Free Erotic Stories

My first time in Paris (True story) By Dietrick van N

The dubious craft of ''modeling,'' posing in front a camera, was the last thing on my mind. It simply came to me, I certainly didn't look for it. People had often taken my picture, just for the fun of it. But in Paris that was about to change. I arrived in the ‘city of light’ a week before I was to start a summer job, to chauffeur German and English speaking kids of well-to-do guest around town for Hotel Nikko, to make sure they didn't get in trouble. Things didn't work out that way. On the very morning of my arrival, tired from the long drive because the French nuclear engineer who'd pulled over to give me a ride had asked me to drive. He had been partying the whole weekend and loved to just sleep and have me wake him up in Paris! A dream come true to any hitch-hiker and I was very happy to drive the 5 hours non-stop. Upon arrival I thought it would be fitting to take a nap under the symbol of Paris; the Eiffel tower. From my spot, next to one of the four large stone structures that supported her long, iron legs, I panned my eyes upward in to a seemingly limitless sky, all the way up to the top that had been the Eiffel family residence. Soon I sank in to a nice deep nap and would have slept for hours if a little dog didn't lick my face. I opened my eyes, trying to adjust to the bright light, what appeared were two long, suntanned legs leading upward to a white G-string. Contrasting with 'Eiffel's' iron dame's legs these warm-blooded, smooth, stems were not the sight I was expecting. I very much came to life, glowing with shame to such lack of reservation, -to allow the public sightings of the tiniest of undergarments at end of these endless legs to die for. Despite the good omen, I had not arrived in heaven yet. And in all fairness, given my position, I had no choice but look upward at the proud owner, of what appeared to be a fine example of a woman who loves to stride around in a tiny mini-skirt and enjoy the attention. She noticed my red cheeks and obvious Dutch accent and said ''Oh...I was looking at you. Did my dog bother you? I was worried that he may do pee-pee on you...''. While she chuckled I was overwhelmed. ''I am Isabella...what is your name?’' As to accommodate me she came down and sat in the grass, allowing me to see more of her than her legs that had frozen the little teenage-boy-cool I possessed. Her face was only making it worse. -Bright blue eyes, set in a gorgeous, classical face, framed by cascading long waves of dark blond hair with sun-induced-highlights that dr*ped shapely shoulders, wrapped in a fitting white, low cut blouse that could barely tame the bouncing of large, pear shaped, bra-less breasts, whose piercing nipples not only added red to my cheeks, they turned my guts in to knots. Why was this so hard? I didn't just blush, I radiated red and when I thought I would never fall in love it was that moment in Paris that changed every smattering of insight about the power of beautiful woman...I was sold and useless, lost in the depths of the azure blue of her eyes that blended with the cobalt blue of my own. I was glad she did the talking, -explaining to me that she had studied art and specialized in sculpture, but made her money running fashion shows and posing in bathing suits. Ah, yes, that made sense. The idea to see her in a bikini was nauseating and in response, with a few intelligible words, I manage to communicate to her my own love for art and of my plan to visit to the Louvre that day. When I thought that all she saw in me was a young fellow with a knack for art, she offered to show me the museum. I naively had no clue there were a lot of other things she felt I too should become familiar with. Things other then paintings, sculpture and legendary Parisian architecture. As we sat in the grass I couldn't keep my eyes off her...she was a stunning, absolutely mesmerizing beauty. I knew it and she knew it and we both loved it in different ways. I never ever saw a woman like her, and certainly not one to be so kind to take my hand, pull me up on my feet, then lean forward, look up to tell me: ''Oh, you are very tall, I love tall man…nice!'' When she asked if I had a girlfriend it dawned to me that her ''nice'' didn't mean the same as my ''kind.'' As to add to my confusion she planted a soft, wet kiss right on my lips accompanied with; ''Welcome to Paris.'' As I tasted her saliva I thought of all the British and American soldiers that had liberated this city from the Nazi's and finally understood how very happy these man must have been! In contrast, all I did was catch a ride to receive such unforgettable welcome while these legendary soldiers had to fight street to street before receiving a true French-kiss. Not only did I never had time for girlfriends, I was clueless about what to do if I had one. I was in to kicking and hitting sandbags at school, climbed trees or sail the sea, stuff most woman I knew hated. But in Paris, under the spell of Isabella I was far too smitten and nervous to make any sense, let alone be a match to a 24 year old super-model who had seen and heard all she needed to know to read ''boys'' like the back of her hand. She knew, I had no clue and it showed when she took me to a cafe. We sat and after I slowly calmed down, able to at least glance at her without turning in to a total stumbling fool she asked me where I was staying. When I explained of my deal with Hotel Nikko she insisted I take her offer and be her guest and let go of my arrangements. ''I'll show you Paris too, don't worry about Hotel Nikko, and I'll show how you can make a fair amount of money fast. You will love it!'' That afternoon we entered the Louvre and she impressed me with her profound knowledge of nearly every piece of ancient sculpture, and her way of speaking about the forms, materials, the artist and the times at which they were made that made it so special. As I day dreamed of the far away places from which Napoleon and his predecessors hauled many of the best pieces I looked at her lips, my mind floating on the melody of her voice. She took my hand and on we went to the next statues and paintings. I loved that everyone stared at us. Older, well dressed, distinguished men just sucked up every inch of her breast, her beautiful face and body...and yet, here I was, the spring-chicken from Holland, walking hand-in-hand with miss-world, the best statue of all! She paused at the sculpture of a Bathing Venus by Christophe-Gabriel Allegrain, glanced at me and asked: ''Do you see her womanly body, the reality, the imperfections?’' Even looking at a naked statue put enough