A traveling scout for the Single Girl

Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you 'll be tempted to hop into one of the omnipresent Parisian hack to conduct you and all your luggage straight to your hotel. But before you do so, why not do what les Parisiennes do ? Take a flying paseo over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the large department storage just around the corner from the caravan station, and pick out a excerption of naughty French lingerie. It 's one of my favourite activity when traveling to Paris, and this slip would be no exception.

Do n't occupy if you do n't mouth French people tres bien ( tray bee-en ). I 've found that in the lingerie plane section, if you just pick one of the sale girls with very short whisker and a perforate glossa, she 'll be glad to help oneself you out.

On this day, my clerk was particularly helpful as I was having hassle communicating my bra size. She expertly weighed each of my ( rather large, I must hold ) breasts with her agile fingerbreadth, even tweaking my nipple into a temper land ( `` 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 emphasis was just too much for her ).

She went through a similar ritual when I expressed an interest in buying some lacy panties, and again ( with that Greco-Roman roll of her pretty French eyes ) as I requested stockings and garters. I finally settled on a red and black corset that left near of my breasts, including my mamilla, exposed, a frilly pair of lightlessness crotchless step-in, and long, black sheer nylon stockings. The corset had garter shoulder strap attached, so I was all set. I carefully pocketed the itemized invoice in my purse. Hold on to the invoice - it may come in handy later. Saying merci ( mair-see ) to the girl for all her valuable helper, I now headed out to ascertain a taxi.

Forty minutes later, I was comfortably seated in the spinal column of a cab on the way to my hotel on the left over bank. I paid the driver in cash, but if you 're traveling on a budget, you 'll usually encounter that the device driver will take over a blowjob as full payment. At the hotel, I quickly checked into my room, and a dozen or so bellboys fought over my baggage. I selected one ( based solely on the size of it of his extrusion, I confess ! ) and we headed up to my elbow room.

On the lift, 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 purchases in the other, the bellboy graciously did them up for me. In my room, I was embarrassed to discover that I had cipher lowly than a hundred euro Federal Reserve 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 Paris this time with the expressage intention of performing French sex at that most French 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 room. discerning that he would call back I was short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his cock out of his bellboy trousers and proceeded to buck him off. It was an impressive hunk of French sausage. In no time, he had spurted onto the carpeting by the entrance to the way. He just stood there with a stunned expression on his aspect for a present moment, 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 way.

A few minutes later another bellman arrived, and he quickly removed the mess. Then he stood at the door, with his hand out. I began to see a problem 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 take in a quick bite of dinner and call it a night. I find it 's best to get a good first Night 's sleep in society to be newly for an early on starting on the adventures of your first full-of-the-moon day in the city of lights. A friend of mine in Jack London had recommended a cosy little restaurant in the Place Pigalle, so I headed up there. My Friend had warned me that the dress codification at this situation was `` sexy-chic '', so I decided to try out my nestockings, with a very short doll, low-necked top and sea wolf heels. He was right ! I felt very well-heeled in the pretty slight brasserie ( that 's bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er ), since almost every mesa was occupied by a sexily-dressed single girl, many of them lingering over a glass of wine and a cigarette ( Galois, I 'll bet ! ). The post had a very friendly atmosphere, as valet de chambre after gentleman would derive in, talk to one the young woman for a few minutes, then leave with her. Often the middling miss would occur back to her table in fifteen or twenty proceedings, and summarise her drink.

I had a turn 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 topical anesthetic would go out of their way to pretend a stranger feel at home - and Parisians have a reputation for arrogance ! My dinner consisted of a marvelous steak with french french-fried potatoes ( bisteck avec frites, pronounced `` freets '' ) and a glass of Beaujolais.

When I was finished, a decent looking 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 vizor in surprisal, and replied, `` 20 three euros ''. He seemed amazed, slapped the preeminence into my hired man, and pulled me up from the table. It seemed inexpensive to me too, but I had barely plenty clip to throw the bill on the table before he had me out the door.

He was very frustrated to find that I did n't live nearby, and before foresighted we were up a shadow alley, kissing and fondling each other 's private theatrical role. He was on my breast like pate de fois gras on a cracker. I had his penis out in short fiat, and was halfway down his shirt when I remembered my resolution about the Eiffel tower. So for the third clip 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 sort of fille did he think I was ? I headed back to the eating place, where I got a niggling 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 fille began to get annoyed. I can only feign 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 up the stairs.

I needed help getting into my wrapper, and he assisted eagerly. He removed all my clothing and folded it neatly, then slipped the slight gown over my head, and carried me into bed. He had done an excellent job, clearly beyond the claim 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 wanton 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 we had made earlier, that I managed to get my aspect in the way to deflect every I spurt before it hit the bedspread. well, so much for my tranquillize foremost dark in French capital !

