Paris Chapter Five (complete)
Sophie was feeling a little bored today. She had taken a day off from the busy schedule of the cafe (simple enough to arrange, given that the cafe belonged to her), and under normal circumstances she might have strolled through the park, taken a gentle walk along the Seine, or perhaps have just caught up with her reading. Today, however, she was feeling a little wistful, a little playful - she wanted to pamper herself, to remind herself how beautiful she was, and she felt deserved a little gift to herself too.
She knew a certain photographer, a Monsieur Duchamp, with a studio not too far from the cafe. He was a regular customer (by which I mean, a customer of the cafe - Sophie had never had Duchamp in her bed), and she had seen prints of his work, and liked what she saw. His speciality appeared to be street scenes, landscapes, moody architecture - but she had long felt that perhaps a change might be as good as a rest for him. Today, as she dressed for the day, she noticed his card on her dressing table, and decided that perhaps today was the day she would pay him a visit.
He was, of course, delighted to see her. All men adored Sophie. There was not a man in the cafe who didn't want her, didn't crave the touch of her skin, didn't dream of the taste of her, didn't long for the day when he might experience the sweet relief of being nestled naked between her thighs. She had slept with many men, as I have related to you before, but few fulfilled her, few gave her what she wanted. Only recently, since my arrival in the city, was she beginning to discover that what she really craved was domination over these fawning men, the intoxicating thrill of taking, rather than being taken. Alone in bed at night, the idea of this warmed her, made her wet. Her masturbatory fantasies were becoming filled with helpless men - and often women too - held down by her as she took them, rode them, used them for her own pleasure, owned them completely. She was not going to be used by a man again, this she knew for sure.
But I digress. Sophie's sexual journey during my weeks in Paris will become clearer as I tell my own story, but this particular incident, one related to me by Duchamp himself one drunken evening at the cafe, may serve to give further insight to her changing character. And it may also help illuminate my own inevitable journey from dominant man about town to my becoming her plaything, her slut, her dirty little whore. A journey I embraced with eager satisfaction and vicarious pleasure.
The photographer, of course, doted on her the moment she arrived. Often this would annoy her, but today she was happy to be worshipped - today, she had already decided, it was all going to be about her. After enduring his flirtatious small talk, she reached the matter at hand - she desired a series of portraits of herself - something personal and intimate, to perhaps share with lovers. Although Duchamp protested that he had little experience with portraits, Sophie was insistent - the quality of the photographs was secondary to her to his own discretion, and to his ability to capture the moment, capture her mood. She wanted, it soon became clear to Duchamp, to be photographed naked.
He was, naturally, completely willing to oblige...
Sophie patiently watched Duchamp setting up his studio with quiet amusement. It was clear from his demeanour that he had little or no experience with models - his studio clearly saw little use, and it took him some time to position his camera correctly, adjust his lenses for interior shots - even his lighting was basic and largely inadequate. She knew there were many far more experienced photographers in Paris, who would undoubtedly do her more justice, but then it had never really been about the photographs. Glamorous shots she could arrange any time, in the comfort of her own rooms, with complete privacy and opulent surroundings - there was something more immediate about this session for her - she was feeling aroused, she wanted Duchamp to capture that arousal, and she wanted the photographs to be real, to be true - for this to happen, all artifice needed to be removed. It needed to be simply her, aroused and wet; a photographer as aroused as she was, capturing that lustfulness; and the sensuality which that arrangement would bring. She wanted the photographs to be as much a document of his own lust as hers - wanted an emotional exchange, wanted to see herself as he saw her, wanted to understand why she excited men so easily - and she especially wanted to excite him. Shy men were always one of her failings.
He appeared to be almost finshed - if anything, he seemed to be fidgeting a little too much, rather nervously.
"Would you mind if I undressed?" Sophie asked, a little coquettishly.
Duchamp fumbled a reply. "Erm.. no... no... I thought... I thought you might want a few shots with... er... with your clothes on...?"
"Why waste time?" Sophie smiled. "But I can see you're a little nervous - perhaps if I just strip down to my undergarments for now, until you're a little more relaxed..."
Duchamp blushed, fiddling again with his lens, adjusting the lighting - Sophie smiled to herself, and began to unbutton her blouse. She could feel his eyes upon her - although he was doing his best to appear busy, she knew he was watching her as she began to undress. He was a customer of her cafe - all the men who came to the cafe desired her - the curse of minor celebrity, she would often think to herself. Of course he watched her - for him, heaven had entered his small room. An angel disrobing in front of him.