glow on my cheeks to light up a cellar. Yes, I did see, -the woman was a bit, what one could call today; ''chubby'' but I said: ''She is a beautiful woman, so graceful.'' Isabella smiled and said; “At that time, trying to portray the ideal beauty, the artist choose her over many other’s and if you too love her womanly figure and her grace...you and I will have no trouble enjoying what I have to offer you.” I had no idea what she was talking about and looked around to see what other statue she was referring to. Not allowing me to even as much as ask she planted another kiss on my lips and grabbed my hand...were we heading to heaven?' As I rolled out my my camping mat next to the radiator in the living room of her Victorian style, three bedroom apartment on Reu de Doctor Germain-See, I didn't think of the Eiffel tower, a mere ten minutes by foot, nor of the Venus bathing but of Isabella who stood in the door opening, observing me with a smile. Too tall for the French dimension guest beds I preferred the hard wood floor. I didn't want to sleep in the guest bed room any way because it was right next to her room, offering her ''privacy'' when privacy was the last thing on her mind. Nor mine of course, but my mother had raised me well and that is what you did, -give women their space. Besides, while she was all over my mind, I foolishly assumed I was the last thing on hers, until she kissed me good night and I felt her body shiver the moment our lips touched. Despite that proper upbringing and my best intentions I could not resist taking peek at her when she walked back to her room in her revealing, heart stopping, mind-churning, baby-doll dress. My God, those legs and firm derrière! How would I be able to sleep? The next morning, while I made breakfast, she explained to me that she was going to introduce me to one of her modeling agents. ''Modeling is one of the nastiest of all jobs, it seems glamorous, but you'll not necessarily enjoy to be constantly judged on the level of perfection of your body and face which are always in a state of change. Perhaps, for you man it will be a bit less cruel. For us woman it can be hell. If I ever have kids, it's the last thing I want them to do. Woman have no idea the reality of that world when they dream of it can turn them bitter, self loathing and insecure, or stuck-up and arrogant while they have little else to offer beside their perky boobies, skinny legs and flat buns. That's why most of them never get to the top, it kills your self esteem. I was lucky to be lean but voluptuous and able to do bikini's too...if I had to do just fashion I would quit. If you only heard what the make-up artist, stylist, agents, designers and producers say behind our backs.'' She explained how she grew elephant skin...''I don't care anymore, as in the end I go home, open my mail and see that another large check has been deposited, then walk over to the mirror, smile happy about what I see and if I am lucky I turn around and kiss a man like you.'' To illustrate, she got up and kissed me on my lips again, licked my tongue and pressed her self against me. I got nauseous and couldn't say a word. My heart nearly exploded with pride...if only my friends could see me now! ''Today we are going to meet my agent, perhaps she has a connection, a photographer who needs a beautiful boy like you.” We sat down and she continued: ''Let me warn you to never listen to anyone but your agent and don't measure your self against others. Be your self as what you see in the mirror is not who you are inside. I bet you'll be working as model when ever you like to, but do not let it get to your head. It is all just an illusion. That is why I keep studying art and help traveling art shows and have friends outside of the fashion world.'' That late morning we arrived at Elite Agency and her agent took one quick look and said; ''We don't really handle man, but you should get in front of the camera.'' She then immediately called a photographer, they spoke for a minute, she hang up the phone and gave me the address...off I went. Isabella suggested I go right away, kissed me good bye, I then walked through Paris for an hour before I found the studio. The photographer expected me and took a good long look as if I was a painting...or a piece of meat, then smiled and before I knew anyone's name send me to the make-up room where female models were walking around in their underwear, some even top-less. Flustered I accepted the soft, weak hand of the make-up artist who quickly got me ready for the L’ Oreal hair gel commercial they were working on. After my hair was gelled-up, to look ridiculous, I exchanged pecks on the cheek with a tall blond who introduced her self as Magdalena. All I had to do is get in to a speedo type swimming trunks stand in front of a white screen and let her fall in to my arms and kiss me on the lips...topless. We had do it about twenty times, carefully adjusting positions as to hide her nipples behind my arms. That was hard! When modeling could only always be this much fun. Could Isabella be wrong? A few days later her agent told Isabella there would be a check waiting for me at the office with an amount that was higher than I ever thought possible anyone my age would earn in a whole month...and if I could work again the following week in a commercial. ''Oh, yes, good...and if he wouldn't mind jump in the (ice cold, dirty) Seine river.'' Upon arrival on “set” I was actually asked to jump from a yacht and act like I was in the Caribbean. The moment the cold water hit my shorts I knew that Isabelle had been right. I feared my nuts would turn in to raisins when I had to repeat it at least ten times in front of faux palm trees and tropical silk flowers that floating on a platform. The daily fee made it all a lot warmer and more jobs followed. Despite its moments of insanity it was mostly fun and the models I met were all very kind, intelligent and professional. It was interesting to see the cultural difference; models from Brazil, Spain and Italy were touchy-feely and always kissing me right on the lips, some even teasingly adding a quick tongue swirl with a smile and butt-pinch, while the ginormous Nordic goddesses could barely move beyond a kiss on the cheek but were then bold enough to simple ask “how about we meet up for drinks, tonight. I like you, you’re cute.” To me the ease and confident joviality of these gorgeous women was captivating and so unexpected. The possibility of me having any reluctance, lack of desire or hesitation to fall for their advances or at least be helplessly enthralled by their mere appearance never appeared to cross their minds. Did all