A traveling pathfinder for the I Girl

Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you 'll be tempted to hop into one of the omnipresent Parisian taxis to have a bun in the oven you and all your luggage straight to your hotel. But before you do so, why not do what les Parisiennes do ? call for a quick walk over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the with child department stores just around the corner from the train place, and pick out a excerption of naughty French lingerie. It 's one of my favourite activities when traveling to City of Light, and this trip would be no exception.

Do n't worry if you do n't speak Daniel Chester French tres bien ( tray bee-en ). I 've found that in the lingerie section, if you just pick one of the sales miss with very shortsighted hair and a pierced tongue, she 'll be glad to facilitate you out.

On this day, my salesclerk was particularly helpful as I was having trouble communicating my bra size. She expertly weighed each of my ( rather large, I must admit ) breasts with her nimble digit, even tweaking my nipples into a treated 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 accent was just too often for her ).

She went through a similar rite when I expressed an interestingness in buying some lacy panty, and again ( with that classic roll of her fairly French middle ) as I requested stockings and garters. I finally settled on a red and mordant corset that left well-nigh of my tit, including my nipples, exposed, a frilly pair of total darkness crotchless step-in, and long, black sheer nylon stockings. The corset had garter straps attached, so I was all set. I carefully pocketed the itemized account in my purse. Hold on to the invoice - it may come in W. C. Handy later. Saying merci ( mair-see ) to the girl for all her valuable avail, I now headed out to find a taxi.

Forty arcminute later, I was comfortably seated in the cover of a cab on the way to my hotel on the exit bank. I paid the driver in hard currency, but if you 're traveling on a budget, you 'll usually find that the device driver will bear a blowjob as full defrayal. At the hotel, I quickly checked into my room, and a 12 or so bellboys fought over my luggage. I selected one ( based solely on the size of his bulge, I confess ! ) and we headed up to my room.

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

Madame was not, and noticing that I had my bag in one manus, and my purchases in the other, the bellboy graciously did them up for me. In my room, I was embarrassed to detect that I had nothing belittled than a c euro note - 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 capital of France this time with the express purpose of performing French sex at that most French of places, the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel pillar. I was not going to botch the delightful prevision of that event before I had even closed the door to my room. discerning that he would guess I was short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his cock out of his bellhop trousers and proceeded to jerk him off. It was an telling lump of French sausage. In no clip, he had spurted onto the carpet by the entrance to the elbow room. He just stood there with a stunned flavour on his font for a moment, and I thought perhaps I had indeed stiffed him. Then he quickly said, `` Ah weel send soul to houseclean zat up, '' and hurried out of the room.

A few minutes later another bellman arrived, and he quickly removed the mess. Then he stood at the door, with his bridge player out. I began to see a trouble developing, and led him over to the toilet before I gave him his tip.

It was late in the day, so I decided just to let a warm bite of dinner and foretell it a night. I find it 's best to get a dependable number 1 Nox 's sleep in purchase order to be fresh for an early startle on the adventures of your first good day in the city of lightness. A friend of mine in John Griffith Chaney had recommended a cosy trivial eatery in the property Pigalle, so I headed up there. My Friend had warned me that the clothes code at this place was `` sexy-chic '', so I decided to try out my nestockings, with a very short skirt, low-cut top and grampus heels. He was right ! I felt very comfy in the jolly minuscule brasserie ( that 's bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er ), since almost every tabular array was occupied by a sexily-dressed individual girl, many of them lingering over a shabu of wine and a cigarette ( Galois, I 'll bet ! ). The stead had a very friendly atmosphere, as gentleman after valet de chambre would come in, talk to one the girls for a few bit, then leave with her. Often the pretty girl would come back to her tabular array in XV or twenty dollar bill minutes, and resume her potable.

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 conceive that these locals would go out of their way to take in a alien feel at home - and Parisians have a reputation for hauteur ! My dinner consisted of a rattling steak with french child ( bisteck avec frites, pronounced `` freets '' ) and a glass of Beaujolais.

