A Travel Guide for the I Girl

Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you 'll be tempted to hop into one of the ubiquitous 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 ? lead a quick walk over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the boastfully department stores just around the box from the train post, and pick out a choice of juicy French lingerie. It 's one of my favourite bodily process when traveling to French capital, and this trip would be no exception.

Do n't interest if you do n't speak French tres bien ( tray bee-en ). I 've found that in the lingerie section, if you just plunk one of the sales girlfriend with very unawares hair and a pierced glossa, she 'll be glad to help you out.

On this day, my clerk was particularly helpful as I was having bother communicating my bra size. She expertly weighed each of my ( rather large, I must admit ) breasts with her agile fingers, even tweaking my nipples into a temper 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 low gear situation, but I guess my dialect 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 Graeco-Roman ringlet of her somewhat Daniel Chester French oculus ) as I requested stockings and garters. I finally settled on a red and black girdle that left most of my boob, including my nipples, exposed, a frilly pair of black crotchless pantie, and long, nigrify sheer nylon stockings. The stays had garter straps attached, so I was all set. I carefully pocketed the itemized invoice in my purse. confine on to the account - it may number in ready to hand later. Saying merci ( mair-see ) to the miss for all her valuable assist, I now headed out to obtain a taxi.

forty arcminute later, I was comfortably seated in the back of a cab on the way to my hotel on the left cant. I paid the driver in cash, but if you 're traveling on a budget, you 'll usually rule that the driver will swallow a cock sucking 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 protrusion, I confess ! ) and we headed up to my room.

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

Madame was not, and noticing that I had my purse in one script, and my purchase in the other, the bellboy graciously did them up for me. In my room, I was embarrassed to discover that I had nothing humble 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 cock sucking, but no : I had come to Paris this time with the express mail purpose of performing Gallic sex at that most French of property, the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel tug. I was not going to spoil the delicious prevision of that event before I had even closed the door to my elbow room. worried that he would recall I was short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his cock out of his bellman trousers and proceeded to buck him off. It was an telling hunk of French sausage balloon. In no time, he had spurted onto the carpet by the entrance to the room. He just stood there with a stunned facial expression on his human face for a moment, and I thought perhaps I had indeed stiffed him. Then he quickly said, `` Ah weel send somebody to pick zat up, '' and hurried out of the room.

A few minutes later another bellhop arrived, and he quickly removed the tidy sum. Then he stood at the door, with his hired hand out. I began to see a problem development, and led him over to the toilet before I gave him his tip.

It was late in the day, so I decided just to stimulate a quick bite of dinner and visit it a night. I find it 's best to get a good foremost Night 's quietus in order to be fresh for an former start on the adventures of your first replete day in the city of lights. A friend of mine in Greater London had recommended a cosy little eatery in the property 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 curtly annulus, low-cut top and killer blackguard. He was right ! I felt very well-heeled in the pretty picayune brasserie ( that 's bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er ), since almost every table was occupied by a sexily-dressed one girl, many of them lingering over a Methedrine of vino and a cigarette ( Evariste Galois, I 'll bet ! ). The piazza had a very well-disposed atmosphere, as gentleman after gentleman would come in, talk to one the missy for a few minutes, then leave with her. Often the pretty girl would come back to her tabular array in fifteen or twenty minutes, and resume her swallow.

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 make a stranger look at home - and Parisians have a report for arrogance ! My dinner consisted of a wonderful steak with French people youngster ( bisteck avec frites, pronounced `` freets '' ) and a glass of Beaujolais.

When I was finished, a skillful 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 bill in surprise, and replied, `` 20 three euros ''. He seemed astonished, slapped the note into my hand, and pulled me up from the table. It seemed cheap to me too, but I had barely enough fourth dimension to drop the musical note on the tabular array before he had me out the door.

He was very disappointed to find that I did n't live nearby, and before farsighted we were up a dark alley, kissing and fondling each other 's private parts. He was on my bosom like pate de fois gras on a cracker. I had his penis out in short order, and was halfway down his shirt when I remembered my solvent about the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel column. So for the third fourth dimension since arriving in City of Light, I jerked a bloke 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 young woman did he opine I was ? I headed back to the eating place, where I got a little tipsy - a lot of men bought me drinks that night and some of the were expensive, as a good deal as ten euros each ! I decided to leave when a few of the other fille began to get annoyed. I can only assume I became a niggling too rumbustious. Back at the hotel, I was once again beset upon by the full bellboy staff, and since I was in a bit of a state from all the drinkable, I agreed to let one of them see me upstairs.

I needed assistance getting into my negligee, and he assisted eagerly. He removed all my clothing and folded it neatly, then slipped the flimsy robe over my head, and carried me into bed. He had done an excellent job, clearly beyond the call of obligation. When I tried to pop the question him five euros, he said, `` Oh, non, Madame ! '' and taking me by the hand, guided it to his fly. The igniter bulb went on ( although rather dimly ), and I brought him to culminate 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 font in the way to obturate every single spirt before it hit the bedspread. well, so much for my quiet low gear night in French capital !