men just dropped whatever they did at a chance to at least breath the same air, or whatever these models had in mind? While I initially loved every moment in their presence and looked forward to all forms of interaction a strange feeling that I needed to guard myself being exploited slowly emerged from below all layers of pride, desire to be admired, and my own instinctual blatant drive toward sexual satisfaction. These were not normal woman but ferociously driven, calculating intelligent beings that often happen to be also irresistibly attractive, until I started to observe their behavior and listen to their conversations. Like with all people, most of these models were not as kind, culturally refined and educated, let alone as restrained as Isabella was. Of course, Isabella was aggressive in pursuing her objectives but she did it with class and keen observance of the needs and boundaries of everyone she interacted with. And I was all too eager to explore the depths of her wisdom, devotion to learning, sharing, love for esthetic proportion and sensual touch. Finanly, one week after we met Isabella called me over to her large bed room, by the sound of her voice I sensed she was up to something new. Only once before I had laid on her bed, fully dressed, taken a nap with her head on my chest. It had been magical to feel her voluptuous body, smell of her perfume blending with our pheromones as we kissed. She'd sensed my apprehension and nervous anxiety and said: ''I love that you are here with me...we need to get to know each other better. Soon you will be ready for me'' then teasingly nibbled on my earlobe: ''You see, I don't bite, I only kiss and lick.'' Wondering what she was up to I walked in to her room, happy to take her up on her invitation. Perhaps to once again sit in a chair and watch her give me mini fashion shows while asking for my opinion after suggesting I put together combinations of clothes, shoes, the extra's found in her large closet and the racks throughout her bed room. Kindly correcting me if my choices made a mockery of style or ignored the lines of the female body whose ''curves" I was to always subtly accentuate.'' I loved these moments of interaction. It was not only a great way to learn about fashion, but an opportunity for me to look at her without blushing, something I still had not been able to master. She would say: ''don't be shy… keep your eyes on me, look at me… look at my body… look at how my clothes move. It is all a complex, balance of reality and illusion.'' That night was different, she apparently felt it had taken enough time. Now she didn't have fashion and teasing on her mind;-she had decided the moment had come for me to learn about the living statue, the very structure that carried her further than runway's and bikini-beach shoots. I needed to become one with the flesh and blood that lives under these pieces of beautiful designer fashion, all the stuff whose elusive existence was merely to enhance the female statue through the vision of designers predisposed to not care to sample the woman who displayed their creations to a market place that did a lot more than paid their bills. Buoyed by the media that blasted their goods in to consumers who admired, loved and iconized them to extremes that would engulf true Gods with envy. From my spot in her chair I looked around to see her, but only I heard her voice: ''Close you eyes.'' Suddenly the lights went out. It was pitch-dark. Then music, slowly increasing in volume filled the room. I smiled when I recognized Richard Wagner's ''Parsifal Fantasia.” She had really put some thought in to what ever was coming. A match flared up to light a candle, giving me a fraction of a second to see a white ghost...''Isabella?'' Still not a word...the music swelled and then I saw her...but only the contour of a deformed human figure, nothing else. She came closer, stopped about eight feet away from me and set the candle down behind her enhancing her silhouette. She now moved her arms and slowly twirled like a ballerina. In the flickering candle light she bend down, turned on the balls of her feet and with one swoop took the sheet of her body… I stopped breathing… was she naked!? I had only seen a glimpse of her when she walked in to the living room to kiss me good night or quickly slid from dress in to another partially hidden behind a screen. It was dim and I trembled the moment her nipples rubbed over my chest as she came down to kiss me. Her long hair had brushed my face, neck and chest and I wished the feeling would never stop. I remained yearning for her to touch me again, afraid, unaware that what she felt for me didn't exactly match my confusion of love and lust but was rather lust and adoration. I was so green and so lost in emotions… I couldn't sleep as the wonderful scent of her body filled my nose the moment it ascended from the pillow she had given me. Devouring my identity, poisoning my brain and claiming my heart, only to replace the voids with lust, craving and fear… addicted to her every fiber. Like a dependent dog, sniffing his master, I let her played with me and I didn't want to miss even a second of it. She now turned her back to me, the candle light revealed the sharp outline of her body, her hips, her endless legs and the sides of her big, bosom… and when she bend down to pick up the candle she revealed the area between her legs that I was afraid to even glance at. This was too much! Slowly, following the directions of the music she turned and walked toward me, the candle now lit up the front of her body and cast strange shadows that deformed her beautiful face. I now saw her hard nipples, when she stopped in front of me, I stopped breathing. She touched my hair and stroked my cheeks, then softly told me to look. ''Just look at me, look at all of my body… it is now yours, to see, and touch, I want you to touch me.'' ''What...touch?!'' Without a word she reached out and took my hand, first placing it on her belly. Her left hand slowly moved the candle up and down in front of her body, revealing me every detail while she guided my hand up to her breast and chest, face and then down to her pubic area...I pulled back. She kneeled in front of me so I could carefully caress her forehead, hair and her shoulders. She leaned in a kissed me, licking my tongue and lips. Turning sideways she offered her back, I moved my hand all over her shoulders spine, the upper area of her buttocks. She then got up and waited… and waited, then took my hand and urged me to caress the rest of her bum… before she turned and bend over… revealing her anus and what I now know to be perfectly shaped labia, by moving the candle right beside her hip. I saw for the first time what a woman looked like…'down there.’ Slowly she raised her body and turned, giving me full frontal view of everything. ''It'' was nearly all shaved, only a small strip above her labia was left. I closed my eyes, she giggled. The music finally stopped, she took my hand, pulled me towards the bed and put down the candle, grabbed a bottle of oil and poured some in my hands. I spread the oil between my them as she stretched her self while whispering; ''touch me, every where,...touch me...please, come.’’ Slowly I lowered my hands, carefully smearing the oil over her upper back and shoulders. I was shaking, my brain screamed; ''One of the most beautiful woman in the world is telling you to touch all of her even the unspeakable places! Do what she says, this is what you always wanted, this is what men do, come on do it!'' It must have been an eternity when I finally dared to rub her buttocks as she arched her back to give me full access to the area between her legs… as if to tell me: ''get used to it, I know you are looking at me. I love it… come on, take another look… touch me!'' Whatever I couldn't see in the dim light I made up by carefully stroking her legs and buns. She moaned and wiggled and with her eyes closed she slowly guided my fingers where ever she wanted them. My heart stopped when I felt her wet slippery insides! I shuddered, again, she opened her eyes and said: ''I want you to play with my body, you need to be comfortable with it and I want you to take off all your clothes… come on… do it pour moi, seulement pour moi…vous êtes un beau garçon…venir à moi.'' I hesitated, I was scared to death. I had never been hard and naked in front of a woman before. She noticed and got up to pull me from the bed and said: ''Yesterday you were posing in swimwear for the whole world to see...'il est bon, ne pas peur'...don't be afraid. I am your friend, I am the only one that can see you now...you see me, I want you to hold me in your arms.'' She helped me out of my shirt and sat on her knees to tug at my shorts that I still very much wanted to keep on. She looked up and yanked them down and stumbled: ‘'Ah... good...'tu es grande’...I like very much!'' Ah, thanks goodness, she is happy with me. I am no longer a little boy! She too was getting very excited, her speech became more French mixed with English. She started to sweat and pant again, nothing was left of the calm, graceful, disciplined lady that I had gotten to know. Hell, I too was sweating like a dog...and got ever more excited. What was going to happen?! She carefully took my cock in her left hand, kissed it and then cupped my balls in her right. I took a step back. She let go of my balls and reached her right arm around my bum and pulled me right back in to her mouth. My penis is her mouth! Whoa, that felt so unbelievable. I nearly fainted. She started to suck me harder and harder. My cock had never been as erect and pulsated so strong it nearly hurt. A subtle pain that by all measures was the best pain I ever felt. The deeply satisfying pain of finally getting licked, sucked and caressed by the women of impossible dreams! Isabella stopped, licked my balls before moving her tongue upward, over my belly, chest before kissing me on my lips. She then pulled me back on to the bed, in to her arms and passionately kissed me. She reached for my throbbing cock and slowly guided me inside her. I nearly passed out, again. My head pounded with emotion and a sensory overload. The heat, the wetness, the tightness, the intense feeling of closeness was truly overwhelming. My whole body was about to explode…then she whispered what I remember to be: ''Breath slow, relax your legs, go slow…go slow…yes, go deeper…I love to feel you inside…relax, your muscles…breath deep and slow...hold me…relax…get used to me, make love to me, move faster…venir...venir, venir, come…come...closer...oui...yes...bon!'' And then, after about ten minutes she started to cramp, squeal and squirm and to my shock sprayed water all over my thighs!'' ''What was that!?'' ''No, no…it is OK, just go on…keep moving, push deeper inside me!'' I couldn't believe it, was this really happening!? A part of me was inside another person, a woman every man would love to devour, in every and especially the way she was demanding me to do it. I pushed harder, and moved very fast for about two long minutes, then stopped and held my cock all the way inside her for a few seconds. I pushed as far I could against the resistance of her vagina’s wall. The pulsating sensation while kissing her and feeling her nipples on my chest was overwhelming and I suddenly felt an intense tightening of my inner legs muscles. She told me “come, move faster and come, come inside me, give me you baby juice.” Baby juice?! What was I supposed to do? Before I knew what was about to happen my testicles cramped and I too burst in to an unforgettable shuddering orgasm. It was so intense that I felt tears in my eyes and my whole body shook. I actually rolled off the bed and as I climbed back on top to reenter her I glanced down at my cock, still hard and throbbing, moving in and out of her now foaming pussy. It was so amazing to watch that we both looked at it until my firmness finally subsided and we just kissed and smiled. I saw her with different eyes. She had become a goddess, a miracle, a way to heavenly sensations I had never felt before. And before I knew what really took place she went down on me, taking my entire cock in her mouth and sucked me hard again within about five amazing minutes. Words can’t describe the feeling, I was certain ''Oh, Isabella I will love you for ever! Did you hear me...je t'aime?'' During the next hours she showed me all of the places she wanted me to see, feel and, -a journey that surpassed any dream I ever wanted to come true and I am forever grateful as nothing could have been more beautiful. I had finally become a man! And to this day, I don't know why, but, the next morning I called my mom and said: ''Mama, I am in Paris. Everything is great. Well...Mama, I have become a man! She asked: ''Oh...OK...can I speak to the lucky lady...? ''Uh...yes, of course,'' I handed Isabella the phone, she smiled. They talked for while in French...I beamed with pride and glanced at the fireplace mantel and smiled. There it was a bronze statue of Thor, the Nordic God who conquered his goddess Járnsaxa...it couldn't have been more perfect...I had conquered my greatest fear and desire. I became a man in the arms of the words most beautiful woman and my mother would be proud of me! She better since I wouldn't change a thing.