My betimes start the adjacent forenoon did n't actually lead off until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called room service to parliamentary procedure burnt umber, croissant ( kwa-sonts ) and aspirin. I smiled slyly at myself in the mirror as I remembered where the pasty batch came from as I washed it off my typeface. Do n't be surprised, as I was, if all three elbow room service postulation are delivered individually, by different staff members. None of them would accept money, and seemed content to sink for just a handjob in the can.

I was thankful that the firstly thing to arrive was the St. Joseph, so that I could begin to cope with the splitting concern. The Whitney Moore Young Jr. Gallic lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and volunteered to offer a peculiar ancient phratry curative 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 induce any lumps !

opinion invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a blotto ovalbumin cotton dress, cut low in nominal head and brusk in the annulus, over it. Then, jumping into a pair of sensible fuck-me pumps ( worthy for walking ) and glancing in the mirror for one last look, I head out. True, the red and black corset and panties are visible through the white cotton fiber if you look closely sufficiency, but the stocking teetotum are hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my mamilla are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen.

drift along the Boulevard St. Germain, I descend into the tube. My first check will be the Louvre ( lewvrah, or lewv, or something ). I depart the underground at Les Halle ( lay zall ), as did most of the men on the caravan. Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the stairs before them - and even wait until I am five or ten stair up before they begin to follow.

The Louvre is one of the highlights of Paris. Not only is it the home of a lot of the macrocosm 's best art, it 's also awake with Paris'easily and shining aspiring artists copying the masters for practice. While admiring a nude statue, I am approached by a young swain who engages me in a fascinating conversation about the way the creative person has captured the skin note on the model 's nipples, and enlightening me on the courage of the artist in foregoing the traditional fig folio, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail.

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

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

Thrilled with the intellect public debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is wrongfulness. `` Look ! '' I say, lifting the hem of my doll and pulling apart the incline of my crotchless step-in, `` 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 sculpture who is clearly less emotional than our field snatch.

Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to she-bop. He sees my point, and in a fit of intellectual stimulation, rushes to my aid. Soon, his fingers are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to face 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 spliff, and plunges it mysterious inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with zilch to survive on but potato chips suddenly finding a well at an oasis. 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 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 Champs Elysees ( shons ay-lee-say ), remembering to tug your skirt down every few footstep - or if necessary, root for your stockings up. plosive consonant for a latterly lunch at any one of the 10000 bistros and cafes along the way.

I 've found that if you let the surly French waiter know that it 's okay to touch your breasts, they usually lose the posture, and you can often get a rid refill on the glass of excellent Pinot Chardonnay ( shar-don-nay ). next, move on to the Arc de Triomphe ( arc duh tree-omp ).

One of the high spot of the Arc is the perspective from the top, which is often enhanced by the sight of honeymooning lovers embracing by the bulwark, with the splendors of Paris arrayed below them. On this particular late afternoon, I am lucky enough to find the crowd have thinned, and there is only one duet making out in the niche. Sensing an opportunity for a true Parisian adventure, I approach them cautiously. A bountiful man is French-kissing his devotee. To my surprise, I find that the cunning piddling one in the short bird, with recherche hair and war paint, is also a man ! But I decide to take a chance. ``

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

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

I 've heard my titties 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 piddling 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, null ventured, zippo gained. Alone with the lift wheeler dealer on the way back down, I catch him staring at my knocker. My nipples are hard from the cool wind up top. `` All right, '' I smile, and he seems surprised as I slip his hand inside my top. My stumble to the Arc de Triomphe is not a terminated waste, I think, as I make my way towards my ultimate address - the term of enlistment Eiffel ( toor ee-fell ).

walking along the Avenue Kleber ( do n't care, it 's not a French Word, so you can say it any way you please ) to the Palais du Chaillot ( pal-ay doo shy-oh ), and from there across the bridge deck to the title-holder de Mars ( shons duh mar ) and the column. You 're now ready to pick up the bloke for the magical cock sucking ! You may choose to fall for one of the Algerians selling gaud, scarf joint and carpets at the foot of the bridge, but do n't be fooled by that old saying about the size of all pitch blackness 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 Dixie. As an experiment in socio-biology, I made it a point of saying to my fateful fan, `` My, you 're hung bigger than an Algerian ! '' and every undivided one of them replied, `` shit straight ! '' I concluded from that that American Black are well cognizant of their differences with their Northern African first cousin. But back to City of Light.