My early start the side by side dawn did n't actually set out until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called room service to order coffee, croissants ( kwa-sonts ) and aspirin. I smiled slyly at myself in the mirror as I remembered where the viscous deal came from as I washed it off my face. Do n't be storm, as I was, if all three room service of process asking are delivered individually, by dissimilar staff members. None of them would swallow money, and seemed depicted object to settle for just a handjob in the bathroom.

I was grateful that the first thing to arrive was the aspirin, so that I could lead off to cope with the splitting head ache. The Loretta Young French lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and volunteered to ply a peculiar ancient menage remedy that he swore was goofproof. I gratefully accepted, and discovered that his wonderful massage actually did take my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I do n't have any goon !

Feeling invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a tight blanched cotton wearing apparel, cut low in front and unretentive in the annulus, over it. Then, jumping into a couplet of sensible fuck-me pumps ( desirable for walking ) and glancing in the mirror for one last look, I head out. True, the red and black corset and pantie are visible through the ashen cotton if you look closely decent, but the stocking round top are hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my mammilla are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen.

heading along the avenue St. Germain, I descend into the tube. My low gear stop will be the Louvre ( lewvrah, or lewv, or something ). I depart the Metro at Les Halle ( lay zall ), as did near of the men on the wagon train. Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the stair before them - and even wait until I am five or ten pace up before they begin to succeed.

The Louvre is one of the highlight of City of Light. Not only is it the nursing home of a lot of the world 's easily art, it 's also alive with Paris'best and brightest aspiring artists copying the master key for drill. While admiring a nude, I am approached by a Thomas Young associate who engages me in a fascinating conversation about the way the artist has captured the skin shade on the manikin 's tit, and enlightening me on the courage of the creative person in foregoing the traditional fig foliage, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail.

I 'll never look at a vagina the Lapplander way again. He tells me he knows of some other full-frontal nudes in a drift 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 locked room, surrounded by some of the most exquisite twat ever painted. Pointing at one that I thought was brilliant, my new ally declares it amateurish and unrealistic.

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

Thrilled with the cerebral debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is ill-timed. `` count ! '' I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling apart the sides of my crotchless step-in, `` do n't I wait just like that ? ''

His reply startles me : `` oh, non ! Yours is - shav-ed, oh la la - but lahk zees one, '' pointing to another nude who is clearly less delirious than our subject kidnapping.

Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to jerk off. He sees my distributor point, and in a fit of rational stimulation, upsurge to my aid. Soon, his digit are all over my spreading center. I begin to look a lot like the puss in the painting.

'' blade not zere ! '' he declares, casting his decisive eye back and Forth River between my dripping sex and the masterpiece. He yanks out his French stick, and plunges it trench inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with nada to hold up 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 genus 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 decline. ``

From the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries Palace ( zhar-dan day twee-le-ree ) and onto the Champs Elysees ( shons ay-lee-say ), remembering to tug your bird down every few steps - or if necessary, pull your stockings up. check for a late luncheon at any one of the myriad bistros and coffeehouse along the way.

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

One of the highlights of the Arc is the perspective from the top, which is often enhanced by the sight of honeymooning fan embracing by the paries, with the splendors of capital of France arrayed below them. On this particular deep good afternoon, I am lucky enough to find the crowd have thinned, and there is only one couple making out in the corner. Sensing an opportunity for a dead on target Parisian risky venture, I approach them cautiously. A liberal man is French-kissing his lover. To my surprisal, I find that the cute little one in the short skirt, with exquisite hairsbreadth and composition, is also a man ! But I decide to train a hazard. ``

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 wing booby. `` 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 little 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 clapper back down the small one 's throat.

Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Alone with the lift operator on the way back down, I catch him staring at my breasts. My nipples are hard from the cool wind up top. `` All right wing, '' I smile, and he seems surprised as I slip his hired hand inside my top. My trip to the Arc de Triomphe is not a pure waste, I think, as I make my way towards my ultimate terminus - the Tour Eiffel ( toor ee-fell ).

Walk along the avenue Kleber ( do n't interest, it 's not a French Son, so you can judge it any way you please ) to the Palais du Chaillot ( pal-ay doo shy-oh ), and from there across the bridge to the champ de Mars ( shons duh mar ) and the towboat. You 're now ready to pick up the feller for the charming cock sucking ! You may take to settle for one of the Algerians selling trinket, scarf and carpets at the foot of the bridge circuit, but do n't be fooled by that old saying about the size of all black men - these are Algerians, not American. See my clause, `` travelling with Tessa : Going Down in Dixie '', where I sample much of the population of the American south. As an experiment in socio-biology, I made it a spot of saying to my melanise lovers, `` My, you 're hung bigger than an Algerian ! '' and every undivided one of them replied, `` red cent straight ! '' I concluded from that that American English blacks are well aware of their differences with their Northern African cousins. But back to Paris.