The following weeks Isabella showed me a whole new world, the one behind the glamorous magazine covers, the current fashions, the beautiful bodies and faces that compel men and women to buy the products they pose with. Over time, parts of that superficial world started to become clear. I saw how it worked. She talked about how the image of beauty is a carefully contrived artificial product. “You’d be surprised to know how little of what you see in the pages of glamour magazines has anything to do with public values or the demand of the masses. Even the smallest detail, like a colored shoestring or an off-center hat on the head of a tomboyish model, is the work of a few clever minds who make a small group of the well-to-do believe they are responsible for setting a trend. These designers, mostly gay, dictate what the hetero market will buy, prompting an endless stream of mainly Asian workers in copycat factories to crank out products that lose their value at the end of the season. My job is to understand what these few clever guys are doing when they present these designs to the world.” One morning while I was still lying in bed finishing the last pages of Larry Collins and Dominique La Pierre’s book Is Paris Burning? Isabella got out of the shower, walked past the mirror, stopped, and took a good look at her body. She turned around and checked out the shapely hard buns that had made her famous among bikini designers. They called her “Little Elle,” comparing her to Elle McPherson, who, at six feet, looked less glamorous but was an inch taller than Isabella and was known in the fashion industry as “The Body.” Some designers preferred Isabella to wear their best creations “to fill things up” as they said. That led to a run of the most outrageous bathing suits, some made of the skimpiest strings and things that even I didn’t think a woman should wear in public. I still may have been a bad judge of fashion, but I was finally able to look at her without blushing as she walked around naked. I now soaked up every eyeful and wanted more. I was spellbound by her fatal gift of beauty. How could anyone ever get enough? Isn’t the beauty of a woman the most powerful force that drives a man, hell, the entire economy? As she stood before the mirror, slowly moving her hands up her belly and across her nipples, she turned to give me a naughty smile and said, “This doesn’t last forever, you know. Let’s both enjoy it while we can.” Did she mean her body, our relationship, or both? Before I could respond, she stepped over, tossed back her long dark blonde manes, and crawled back into bed. Still wet from the shower, she kissed me deeply and said, “Don’t ever stop looking at me the way you just did. It really does something to a woman. I know what you want, and now I will teach you a little more about what women want.” She straddled me between her legs and lowered herself down on me. She kissed me and said in her typically mischievous voice, “I always laugh at how serious we models take ourselves, but if we didn’t, we wouldn’t stay on top.” I had finally settled into life with Isabella and had begun to think of our time together as almost routine when her friend Véronique came to stay with us. Véronique was a swimsuit model from the south of France who was in Paris for a shoot, and she was very friendly. It never even occurred to her to sleep in Isabella’s guest bedroom, opting instead to cuddle with us, opening up a whole new dimension to our relationship. It was hypnotic to watch the two of them together. Véronique’s gentle caresses, kisses, nibbles, licks, and teasing made my way of touching Isabella seem like a barbarian wrestling match. They insisted that I follow Véronique’s lead, get over my shyness, and learn to show my emotion through touch. “There is nothing manly about clumsiness,” Véronique whispered as she guided my fingers over and in to Isabella’s body and her own. “Look how softly, how slowly, how carefully I fondle her nipples, her earlobes, and.…” Yes I get it, let me try. “No, no, no, still too hard, too fast. Let the sensation saturate her brain, let it do its magic. Don’t skip to the next part. It’s not the amount of area you cover but the amount of subtle sensation you create.” A woman, they explained, is a totally different creature than a man. A man must be taught to feel. I was confused … until they both started to touch me … ooh, soo softly. It’s amazing what a good ear nibbling and a licking of the neck can do to your heartbeat! To watch their beautiful faces and bodies come together in their inch-for-inch discovery of my body nearly made me lose my mind. It was a sensory overload. I had to close my eyes, floating off in ecstasy, unaware of who it was who rode me to a shuddering climax. I would have joined any religion if that’s what it took for this lesson in sensual exploration never to end until I watched Veronique lick Isabella after I came deep inside her. They had asked me to cum inside their mouths before and orally shared my sperm. At first I thought it was the strangest thing but it was so sexy and hot to watch them really enjoy drinking my “boy sap,” encouraging me to “feed” them several times a day. Veronique loved licking us while I was fucking Isabella. Squeezing and licking my balls, pulling out my cock and sucking me and then guiding me back inside Isabella, who whispered me to lick her too in-between fuck-sessions. I tasted Isabella’s beautiful pussy juices mixed with Veronique’s saliva and once I got passed an initial sense of rejection it started to really loosen me up and absolutely turn me wild. I remember consciously letting go of layer after layer of cultural and instinctive reservations. All the taboos that were part of normal female/male interaction, as I knew them to be, were not only ignored but replaced by ways of sexual enterprise I have never even heard of. Yes, my friends back in Holland had spoken of “fingering” girls and “french” kissing them, even licking their boobies and some had whispered about oral sex, but what these two vixens did in Paris was something no one would believe and the more they did new things the more confident and inspired I became. I too wanted to introduce something new. And one morning, after a night of licking, fucking and “boy sap” swapping I slowly pushed my Veronique-pussy-juice moistened middle finger in to Isabella’s ass. She opened her eyes wide, moaned and then begged me to fuck her while she licked Veronique who grabbed my left middle finger, licked it and guided in straight in to her ass. Whoa! That was something I had not expected as all. They loved it! I had actually opened a whole new chapter of play. But of course, something I had not thought of was the hygienic aspects and Veronique quickly showed me how to clean out their bums before I fingered them. And as to be expected and to my horror, once they cleaned themselves with a large syringe type tool they begged me to slowly shove my 9” cock up their booties. At that point I knew how big my cock was because they had whipped out to the tailor measuring tape when they were sowing one of their summer dresses and called over “hey big boy let us measure that thing.” Veronique sucked me hard and Isabella, while letting out her hilarious laughs, measured from the base to top and said “ah, it is as I told you, a clean 22 cm.” I knew I was bigger than most guys, not a monster, but just a bit bigger