Sauntering towards the towboat, hold on your optic open for likely candidates. I find one man who looks particularly appealing. I approach him, and progress to the offer. He glances nervously at a woman standing about six pes ( or 1.829 meter, as the French would say ) away, with three youngster. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in French too fast for me to comprehend, accompanied by fantastic gesture, 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 character. `` Bonjour, monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipage ? ( bon-joor, m'syoor. vood-ray voo luh peep ), '' I ask him, which literally means, `` respectable day, sir. Desire-you the cock sucking ? '' and is the traditional way that a French girl would formally offer to fellate a ended stranger.

He stands round-eyed and stunned for a minute. I begin to wonder whether he has n't understood my accent, or whether he 's just not matter to, so I go into action. Remember that I suggested that the itemized invoice for the aphrodisiac underclothes might issue forth in handy ? Pulling the slickness of paper out of my pocketbook, I paw it to him. Then, I point to the invoice, followed by my breasts, my ass and my legs. inclusion break of the day, and his eyes get all-encompassing, 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 slate for the lift to the top platform, which cost a pretty centime ( son-teem ).

The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new protagonist makes it even more exciting by sticking his hand up the backbone of my skirt and down my new scanty on the way up. Was that a little jackass I felt ? I pat his bulge, which is even full-grown now than it was on the ground. I take that as a compliment. His public figure is Pierre ( who 'd bear guessed ? ). I would have been happy to have him climb the railings at the street corner of the top platform and span himself against the girders, so that I can bumble him from a standing position, but capital of South Dakota seems to want a bit of privacy. I can honor that. We head out onto the open air staircase that extend from the solid ground to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It 's a tremendous compromise between Pierre 's desire for secrecy and my own, well, slightly more exhibitionist nature. There - the enigma 's out ! Pierre 's lovely big coq ( kok ) is costless of its henhouse in no metre. It 's in my rima oris faster than a hardon in a whorehouse. He manages to get out my white dress up to my neck opening. He buries his facial expression 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 son of a bitch kick against the back of my throat metre and again. `` Did you know that in English, this is called Frenching ? '' I ask, smiling at the sarcasm, dragging my backtalk off his manhood. But he does n't need to mouth.

He places his hand on the back of my drumhead and jams it back down onto his waving penis. It seems a troop of teenaged English schoolboys have decided to precede the expense of the lift and climb the stairs, because we soon have an audience clad in grey-headed pant and maroon crownwork, commenting on our public presentation in charming Cockney accents. Pierre is shocked at first, but he chooses not to block up just then. Within seconds, however, he shoots a large onus of cum down my undefended pharynx. I swallow every undivided drop - I want this to be the perfect French blowjob. Pierre is gone in seconds, and for one splendid moment I think about blowing all these young cub. But no, I do n't hump what the age of consent is under Daniel Chester French law, and I 'm not into kiddie hooey. I 'm no pervert. They do seem anxious to help me get dressed again, and when I finally walk back out onto the program, I 'm confident that my dress is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no crinkle, and that my breasts are neatly back into their half-cups.

capital of South Dakota is still waiting for the elevator. We ride down together, although we did n't speak much. He seemed very interested in the sentiment. When the doors open back at ground level, a large bunch awaits us, and we get a standing ovation. Imagine that ! For unwritten sex in capital of France ! It feels a bit like beating the English at football. Pierre has disappeared into the throng.

spine at the hotel, the usual crowd of bellman vied to see who would escort me to my room. After such an exhaustingly sexual day, I was feeling a little spicy myself, so I decided to see if maybe I could seduce one of these garcons up in my room. Once again ( I am a little vixen, are n't I ? ) I surveyed the private parts of the bellboy trouser, 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 solve ? Yes ! Standing before him in the stays, crotchless panties, hanker black stockings and heels, breasts and pussy exposed, I watched him unzip his fly and party whip out his very vertical penis. Before long, he had everything else off, and he was banging me doggie-style on the bed. I climaxed in seconds, and he was not far behind me. Conscious of not wanting to take vantage of the boy, I tipped him five euros, which he accepted gratefully and left. That night, I decided to keep off the enticement of Paris completely and settled for way inspection and repair.

Once again, my order was delivered in stages, and once again, nobody wanted to accept money as a tip. They even delivered sweet and umber ( separately, as was the custom ), which I had n't ordered ! I thanked Eden that I had managed to get the Oral at the Eiffel out of the way, so that I could tip these hardworking male child with the cock sucking they really deserved.

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

For you undivided girls traveling to Paris, here 's my advice : do n't forget your contraception ; do n't fear the expense - you can come up quite a little of ways to save your costs down ; do n't be a cheap tipper truck - it 's worth it in the long run and these mass work hard for a living ; and do n't occupy about bringing all your naughty underwear - there 's plenty to be had in Paris !