Her suggestion of keeping on her undergarments was something of a ruse. She was wearing no undergarments to speak of. Just a flimsy nightshirt, lace and silk. Her back was turned to him discreetly, but she couldn't resist taking a little time as her blouse slipped from her shoulders, letting it pause for a moment as it slid down her back. For a moment, there wasn't a sound in the room - she could sense him holding his breath.
The temperature in the room felt physically warmer. She allowed the blouse to fall to the floor, and turned to him, her silk nightshirt hardly fastened, naked underneath. He stood and looked at her - she could almost hear his heart pounding.
She smiled at him again - a dazzling smile that melted him in an instant.
"Shall we begin?" she asked.
Patience had never been a virtue that Sophie especially possessed - she had always lived for the moment, acted upon impulse, allowed her whims to carry her forward - occasionally to her detriment, but such impulsiveness kept life thrilling, exciting, and frequently very sexual. As she posed by the window for Duchamp, giving him tantalising glimpses of her soft, naked skin, her delicate, enticing curves, she longed for him to be able to photograph her with more haste, to be able to capture her movements, to be more in rhythm with her. She found herself having to wait between each shot as he exchanged plates, and his nervousness, his clear arousal, were doing nothing to speed him up - the poor man was very distracted.
Between shots, she reminded herself why she had chosen this studio, this photographer - he clearly wanted good photographs, wanted to be able to freeze this moment in time, to be able to enjoy looking at her later, alone, his cock no doubt in his hand, bringing himself to fevered orgasm as he recalled the intimacy of the session. None of this was of any interest to Sophie. She was far more interested in Duchamp as a voyeur, watching her, wanting her, desperate to touch her - she didn't care about the quality of the photographs, beyond them being an expression of his lust - she wanted to tease him, to arouse him, wanted that heat between them, wanted to feel his lust burning from him as he watched her pose and move for him.
She looked down at his crotch as he fumbled with the plates, looking for signs of his excitement. He was undeniably getting hard - there was a tell-tale bulge in his trousers - but he wasn't as intensely aroused as she wanted him to be - he was far to busy messing about with lenses and lights to feel the mood - perhaps he was afraid to disappoint her with the photographs. Or perhaps he was simply too shy to push her further.
Sophie didn't need to be pushed. She had already decided to give Duchamp far more than he would dare to ask for. Despite his nervousness, despite her frustration with the time this was taking, she was wet. Wet between her thighs. She loved to be watched. She was going to show him far more than a glimpse of bare shoulder, of this she was certain.
Another shot, by the window again, her nightshirt daringly open now - she knew she was displaying everything to him, in that soft light from the window, and his breath was still rapid, his movements nervous and twitchy. Why didn't he ask her to remove her nightshirt? Couldn't he take a hint? She wanted to be naked for him. Perhaps she would need to take the initiative...
Sophie sat down as he changed the plate again, facing away from her. He needed some different lens or other - he excused himself from the room for a moment, busily rooting through boxes in the next room. Sophie took the opportunity to slip her hand between her thighs, wanting to touch herself. Her fingers traced up the inside of her bare thighs, to her cunt - so very wet... her fingertips traced up the lips of her wet slit, feeling them part deliciously, and trembled a little, dragging her finger up to her clit, spreading her wetness over and around it, rubbing gently in circles, stroking herself... she felt her clit pulse gorgeously... rubbing again a few more moments, then moving her fingers away from her clit discreetly as Duchamp re-entered the room, watching him, smiling at him as she brought her wet fingers up to her lips, sucking them briefly. He watched her for a moment, clearly unsure what to say, not entirely sure what she was doing, then turned nervously to his camera, changing the lens, adjusting again for the next shot.
While he had his back to her, Sophie slipped her fingers back down between her parted thighs, caressing her clit again - if he was to turn around, right now, he would catch her touching herself... just a few feet away from her, and he had no idea that she was masturbating, had no idea just how wet she was, how much she was throbbing... perhaps she should allow him to see her doing this... but not yet... as he turned around, ready for another shot, her hands were already back at her sides, standing up ready for the next photograph.
He was about to give her direction, but she acted first, smiling at him again, and allowing her nightdress to slip from her shoulders, all the way down her back, and drop to the floor. She stood naked by the window, smiling at him, and posed again - he took the shot remarkably quickly. And then another as she turned to face him, and another... she glanced down at his trousers - now he was fully erect - his arousal was obvious, straining from his crotch - she imagined it must be a little uncomfortable, but she simply smiled as he took another couple of shots.