because my friends back in Holland had told me and had to my initial chagrin even given me funny nickname describing that fact. But their opinion was based on soft-state observation. I had no idea if it was really that much bigger than normal erect. The girls noticed I briefly debated this most important ego induced fact and said “Don’t worry about it. You’re a big boy, but don’t get too excited, it’s how you use it what makes you a good lover, not the size. And we got some teaching to do.” Sure, I knew, I was still a bit rough and couldn’t figure out how finger one while fucking the other without losing my rhythm. Licking nipples without hurting them was another skill I was working on. Veronique loved it hard and rough while Isabella could only organs from me sucking her boobies if I did it very gently. At night, under semi-dark conditions I wasn’t even sure whose breast I felt pressed against my mouth. But that too was about to change. I didn’t develop night vision and as soon I honed my sense for gentle licking and suckling sure improved. After about a week of climaxing about three to four times per day I asked them if it was normal my balls start cramping from the frequent intense climaxes. They smiled and told me that it should be fine and I would get used to it. I had been wrong about most erotic and sexual details. I had been wrong about not being able to enjoy watching them lick each other “clean” after I climaxed in them. In fact I began loving it, as it made me feel important to them, these gorgeous goddesses of sex and passion every man stared at whenever we went out in town, all over Paris. I actually offered them something that I viewed as very personal, my bodily fluids. The cramping I expected too to go away and it did as soon I started to eat more eggs and drink twice the amount of water. It was as fascinating as it was frustrating to see these two troublemakers “work the room” wherever we went to. All it took is for them to enter for everyone to take note and change their behavior. Over six foot in heels their classic beautiful features stood out from every one else, even the other so called “hotties.” It visually disturbed other woman, throwing them off their game. Men were unable able to take their eyes off of them, which only made it worse. Their no-bra policy made Veronique and Isabella a disruptive force they managed so refined that one would swear they were oblivious of the impact it had. Sure, in France women often left their bra’s at home but most of them didn’t also have Isabella’s and Veronique’s faces and bodies. I knew well of their preparation, their deliberate choices to look a certain way, wearing revealing clothes and minimalist make-up, moving daringly close to the inappropriate. Loving every second of the impact they were going have on everyone that laid eyes on them. At other times they chose a dress that covered up their entire body but because they had hemmed their buttock area and just enough around their free bounding massive memes in subtle ways that drove men to the brink. Expecting to see a gorgeous women in a beautiful evening dress they too were given a peek at the figure below the ordain fabric, The frustrating part, I knew so well from my own experience, how their mere presence set off a fury of hormonal chemicals that smashed proper composure. To to see grown men fall apart upon seeing these two smooth, elegant, smiling, hip swaying manipulating masters of deception was perhaps not as devastating, but otherwise in every way as fascinating as a master magician make a rabbit appear out of a hat, or a bikini clad lady disappear in a cloud of confetti. Where we men really that weak and stupid…or was nature just doing it’s work to make sure enough of us continued the absurd cycle of give and take and these two witches merely took a little more than most when the picking was made so easy? I was not left any time to drift off in more than topical philosophical analysis of their bi-polar game of deduction. Not even two weeks in to Veronique’s stay they told me to cum in both of them at the same time. Veronique would lay on top of Isabella, lift her mind-blowing, ball-draining ass up in the air for me to enter her and then tell me to switch to Isabella, going back and forth for about thirty minutes. In between licking them both to orgasm and reentering them again until I climaxed. Half way the orgasm I would quickly pull out Veronique and spray the last ounces in to Isabella. They would then 69 each other, licking and swallowing every drop out each other’s pussies which drove them both to another orgasm. In between licking they would look up at me and smile. With cum-bubbles dripping from her pretty mouth Veronique said “you see what we do with it, nothing goes to waste. You should eat lots of eggs and pineapple from the fridge.” When I turned to head over to the kitchen Isabella, lifting her head from Isabella’s pussy, added “It makes your sap taste even better.” Now I understood why they bought a lot of pineapple and fruits, nuts and eggs. As I shoveled down my first slices, peeking aver at the two slobbering ladies, I intuitively I knew this latest addition to “Porn University” was something I better not share with my mother. The next day Isabella and Véronique continued their instruction on the nature of female beauty and sensuality. Isabella was still dressing up for a charity event to be held in the gardens at Versailles. She slid her tan, smooth, thirty-six-inch legs into a short summer dress as she explained to me, “A woman’s power lies in her ability to use her brain, develop confidence, yet remain feminine in a man’s world. By doing so she makes life less manly, less insensitive.” She put on her shoes, got up, and took a last look in the mirror. “Being beautiful is no different than being smart, strong, talented, driven, or plain old fashioned hard working. These qualities are either taught, genetically passed on, or consciously adopted. However they come about, they are merely qualities whose value should be measured only in terms of what anyone does with them. I use my beauty to sell clothes, but I will not use it to take advantage of men. They offer me Ferraris, Bentleys, and homes on the Riviera, but I will not have them. I would be selling my soul if I did. These men would have control over me, and I would lose my identity.” She sat on the bed across from me. “There are some things I have no control over. I can’t change what the media writes when I change my hair or dress. But I can use my looks to do good in the world. The trick is to be true to myself and donate funds to charities I believe in. Men will reach deep into their wallets if they are bidding against a model who just pledged $10,000 to a particular cause, a cause most people wouldn’t even know about if it weren’t for the models who first drew attention to it. As a group, we models donate hundreds of millions during our careers to charities.” We were on our way to the event when she told me, “My looks have made it possible for me to set aside enough money that I can some day start a family and remain financially independent from a man. I can guarantee you, I would hate to be a man and have to pay my bills.” Isabella and Véronique both confessed that while they loved the world of modeling, they were well aware that the clock was ticking, and they were both saving money for the day when they would