When I was finished, a nice looking gentleman's gentleman came over and struck up a conversation with me. `` C'est combien ? '' Say combee-en ? ) he asked me, which means, `` how much ? ''

I glanced at the bill in surprise, and replied, `` twenty dollar bill three euros ''. He seemed amazed, slapped the note into my hired man, and pulled me up from the tabular array. It seemed inexpensive to me too, but I had barely enough clock time to knock off the bank note on the table before he had me out the door.

He was very disappointed to receive that I did n't live nearby, and before farsighted we were up a dark alley, kissing and fondling each other 's private section. He was on my breast like pate de fois gras on a cracker. I had his penis out in scant order, and was halfway down his shirt when I remembered my solution about the Eiffel tugboat. So for the third time since arriving in Paris, I jerked a fellow 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 girlfriend did he opine I was ? I headed back to the restaurant, where I got a fiddling 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 go out when a few of the early girls began to get annoyed. I can only usurp I became a little too boisterous. Back at the hotel, I was once again beset upon by the entire bellboy staff, and since I was in a bit of a state from all the boozing, I agreed to let one of them escort me upstair.

I needed help getting into my negligee, and he assisted eagerly. He removed all my habiliment and folded it neatly, then slipped the tenuous gown over my drumhead, and carried me into bed. He had done an fantabulous job, clearly beyond the call of responsibility. 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 bulb 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 hall we had made earlier, that I managed to get my aspect in the way to block every single spurt before it hit the bedspread. well, so very much for my quiet first night in French capital !

My ahead of time start the succeeding cockcrow did n't actually embark on until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called elbow room military service to order coffee, croissant ( 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 brass. Do n't be surprise, as I was, if all three room service requests are delivered individually, by different staff appendage. None of them would bear money, and seemed mental object to settle for just a handjob in the bathroom.

I was grateful that the first matter to make it was the aspirin, so that I could set about to make out with the splitting headache. The young French people lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and volunteered to provide a exceptional ancient family unit remedy that he swore was foolproof. I gratefully accepted, and discovered that his howling massage actually did take my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I do n't have any oaf !

flavour invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a tight livid cotton frock, cut low in front and short in the bird, over it. Then, jumping into a distich of sensitive fuck-me pumps ( suitable for walking ) and glancing in the mirror for one last-place look, I head out. True, the red and black corset and panties are visible through the white cotton plant if you look closely plenty, but the stocking summit are hidden as long as I tug the bird down and my nipples are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen.

Heading along the Boulevard St. Germain, I descend into the Metro. My first occlusive will be the louver ( lewvrah, or lewv, or something ). I depart the underground at Les Halles ( lay zall ), as did most of the men on the train. Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the steps before them - and even wait until I am five or ten steps up before they begin to espouse.

The Louvre is one of the highlight of Paris. Not only is it the household of much of the world 's best art, it 's also alive with Paris'best and shining aspiring creative person copying the masters for practice. While admiring a nude person, I am approached by a young fellow who engages me in a fascinating conversation about the way the artist has captured the skin tones on the model 's nipples, and enlightening me on the courage of the creative person in foregoing the traditional fig leaf, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail.

I 'll never look at a vagina the Sami way again. He tells me he knows of some early full-frontal nude statue in a heading closed to the public, and asks if I 'd care to see them. `` Oh, oui ! ( oh wee ) '' I exclaim, and in moment we are in a locked way, surrounded by some of the most exquisite cunt ever painted. Pointing at one that I thought was magnificent, my new supporter declares it amateurish and unrealistic.

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

Thrilled with the intellectual debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to establish to him that he is wrongfulness. `` calculate ! '' I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling apart the slope of my crotchless scanty, `` do n't I look just like that ? ''

His result jump me : `` oh, non ! Yours is - shav-ed, oh la la - but lahk zees one, '' pointing to another nude who is clearly less charge up than our national catch.

Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to jack off. He sees my point, and in a fit of intellectual stimulation, charge to my aid. Soon, his finger are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to face a lot like the twat in the picture.

'' brand not zere ! '' he declares, casting his critical eye back and forth between my dripping sex and the masterpiece. He yanks out his French joint, and plunges it mystifying inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with nothing to live on but Solanum tuberosum chips suddenly finding a well at an haven. When he spurts inside me ( do n't forget to wear your diaphragm in Paris ) 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 even off. ``

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

I 've found that if you let the ugly French waiters know that it 's okay to contact your breasts, they usually lose the posture, and you can often get a free refill on the Methedrine of excellent Chardonnay ( shar-don-nay ). side by side, move on to the Arc de Triomphe ( arc duh tree-omp ).

One of the highlighting of the Arc is the perspective from the top, which is often enhanced by the sight of honeymooning buff embracing by the rampart, with the splendor of capital of France arrayed below them. On this particular proposition previous afternoon, I am lucky enough to determine the crowds have thinned, and there is only one twosome making out in the corner. Sensing an opportunity for a true Parisian adventure, I approach them cautiously. A handsome man is French-kissing his lover. To my surprise, I find that the cunning little one in the short skirt, with recherche whisker and make-up, is also a man ! But I decide to claim a luck. ``

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

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

I 've heard my breast called many things 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 crotch. `` Kroist, you 're a sheila ! It 's a shiela ! '' he exclaims in disgust, and the little one says, `` Kroiky, them boobs is the ryal thing ! '' with an air of admiration. `` Git lost, ya stiypid cunt '', the real man says, as he plunges his spit back down the piddling one 's throat.

Ah well, zippo ventured, null gained. Alone with the elevator operator on the way back down, I catch him staring at my breasts. My nipples are voiceless from the cool wind up top. `` All right, '' I smile, and he seems surprised as I slip his bridge player inside my top. My trip to the Arc de Triomphe is not a perfect waste, I think, as I make my way towards my ultimate destination - the Tour Eiffel ( toor ee-fell ).

pass along the Avenue Kleber ( do n't interest, it 's not a Gallic Son, so you can pronounce it any way you please ) to the Palais du Chaillot ( pal-ay doo shy-oh ), and from there across the bridge circuit to the champ de blemish ( shons duh mar ) and the tower. You 're now cook to pick up the bloke for the magical blowjob ! You may choose to ensconce for one of the Algerians selling gaud, scarf and carpets at the foot of the bridge, but do n't be fooled by that old saying about the size of all pitch-black men - these are Algerians, not Americans. See my article, `` change of location with Tessa : Going Down in Dixie '', where I sample much of the population of the American language south. As an experimentation in socio-biology, I made it a point in time of saying to my dark lovers, `` My, you 're fall bigger than an Algerian ! '' and every ace one of them replied, `` Damn straight ! '' I concluded from that that American Shirley Temple are well aware of their differences with their Northern African cousin. But back to Paris.

Sauntering towards the column, go on your eyes open for likely candidates. I find one man who looks particularly attract. I approach him, and make the offering. He glances nervously at a woman standing about six groundwork ( or 1.829 metres, as the Gallic would say ) away, with three tyke. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in French too fast for me to encompass, accompanied by wild motion, but I think it meant that they were busy.

Next I approach a new man whose protuberance is obvious through his cut-offs, and who had been eying me rather hungrily, if I 'm any judge of human character. `` Bonjour, monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipe ? ( bon-joor, m'syoor. vood-ray voo luh cheep ), '' I ask him, which literally means, `` honest day, sir. Desire-you the blowjob ? '' and is the traditional way that a French people young woman would formally offer to fellate a unadulterated stranger.

He stands simple and stunned for a mo. I begin to question whether he has n't understood my idiom, or whether he 's just not concerned, so I go into action. Remember that I suggested that the itemized invoice for the sexy underclothing might come in W. C. Handy ? Pulling the slip of newspaper publisher out of my purse, I manus it to him. Then, I point to the invoice, followed by my breasts, my ass and my legs. comprehension dawns, and his eyes get wider, if that 's possible. I guess the lingerie did the trick, for he agrees, and I lead him to the column. He graciously offers to by the ticket for the lift to the top platform, which cost a pretty centime ( son-teem ).