Needing more photographic plates, he disappeared momentarily into the adjoining room again. Sophie leaned against the edge of the window. Seeing his cock bulging so resolutely at his crotch had pushed her own arousal further - she was dripping wet now - she was sure she could feel a trickle of wetness down the inside of her thigh, her clit pulsing deliciously. She lifted a hand to her breast, cupping it, pinching her nipple between her thumb and forefinger - the sensation shot straight to her clit - she hadn't realised quite how close she was - he was still rustling through packages in the next room, a few feet away - she quickly slipped her fingers between her thighs, dragging more wetness up from her lips, her fingers skidding around her clit - she was pulsing so much now - she rubbed harder... faster... she felt herself tremble hard, a rush of sexual pleasure throbbing from her clit - she couldn't stop it now - she leaned back further against the window, opening her thighs, her fingers splashing as they skidded around her clit, pinching her nipple again - and that was it - she let out a stifled cry, her body convulsing as her orgasm rippled through her, her fingers rubbing, stroking urgently as she came deliciously - and as her soft cry escaped her lips... Duchamp stepped back into the room, frozen in the doorway, gasping audibly as he looked at her, his gaze fixed on her as she convulsed through her orgasm...
Sophie hadn't intended to be seen like this - she'd lost control, and that was most definitely against her nature - this was somehow too intimate, she hadn't been ready for him to see her like this. And yet there he was, frozen in the doorway, his mouth open, startled and intensely aroused at the same time, looking at Sophie as she came urgently, unable to stop herself, her fingers rubbing hard at her clit, her body trembling in delicious, rippling convulsions.
As quickly as she could, she attempted to compose herself, but it was an impossible task - she was naked, her face was flushed, she was still catching her breath, her hand was still firmly between her thighs, and she knew he had seen everything. "My apologies," she smiled, slipping her wet fingers from between her thighs, her casual manner already brushing off the incident as if it were nothing, "this situation appears to have affected me more than I realised, I hope I haven't embarrassed you."
Duchamp struggled to find the words. Sophie stole another glance to his crotch, her gaze drawn to it - he was clearly very erect inside his trousers, clearly wanted her very much indeed. She wondered if he had ever seen a woman masturbate before, or reach a self-induced orgasm like that, so wantonly. "Madame, I... please forgive me if I seem overly forward, but... I wish I had been able to witness the entire event... by the time I had realised what was happening, you were done..."
"You were expecting me to put on a show for you? Is that what you mean, Monsieur Duchamp?" Sophie adopted her most scolding voice, but not without irony, as she knew very well it had always been her intention to do precisely that - though not at that particular moment, admittedly.
"No!... no... of course not... I'd never dream..."
"You were hoping I'd perform for you, like some woman from the streets?" she added, pressing her advantage.
"No... I swear... the thought never entered my head..."
Sophie sat down at the chair by the window. She looked at him for a moment. Of course, he was lying, but she didn't mind that - he was still intensely erect - it wasn't his fault that he had walked in on her right at that moment. She smiled at him - warmly, she hoped.
"And now...?" she asked. "Has it entered your head now...?"
"I... I'm not sure I know what you mean..."
"Would you want to watch me now, Monsieur Duchamp? Having seen me already surrendering once to climax, would you want to see it again...? The entire event, as you stated...?"
Perspiration dotted his forehead. The poor man had no idea what the right answer was. Sophie wasn't intending to confuse him, but this was clearly a situation with which he was unfamiliar.
"You're aroused, are you not, Monsieur Duchamp...?"
"Well... I... I mean, that is to say..."
"I can see that you are." She looked down at his bulging crotch again. "Please, don't be embarrassed. I didn't intend for it to happen like this, but I think it's unfair of me to tease you in this situation. Please - take a seat, opposite me..."
Duchamp pulled a chair opposite hers, and sat down, a little nervously. Sophie continued.
"Would you still care to witness the entire event, as you expressed earlier?" she asked quietly, smiling again. His gaze drifted down her naked body. His breath was quickening again.
"Yes. Yes I would, very much..." he replied.
"Then I'd like to give that to you. A gift, as a gesture to you for embarrassing you. I have certain conditions..."
"Of course..." he murmured, "anything..."
"My condition is that you don't touch me. You may look, you may not touch. I would also prefer it if you do not touch yourself. That you can do afterwards, when I have gone. Is that understood?"
"I... yes, that's understood... I'm not to touch myself...?"
Sophie sighed. It wasn't his fault. But this was her day, her present to herself. Just this once she didn't want it to end with some man grunting astride her, pouring his cum over her - today was all about her. You may unbutton your trousers," she smiled, "you do look a little uncomfortable - and if you must, you can rub yourself through them - but your cock stays in your britches, that way we both know where we stand, where the limits are."