Sauntering towards the tower, keep your eyes open for likely candidate. I find one man who looks particularly appealing. I approach him, and make the offer. He glances nervously at a fair sex standing about six feet ( or 1.829 beat, as the French people would say ) away, with three children. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in French too fast for me to cover, accompanied by wild motion, but I think it meant that they were meddlesome.

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 grapheme. `` Bonjour, monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipe ? ( bon-joor, m'syoor. vood-ray voo luh peep ), '' I ask him, which literally means, `` respectable day, sir. Desire-you the blowjob ? '' and is the traditional way that a French girl would formally offer to fellate a complete stranger.

He stands wide-eyed and stunned for a consequence. I begin to inquire whether he has n't understood my accent, or whether he 's just not interested, so I go into action at law. Remember that I suggested that the itemized invoice for the sexy underwear might add up in handy ? Pulling the slickness of report out of my pocketbook, I hand it to him. Then, I point to the account, followed by my titty, my ass and my wooden leg. Comprehension dawns, and his oculus get all-encompassing, if that 's possible. 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 weapons platform, which cost a pretty centime ( son-teem ).

The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new friend makes it even more sex by sticking his hand up the back of my bird and down my new step-in on the way up. Was that a lilliputian jackass I felt ? I pat his bulge, which is even fully grown now than it was on the solid ground. I take that as a compliment. His name is Pierre ( who 'd have guessed ? ). I would have been well-chosen to have him climb up the railings at the niche of the top political program and distich himself against the girders, so that I can shove off him from a standing position, but Pierre seems to want a bit of privacy. I can respect that. We head out onto the out-of-doors staircase that extend from the priming coat to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It 's a wonderful via media between capital of South Dakota 's desire for privacy and my own, well, slightly more show-off nature. There - the secret 's out ! Pierre 's lovely big coq ( kok ) is free of its coop in no time. It 's in my lip faster than a hardon in a sporting house. He manages to commit my albumen apparel up to my neck. He buries his face in my `` beeg fawkeen teets '', as he called them, and his fingerbreadth in my very moistness `` moof ''. This man is a macho-man ! I blow and I suck and I blow some more.

His prick fringe against the back of my throat time and again. `` Did you know that in English, this is called Frenching ? '' I ask, smiling at the satire, dragging my mouthpiece off his humanness. But he does n't desire to verbalise.

He places his hired man on the back of my fountainhead and jams it back down onto his waving penis. It seems a troop of teenaged English schoolboys have decided to waive the disbursement of the raise and climb the stairs, because we soon have an interview clad in gray trouser and maroon jackets, commenting on our operation in charming cockney accents. Pierre is shocked at first-class honours degree, but he chooses not to arrest just then. Within seconds, however, he shoots a prominent warhead of cum down my open throat. I swallow every 1 dip - I want this to be the perfect French blowjob. Pierre is gone in bit, and for one glorious moment I think about blowing all these Cy Young lads. But no, I do n't bang what the age of consent is under French law, and I 'm not into kiddie stuff. I 'm no pervert. They do seem anxious to facilitate me get dressed again, and when I finally walk back out onto the platform, I 'm confident that my attire is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no wrinkles, 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 worry in the view. When the threshold open back at ground horizontal surface, a large crowd awaits us, and we get a standing ovation. Imagine that ! For oral examination sex in capital of France ! It feels a bit like beating the English at football. Pierre has disappeared into the throng.

Back at the hotel, the usual crowd of bellhop vied to see who would escort me to my room. After such an exhaustingly sexual 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 way. Once again ( I am a little vixen, are n't I ? ) I surveyed the crotches of the bellboy pant, and pick the most impressive one.

Back in the room, I quickly closed the door and before he could even ask for his tip, I threw off my attire. Was this seduction ploy going to influence ? Yes ! Standing before him in the girdle, crotchless panties, hanker black stockings and heels, breasts and pussy exposed, I watched him unzip his fly and whiplash out his very erect phallus. 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 take advantage of the boy, I tipped him five euros, which he accepted gratefully and left. That nighttime, I decided to avoid the enticement of French capital completely and settled for room help.

Once again, my order was delivered in stages, and once again, nobody wanted to assume money as a tip. They even delivered sweet and coffee ( separately, as was the tradition ), which I had n't ordered ! I thanked Shangri-la that I had managed to get the viva at the Alexandre Gustave Eiffel out of the way, so that I could tip these hardworking son with the cock sucking they really deserved.

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

For you single girlfriend traveling to City of Light, here 's my advice : do n't forget your contraceptive method ; do n't dread the expense - you can find plenty of direction to keep your cost down ; do n't be a cheap dump truck - it 's Worth it in the foresighted run and these people work hard for a aliveness ; and do n't care about bringing all your naughty underclothing - there 's muckle to be had in Paris !