Naughty Paris

“Mais non, mademoiselle, it is I who owe you. Your beauty inspires me, fills me with passion to paint.”

We face each other, and in that breathless moment, I recognize he’s more than a dark and mysterious superhero clone in a black cape and crotch-hugging tights. We are artist and model, a creative work of art yet to be defined that defies time and rationale. I lean into him and he strokes my neck, his fingers working at the fastening to my cloak, then stops. I sense his pleasure and something else. Fear. We’re not out of danger yet.

Nibbling on my lip, I ask, “How did you find me?”

“No time for questions, mademoiselle,” the artist says, the light making a halo around him as he extends his hand out to me. “Take my hand. We must move quickly. It won’t take that beast Renard long to start tearing up the floor, looking for you.”

His strong, muscular hand grips mine as quivering candlelight guides me down to the dirt floor below. Then, wrapping his cape around him, the artist leads me through a twisting, underground tunnel barely big enough for him to crawl through on his knees. Pulling my cloak around me, I follow him, crumbling dirt hitting the top of my head, the tip of my nose. I keep his tight butt in sight. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees with David, but the view was never this good.

Then, without warning, the candle flickers and goes out. I panic, but instead of being thrown into blackness, I’m surprised to see a spotlight of sunshine greeting me like a warm smile. I look straight up. The way out of the tunnel is an old, dry well laced with rusty, iron rings and small stone steps spaced about a foot apart on the cracked stonework.

“I’ve used this escape route many times when my taste for liqueur overrides my taste for a woman’s pussy,” the artist says with amusement. “Every sharp cut of stone is an old friend.” He clasps his hands together and bends over to give me a boost. “After you,” he urges.

I lift my eyebrows. “So you can stick your fingers up my rear end?”

“You have a sharp wit, mademoiselle.”

“Not as sharp as the end of your cane.” I cast my eyes downward. He’s sliding his cane up and down my butt. Sensuous. Provocative. No mistaking his visual cue. I wet my lips.

He laughs. “Allez, go!” he calls out, insisting I start climbing up the wall whether I want to or not. To my delight, I find it easier than I thought as I grab onto the rings embedded in the scaly stone wall and climb up the side of the well. My heavy breathing mixes with that of the man following me, the sound of our feet scraping over the broken stones filling the echo of the empty water hole.

“I love the smell of freedom,” Paul says, taking in a deep breath of air when we reach the top and vault easily over the side of the well. He turns and looks at me with a sensuality I find not at all disturbing. “But not nearly as much as I love the smell of a woman.”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t smell so good after crawling through that old tunnel,” I say, dusting off my cloak.

“Let me be the judge of that, mademoiselle.”

He leans down, his clean-shaven face so close to mine I breathe in the lingering odor of the strong liqueur. It makes me dizzy. His lips brush my cheek as he pushes aside my cloak and kisses my shoulders, then delicately up the sides of my neck. Little shivers of pleasure flow through me. I have to steady my nerves, slow my racing mind, get some answers.

God help me if he comes any closer.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. He shifts his attention lower. He caresses my breasts, taking the time to rub my nipples in such delicious circles, I can’t catch my breath.

“Where you will be safe, mademoiselle.”

Safe? With his hands doing this to me?

“To your studio in Montmartre?” I ask.

“How do you know I have a studio on the hill, mademoiselle?” He gives me a look that is neither friendly nor hostile, but probing.

Don’t stop circling my nipples! I want to cry out. Coward that I am, I don’t. Instead I say in a shaky voice, “Someone told me.”

“Who?”

He slides his hand down to my waist. He fumbles with the metal clasp on my petticoats. Damn this ridiculous outfit.

I say, “An old artist. He showed me your self-portrait.” I don’t tell him about the statue of Min and its prophecy. Why spoil his fantasy?

“Where did you meet this artist, mademoiselle?”

Still fumbling. Has he lost interest in my clit? Or is he more interested in his own self-portrait?

“In an art gallery in Marais,” I say, not giving away when I saw the painting. “The House of Morand.”

Paul shakes his head. He’s not even touching me. Oh, the frustration. “I know of no such gallery in Marais.”

I frown. My breasts feel cold without his touch. Is the whole thing a dream after all? Okay, let’s try again, appeal to his male ego. Better known as his dick.

“I did see such a painting,” I insist. “Life-size, in every way.” I can’t resist letting my gaze drift downward to the bulge between his legs. A movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by the handsome artist.

He moves closer to me, then whispers in my ear, “Ah, you mean the self-portrait I gave to La Comtesse du Chalons. Hélas, you must be mistaken, mademoiselle. La comtesse took the portrait with her to London.”

“No mistake, Monsieur Borquet,” I say, playing the game and enjoying it. Evidently the portrait I saw in the modern art studio traveled from one owner to another through the years. “I like the real thing better.”

“Pardon?” he says, not quite understanding me.

“American humor.”

“Ah, so you’re une Americaine, mademoiselle.”

I nod. “Autumn Maguire from—”

No, don’t tell him any more. Not now.

Paul raises his eyebrows, then laughs. “It doesn’t matter to me where you’re from, mademoiselle. You’re not like the English girls who raise their skirts in the dance halls. Cheap and bawdy with a smirk on their lips and fat arms and legs.” He leans closer, looking at me curiously. “You have the body of a goddess, made pour faire l’amusette, love play.”

He lifts my petticoat with his cane and rubs the inside of my thigh with his walking stick. What took him so long? I tingle all over, warm and happy and very aroused. I don’t pull back. I try taking slow, deep breaths. Instead, my breathing becomes wildly ragged.

Don’t get turned on, kiddo. You don’t even know where you are.

My eyes dart around the ancient courtyard. I can’t deal with this insane situation until I find the courage to accept the fact I’ve traveled back in time. I have to do it quickly before my angst swells into a panic I can’t control.

Face it.

This is Old Paris.

Grime-crusted towers and turrets, broken cobbles. A medieval atmosphere hangs in the air like an old tapestry fraying at the edges, its faded glory begging for a second look. I see several ramshackle town houses huddled together around a small square of broken stones with piles of rags neatly lined up in a row around the perimeter.

Suddenly the rags move, and tiny, taut faces peep out from underneath their dirty shells of clothing. The smell of unwashed, diseased bodies overcomes me. The scene is like a curtain opening on the final act, where the near-dead play at living.

This is Old Paris.

In a instant where I am, who I am, why I’m here, are all erased in one breathless sweeping moment when Paul draws me into his arms and does what I’ve been wanting him to do again. Kiss me. Hard. Deeply. Like a man who doesn’t like his pleasure to be hurried. A man who knows what he wants. It isn’t like any kiss I’ve ever experienced. His mouth moves slightly over mine, his tongue touching the insides of my lips, exploring. Damn him. I can’t move. Arms pinned behind my back. Breasts pressed up against his chest. My whole body is tense. I feel breathless but for all the wrong reasons.

I try to wiggle free but he pulls me closer.

“Don’t be afraid, ma belle.” The handsome artist laughs, spreading his arms wide, opening his black cape like angel wings reaching up to the heavens. “No harm will come to you with Paul Borquet as your protector.”