The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new friend makes it even more exciting by sticking his hand up the back of my skirt and down my new panties on the way up. Was that a little goofball I felt ? I pat his bump, which is even openhanded now than it was on the ground. I take that as a compliment. His gens is Pierre ( who 'd have guessed ? ). I would have been happy to sustain him rise the railings at the corner of the top platform and twosome himself against the girders, so that I can blow out him from a standing positioning, but Pierre seems to want a bit of seclusion. I can honor that. We head out onto the open staircases that extend from the ground to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It 's a wonderful compromise between Pierre 's desire for privateness and my own, well, slightly more exhibitionist nature. There - the secret 's out ! Pierre 's lovely big coq ( kok ) is relieve of its henhouse in no sentence. It 's in my mouth faster than a hardon in a bordello. He manages to pull my whiteness dress up to my neck. He buries his human face in my `` beeg fawkeen teets '', as he called them, and his fingers in my very damp `` moof ''. This man is a stud ! I blow and I suck and I blow some more.

His prick charge against the backbone of my throat prison term and again. `` Did you know that in English language, this is called Frenching ? '' I ask, smiling at the irony, dragging my mouth off his humanity. But he does n't want to speak.

He places his handwriting on the back of my nous and fix it back down onto his waving phallus. It seems a scout group of teenaged English schoolboys have decided to forego the expense of the lift and go up the stairs, because we soon have an audience clad in grizzly trousers and maroon jackets, commenting on our operation in charming cockney accent mark. capital of South Dakota is shocked at first, but he chooses not to lay off just then. Within seconds, however, he shoots a large shipment of cum down my assailable throat. I swallow every single drop - I want this to be the pure French blowjob. capital of South Dakota is gone in seconds, and for one glorious second I think about blowing all these young chap. But no, I do n't cognise what the age of consent is under French law, and I 'm not into kiddie material. I 'm no pervert. They do seem nervous to help me get dressed again, and when I finally walk back out onto the platform, I 'm confident that my dress is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no wrinkles, and that my breasts are neatly back into their half-cups.

Pierre is still waiting for the elevator. We ride down together, although we did n't speak much. He seemed very interest in the view. When the doorway open back at ground level, a expectant bunch awaits us, and we get a standing ovation. Imagine that ! For viva voce sex in City of Light ! It feels a bit like beating the English at football. Pierre has disappeared into the throng.

book binding at the hotel, the common crew of bellhop vied to see who would see me to my way. After such an exhaustingly intimate day, I was feeling a little risque myself, so I decided to see if maybe I could make one of these garcons up in my room. Once again ( I am a petty vixen, are n't I ? ) I surveyed the genital organ of the bellboy pant, and pick the most impressive one.

Back in the way, I quickly closed the door and before he could even ask for his tip, I threw off my dress. Was this seduction ploy going to work ? Yes ! Standing before him in the stays, crotchless panties, prospicient dark stockings and heel, titty and kitty exposed, I watched him unzip his fly and whip 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 irregular, and he was not far behind me. Conscious of not wanting to hold vantage of the boy, I tipped him five euros, which he accepted gratefully and left. That night, I decided to deflect the temptation of Paris completely and settled for room armed service.

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

The quietus of my trip was consumed with sex and sightseeing the way only Paris can propose it - including a wondrous good afternoon at the flea markets of Porte de Clignancourt ( just as it 's spelled ).

For you one girls traveling to genus Paris, here 's my advice : do n't forget your contraception ; do n't venerate the expense - you can find hatful of ways to keep your costs down ; do n't be a chintzy dumper - it 's worth it in the long run and these people work hard for a support ; and do n't worry about bringing all your naughty underclothing - there 's mickle to be had in Paris !