no longer be paid for their beauty. They had each already accumulated over five million dollars by age twenty-four, not counting the hundreds of thousands they had given to charities. We picked up our friend Eva and continued along the Seine, and I looked out the window as we passed the Eiffel Tower. As if reading my thoughts, Isabella gave me a long wet kiss, the kind that started all the trouble under the iron legs of Madame Eiffel. Véronique smiled and leaned over for her kiss, and I was glad that Isabella got as much pleasure out of watching me kiss Véronique as I got watching the two of them together. I jokingly asked if they were lesbians. “Of course we are … look at her,” and they pointed at each other at the same time. How could I complain? Being a lesbian, a feminist, it was all fine with me, and I laughed and said, “But then what about me? Is this the end of my love affair with you, Isabella? She looked at Véronique, then at Eva, and then back to me and said mischievously, “You don’t know what we do when you’re not around.” A week later Véronique and Isabella showed me exactly what she meant. On the front page of a trashy celebrity news magazine was a photo of the three of them kissing at the party. The article was entitled “Kisses for Brazil.” It told how Isabella and Véronique had each donated $10,000 at a fundraiser for abused kids in Brazil, and their gifts had triggered an avalanche of similar donations. “You see, D, that’s how you make things happen. It pays to be a media lesbian.” Veronique left for the Bahama’s to shoot a calendar for Pirelli and was getting ready to pack enormous bags with bikini’s, fabrics and props that I then carried to a Mercedes van waiting to take her and six other models to the airport. While Isabella and I missed Veronique’s joyful presence, sexual prowess and cuddle-kisses, her absence allowed us to have long conversations about perspectives on life and our journey. Looking back at those days, so long ago, at an age controlled by learning, naivety, dreams and hopes makes it surprisingly clear how Isabella, on the end handled herself so well in a world ruled by superficial values and on the other observed hers from a deep spiritual, analytical perspective. During a long massage of her legs, feet, back and shoulders she told me something that perfectly illustrated her character. “We are often stuck in a comfort zone and I like shaking things up. And in order for you to understand how little we, while judging others for whatever reason, know about the person, we either admire or condemn them from one moment to another based on what we think, I need to show you something.” She pushed my head between her legs, and whispered, “but before I take you out to the park and show you, please help me get rid of that last little stubborn bit of stress.” She knew I absolutely loved, I mean really loved licking her and Veronique’s shaved healthy pussies, for ten minutes, an hour or even longer, and since I never had any other kind promised to heed her warnings, to always make sure. “You’ll have many ladies offer you their pussies and you need to think of your health first.” “OK, OK, I heard you, I will, but how would I ever know?” I asked. “You can smell and sometimes see it. And you can also insist on her being tested.” “But we didn’t show or have tests.” I responded, looking up and letting her clitorus snap back. She smiles and said “That’s true and since I was immediately confident that you were a virgin the risk was all your’s. You are lucky it was me who scooped you up, not all ladies in Paris would’ve done you the courtesy to worry about their and your health.” As I wondered why she would tell me this I slobbered, nibbled and sucked her to a climax that, once again, got my head jammed so hard between her legs that I couldn’t move a millimeter. She kissed me, swooped herself off the bed and slipped in to short summer dress. “No undies, are you planning something I need to worry about?” I asked because she had introduced me to her latest discovery; sex in public places. She got literally dripping wet by the mere idea to fuck in the park, pressed against a tree with men walking past, staring and loving the sight of her perfect body being nailed by her “Dutch farm boy.” “Today I am going to show you something first, and if we get to it maybe you can fuck me right under the Arc de Triomphe du Carrouselarch in front of the Louvre. That would a first.” “OK, that’s a deal,” I said and slipped my middle finger gently in to her, then in to her mouth and said “This time I want you to drink it and show the onlookers how to blow sperm bubbles.” She laughed and nodded in agreement, then quickly brushed her long hair in front of the mirror and said, while pulling the dead strands from the brush, “Beauty is a matter of perception. It’s not just what beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, but one has to recognize the context for it to be valued. Once we recognize it, we need to make sure our prejudices don’t get in the way.” Her words reminded me of a man I once spoke to. He told me that he had been able to see until his late teens when a laboratory accident blinded him for about ten years. What shocked him most was the fact that the girls and guys who had been most popular because of their beauty were not always the ones who showed the greatest friendship after he lost his eyesight. In many ways he said that the eyes can be huge obstacle actually connecting with others, because of our visual perception of their value. Once he could see again it was difficult, and it bothered him he didn’t desire them sexually as much when they, compared to other women, were not as attractive. “It took me a while to not close my eyes and imagine the woman from my childhood, the one I always used in the past to excite me, and instead put and effort appreciating the women I have sex with and loved for her friendship, intellect and loyalty,” he explained, clearly showing a sense of embarrassment. “It was a shock to learn that my ability to see them turned in to a mechanism of measuring their “fuckability” Thinking of my conversations with him, my mind recalling the sight of Isabella glide down the stairs, watching her bouncing breasts from above, pressing against the fabric of her dress. A sight that not only excited me and if had been any other women, it would probably diminish my effort to look further, among more important qualities, her character, and I wondered how I too, one day, could be happy making love to a woman that didn’t look and behave like Isabella or Veronique. It worried me because hardly anyone would. Fortunately, an unnecessary contemplation of something that resolved itself sooner than I expected. Isabella and I walked for a half hour and arrived at the Jardin des Tuileries, the historic public park between the Louvre and the Palace de la Concorde where Parisians gather to stroll and relax. She gestured me to sit on a bench along the gravel path surrounding the great fountain at the west end of the park. “I want to show you something that I’ve always wanted to do. So just watch me,” she said. I leaned back with great anticipation. She walked to the fountain, scooped up a handful of water and ran it through her long hair. She then sat on an unoccupied bench a little ways away from me, rubbed eyeliner and mascara under her eyes and cheeks and slumped over in her dirty jeans and