the elbow room, I quickly closed the room access and before he could even ask for his tip, I threw off my apparel. Was this seduction ploy going to work ? Yes ! Standing before him in the girdle, crotchless panties, long mordant stockings and heels, tit and snatch exposed, I watched him unzip his fly and lash out his very erect penis. Before long, he had everything else off, and he was banging me doggie-style on the bed. I climaxed in bit, and he was not far behind me. Conscious of not wanting to charter advantage of the boy, I tipped him five euros, which he accepted gratefully and left. That night, I decided to annul the enticement of genus Paris completely and settled for room service.

Once again, my order was delivered in level, and once again, nobody wanted to go for money as a tip. They even delivered dessert and java ( separately, as was the custom ), which I had n't ordered ! I thanked Heaven that I had managed to get the viva voce at the Eiffel out of the way, so that I could tip these hardworking boy with the blowjobs they really deserved.

The rest of my trip was consumed with sex and sightseeing the way only French capital can tender it - including a wonderful afternoon at the flea securities industry of Sublime Porte de Clignancourt ( just as it 's spelled ).

For you single girls traveling to City of Light, here 's my advice : do n't forget your contraceptive method ; do n't fear the disbursal - you can find plenty of ways to keep your price down ; do n't be a cheap tipper - it 's worth it in the long run and these citizenry work hard for a living ; and do n't worry about bringing all your naughty underclothes - there 's plenty to be had in Paris !