Naughty Paris

“Not so fast, ma belle,” Paul said, trying to keep the two females apart. “Mademoiselle de Pontier isn’t a woman to be tampered with. She is a calège, a high-class woman of pleasure, from one of the best brothels in Paris.”

That didn’t impress the redhead. She started laughing, then wet her lips before she said, “Where I come from, women who sell their bodies are known by the same four-letter word, whatever their price.”

She glared at the blonde, making Paul uneasy. Trouble of a female sort was brewing. Silently he shot Lillie a glance that told her to keep quiet. She paid his warning no heed.

“Alors, mademoiselle,” Lillie shot back, hands on her hips. “A girl of your sort would never be accepted at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“Oh?” the redhead challenged. “And what sort is that?”

“I’ve heard gentlemen at Madame Chapet’s say women like you are like a cheap sauce—once you find out what they’re made of, you don’t want to taste their pussies.”

The redhead bolted toward Lillie, muttering, “Is that so? Well, I’ll take the puff out of your French pastry—”

“Cochon, you little tramp!” Lillie yelled, ready for a fight. “You’re nothing but a marcheuse, a streetwalker haunting the boulevards, stopping in front of a shop and playing with your cunt to entice a man to follow you.”

“Me? From what I can see, mademoiselle, you do a good job soliciting with your hips,” the redhead said with a flippant attitude. Paul noticed she had lost none of her courage.

“Zut alors, you know nothing about pleasing a man, mademoiselle,” Lillie said, wiggling her body and emphasizing her catlike litheness that hinted at the claws hidden under her cloak. “I’m the most popular of all the girls at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“I don’t care where you live or who pays you to moan when you’re lying flat on your back with a dick in you,” the redhead said, her frustration spilling over. “I don’t want any trouble.”

She looked very confused, and in that moment, Paul wanted only to take her in his arms and hold her. To do so, he knew, would anger the beautiful blonde, and that would make matters worse.

“Enough of your silly jealousy, Lillie. Be on your way!”

It was Paul who spoke, his voice cutting through the heat of the moment. The look in her eyes told him she knew he meant it. Although the cool morning mist mixed with the lingering night chill, Paul began to perspire. He turned to the redhead. She smiled at him, and was that surprise, then gratitude he saw in her eyes when he smiled back?

He didn’t have time to find out. Lillie claimed her rights, insisting Paul pay her extra francs for her services, which he did, then fretted about how he’d be sorry he didn’t let her ride the stallion tonight.

Lillie also had parting words for the redhead. “It’s not over between us, mademoiselle,” she said. “I never forget a face.”

“I, on the other hand, find your face utterly forgettable,” the redhead returned.

Paul could see Lillie barely holding herself in check, but she knew when to retreat, especially with the extra francs he stuffed in her bosom. Parting her pouty carmine lips, she hissed at the girl, though the redhead refused to flinch. Then Lillie was gone, her scent tagging along on a breeze, subtle but strong enough so Paul couldn’t forget it.

“Merci, monsieur, thank you,” the redhead said, her face flushed. “I let my anger get the better of me when that girl insulted me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I feel like I’m starring in the French version of a bad slasher movie.”

“‘Movie,’ mademoiselle?”

“Yes, a film, a flick.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess movies haven’t been invented yet.”

She offered no further explanation, and he didn’t ask for one. A strong wind heavy with anger ruffled the cape between his legs. More trouble, he knew instinctively before he turned.

“There’s the thief!”

Paul saw the big, ugly Monsieur Renard push his way through a small group of stall keepers huddled around him, his stubby finger pointing to the redhead.

“I will capture the beautiful thief, monsieur,” another man said, “then strip her naked and put her gorgeous body on display for all to see!”

Paul looked to see who had spoken, the threat made in very bad French with an English accent. It was a curious young gentleman, dressed in fine broadcloth, obviously very drunk, and arm in arm with a luscious young woman, her bare shoulders rubbing up against his white shirtfront.

The young Englishman wiped his mouth then rubbed his crotch, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the redhead. Paul gripped his cane tighter. Stupid fools. Couldn’t they see the girl was with him?