T-shirt. Her wet, tangled hair dr*ped across her face, shielding what now appeared to be a gaunt, fragile figure that spoke of deep personal trauma. With her elbow resting on her knee, extending her trembling hand that passersby's soon filled with coins, before briskly walking on without giving her more than a hurried glance. She allowed this to continue for several minutes, then stood up and walked back to the fountain, where she threw back her hair and proceeded to take off all her clothes. She stepped gracefully into the water and began bathing herself, rubbing her face clean and raised herself until she stood straight for a moment, as a warrior heroin, taking in the attention with pride. The crowd froze, stopped in their tracks, mesmerized at the sight of her gorgeous nude body as she poured water over herself, rubbing her hands over the sensual curves of her torso and backside. Two impeccably uniformed gendarmes showed up, they too stood still, briefly scanned the crowd, then smiled at Isabelle, and while one of them rolled a cigarette the other shamelessly studied her naked figure as she took a shallow dive. Emerging like a mermaid, she raised her upper body, swung her head back, throwing off a splash of water and another wave of adoration spread through the crowd. Hobby photographers who ignored her moments before, seated on the bench, were now snapping whole rolls of film, catching her every move, even asking her to repeat a pose or two as she transformed herself into a heart-stopping Aphrodite. Only the keenest observer would have recognized the potential for exquisite beauty concealed by her vagabond disguise. I overheard one bystander comment, “My goodness, these clochards come on in all shapes. One will never know what’s hiding behind their dirty façade.” Isabella stepped out of the fountain and pulled a towel out of her bag and dried herself off. She then slipped in to a tailored, form-fitting sun dress, a pair of high heels and began parading back and forth in front of the fountain, posing for more photographs as the crowd oohed and aahed. She walked right up to one of the two police officers, took the dangling cigarette from his open mouth, drew and blew a puff of smoke in the air, then leaned in to kiss them both on their stunned lips and said: “Voilà!” and declared. “La transformation est complète!” Isabella’s metamorphosis from a homeless wretch into a glamorous angel right in front of a gaping crowd was indeed a spectacular illustration of the superficiality of our perceptions of others. She not only taught me something about how we judge one another, but revealed to me more of her own intelligence and her understanding of human nature, which made her even more attractive. Later that after noon we walked to the Arc de Triomphe du Carrouselarch, essentially a small version of the famous Arch The Triomphe at the center of the city. She reached back, pulled her dress forward and tore a small hole in it and said, “now fuck me through this hole as I lean against you.” I looked around at the crowd around us and thought there was no way we were going to get away with that. When I felt her hand rub my cock it dawned to me that she wasn’t going to listen to my sputtering. It surprised even me that I tried as much as protest, since none of the other objections made any difference to her or the outcome of her plans. To her, my humming and hawing came from insecurity and fear. “You got lose up, life is too short. This is so much fun. Most parade around the park, wanting to fuck this hot girl or that hot hunk we lock eyes with in passing, but lack the guts to even ask for a telephone number.” I leaned against the cool sand stone structure, in the shadow of the arch above us and closed my eyes, letting her gentle touch get me hard. All it took was the sensation of her firm cheeks against my thighs for it all to work fine. Before I knew I was balls deep in her soaking pussy. She was in total control, moving very gentle, back and forth. Smiling at men who walked past, who sensed something was going on but couldn’t see what or how deep I was inside of her. She even gestured one man to come over, asking him to take a picture of us with his camera, handing him her business card, “Oh, would you take a few pictures and send them to me at this address?” All the while pushing herself gently against by shaft. I had trouble keeping a straight face when, to my terror, an old lady walking her dog asked me how tall I was and if I didn’t mind posing with her, —to show her grand kids she’d met a blonde giant. Suspecting that if she saw where my skin flute was whistling Dixi she’d be less eager to pose with me and possibly drive her heel in to my balls for being such a naughty boy. Not long after the party at Versailles, Isabella was called to New York for a major new campaign, and her career was about to take a new direction. Before she left we had a few more long conversations. She painted in words what she had learned in the glamour industry, how people tend to interact with each other superficially. When the unavoidable day had come for us to go our separate ways, I had a very different outlook on life. She said something that took me years to understand: “Accept what Mother Nature has given you. Enjoy it. Treat it well and know that it is just an illusion. We are all flesh and blood, and you’ll only find happiness within yourself.” She kissed me for the last time and walked away. After ten paces she turned around, tears welled up in both our eyes, and she said, “I love you and I loved my time with you. Remember the good times we had. It’s possible we may never see each other again. Take care sweet Dutch boy. Au revoir.” That September she left for New York and I left Paris to take a job on a twelve-meter racing yacht called Clementine, sailing first to Tenerife and then to the French Caribbean island of Guadeloupe. It would be my first ocean race, and a dangerous one since we sailed through one of the worst storms in history. But I grew up and learned how to sail through anything.

—A few years later during a short visit to Paris, I called Véronique in the south of France, on the only number I had for her. The lady who answered gave me her number in Paris. We met the following day. She hugged and passionately kissed me, then told me to sit down, and with tears welling up in her eyes explained that Isabella flourished in New York for about a year, then went to Japan to film a commercial. There was a tragic accident, she fell from a scaffolding on the set and was fatally wounded. The American camera man who tried to comfort her as the ambulance was on its way reported that one of her final words were, “It’s okay … I know what love is, I found it. I now have to let go.” When I heard the news, I took Véronique in my arms and sobbed. We walked to the Eiffel Tower and lay in the grass where Isabella and I met for the first time, and shared the story of that early morning. We smiled and kept quiet for what seemed an eternity, until a sense of peace come over us. As if entering a new dimension, resetting all previous parameters, we understood what Isabella meant when she said “You’ll only find happiness within yourself.” I didn’t need to hold on to her physical image any longer. I knew I had to look beyond my own reflection in the mirror to find myself. But it would take a many more years and events to drive the point home. —-