He held her hand tighter, shielding the girl from their eyes with his heavy cloak. Her hand was warm, the pulse in her wrist beating rapidly. She was his to protect, to keep safe on a distant plane in a faraway place where only he could travel.

“Let me go, monsieur, before my dream turns into a nightmare,” the redhead demanded, begging him to listen to her with her beautiful green eyes.

Paul studied her face, fascinated by the way her perfect lips formed the sounds of her strange accent.

“As long as you’re with me, mademoiselle, no one will harm you. I promise. Quickly, follow me.”

Paul ignored the ranting of Renard, along with the Englishman’s wailing, threats and bad French as he walked purposefully through the tarpaulin-covered stretch of stands in the market, his cape fanned out around the girl like a cloak of invisibility as she moved in tandem with his step. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. Their eyes met and her look set his heart racing. She drew him inside her like the green enchantress, the name given to the heady absinthe that gushed through his veins, arousing him out of his black depression.

He exhaled slowly as his eyes swept over the girl’s blossoming curves, experiencing a rising surge of creativity bubbling to the surface and spilling over into a bluish pool of desire. Desire to possess the girl’s soul on canvas. The whiteness of her skin bedazzling him, the erotic pout of her lips tempting him to kiss her again. The lingering desire in her eyes,, arousing him. Her face an alluring shade of pale. His fingers skipped playfully over her slender neck, then toyed with the curling red hair sticking to her forehead, her face an alluring shade of pale.

“Arrête, monsieur, stop!” shouted the Englishman, close behind them. Where did he come from?

“Ignore him, mademoiselle.”

“You don’t have to ask twice, monsieur,” she said. “I’m outta here,”

“Stop, I say!” the Englishman called again. “You’re shielding a criminal, monsieur. In England, you’d be hanged for that!”

Paul turned and noted with dismay that despite his tipsiness, the Englishman was quick on his feet and nearly upon them, all the while thoroughly enjoying the entire incident.

More disturbing to him, where had Renard gone? Paul didn’t trust the man. Though he was rumored to have a cock as limp as the rotting asparagus in his vegetable cart, he had a reputation around Les Halles for seducing young girls, then raping them. Tearing apart their pussies with the black leather shaft of his long whip. He was probably waiting in the shadows somewhere in the vast market to grab the girl the moment he let her out of his sight. This Englishman, however, with his wild accusations, was an immediate threat. Alors, he’d have to change his plans.

Paul spun around, folding the massive swirl of his black cape around the girl. He couldn’t hide her completely from view as the foreigner cut them off between the meat stalls, his goblin face lit up with a grinning smile of white teeth, a lustful snarl rolling over his lips as he reached out to grab the girl’s bare breast peeking through her cloak.

Paul was tempted to use the sharp knife concealed in the end of his cane to convince the man to go about his business. A dryness caught in his throat at the thought of her pure, lovely skin being touched and tainted by the overly eager Englishman. Pampered and smooth-skinned, the gentleman probably hadn’t had his balls stroked by a woman since he was an infant at the breast of his wet nurse.

“Run into the Black Beau, mademoiselle,” Paul whispered to the redhead, indicating with a nod a tiny bistro nearby.

“Monsieur?” she questioned.

“Do as I say or the Englishman will cause enough commotion to have your beautiful ass hanging upside down on the wheel.” He opened his cape and cleared a path for her between the stalls. “Run, now!”

The redhead rushed past him, so close to him his fingertips brushed up against the exposed skin on her neck and a hot flush warmed his groin. She must be his.

“Stop that thief, monsieur!” shouted the Englishman.

“Thief, what thief?” Paul mumbled, twirling his cane and gracefully pirouetting around in a circle, his wide cape swirling around him. “I see no thief.”

“That one, monsieur.” He pointed to the redhead pushing through the crowd and heading toward the tiny bistro. “She won’t get far.” He elbowed past Paul, shoving his shoulder into the artist.

“Quel bâtard,” Paul muttered under his breath. “Mongrel.” Such poor manners. The Englishman deserved to be taught a lesson.

Quicker than the flick of a brush, the artist thrust his long, ebony cane out in front of the Englishman’s feet and tripped him.