"I understand" he replied. He blushed a little, his fingers nervously unbuttoning his trousers. Despite herself, Sophie couldn't resist watching his fingers work their way down his fly, and she said nothing as he slipped his hand inside, readjusting himself, briefly imagining her own fingers wrapped around his warm, hard cock, then putting that thought back out of her mind. His hand back outside his trousers, resting against the visible contours of his cock through the material, he blushed a little again, and settled back in his chair, watching her.
Sophie smiled at him, leaned back in her own chair a little, and spread her thighs. She was still, as she had been for the entire conversation, extraordinarily wet. Duchamp gasped audibly as he looked at her, his gaze running down her naked body, fixed for a moment between her thighs. She knew he would be able to see how wet she was. Something about that excited her. She smiled again, sliding one of her hands up to cup her breast - and as it had done before, a pinch of her hard nipple between her thumb and forefinger caused her clit to pulse - she gasped gently, sliding her other hand down her soft, naked belly, over the thin strip of neatly trimmed pubic hair, and down to her clit. She began to stroke it, circling over and around it, rhythmically, a little greedily.
Duchamp was breathing hard. Sophie didn't want to pay him too much attention - she so didn't want to fuck this man, and knew that watching him too much might make her want him, but she couldn't resist a furtive glance. He was leaning back in his chair, his gaze all over her naked body, not knowing where to look next. One of his hands gripped his chair. His other hand was between his thighs, rubbing his cock through his trousers, his fingers keeping the same rhythm as her own. This must be torture for him, she thought to herself.
She spread her thighs wider. She could feel the lips of her cunt pouting between her thighs, literally dripping wet - a trickle of her wetness was dribbling from inside her, dripping slowly down onto the chair, dampening it. Her fingers skidded faster around her clit - but it wasn't enough - she needed something inside her.
Still stroking her clit, she moved her other hand down between her thighs, slipping her fingers between her open pussy lips - Duchamp gasped again, and she pushed three fingers deep inside her cunt, starting to fuck herself with them, thrusting them in and out, her juices splashing with each thrust, a wet stream now trickling onto the chair as her fingers rubbed harder and faster around her throbbing clit. She was breathing hard now, groaning as she masturbated, so close to orgasm, needing it, wanting it...
Duchamp groaned audibly - she looked over at him again - his hand was inside his trousers, clearly rubbing his bare cock - it was against the agreement, but nothing was going to stop Sophie now - she imagined her own hand around his cock, imagined pumping it up and down, his hard penis pulsing and erect in her fingers, throbbing and swelling as she stroked - there was a very wet splash from her cunt as she felt a rush of her juices flowing from inside her - in her mind's eye her hand was stroking him urgently now - imagining a sudden long spurt of cum flooding from his erection, pouring over her hand - that was it - she groaned long and hard, her body suddenly shuddering into intense convulsions, more of her wetness splashing out as she began to come, so hard, so fucking hard, her orgasm overwhelming her... pulsing and pulsing and pulsing - she had reached a plateau now - she needed another, needed to come again, her clit throbbing, aching for relaease again... her thighs trembling, so much wetness pouring from her cunt... she stole another glance up to Duchamp - he was still rubbing his cock, but he still hadn't cum - she could hear his hand slapping against the hard flesh of his erection as he stroked himself urgently - for a moment she saw his cock in his hand, so hard, so swollen as his fingers stroked up and down its length - it was what she needed - her clit pulsed hard again - she screamed in ecstasy, long and hard, primal, her body bucking on the chair, arching up, a second orgasm pulsating through her, again and again and again.... her juices splashing from her cunt, drenching the chair... she lost a few moments then, her body flooding with intense sensations... and as she came to rest again, her heart pounding, her thighs wet and trembling, a puddle on the seat beneath her, Duchamp was still there, watching her, still stroking, not wanting to miss anything...
"I have to go" she breathed. She could feel her wetness dribbling down the inside of her thighs.
"Please..." he gasped, "please just touch me... I'm so close..."
Sophie stood up, a little wobbly, and gathered up her clothes, throwing her coat over her naked body, looking for a moment at the silk nightdress in her hands. With a soft smile, she rubbed it for a moment between her damp thighs, and handed it to him.
"Use this," she said. "Use this and think of me." And with that, she swept out of the door, naked but for her coat, into the late summer sunshine.
And there, alone in his studio, Duchamp tugged down his britches, looking at the wet chair in which she had sat moments before, wrapped her damp silk nightdress around his achingly erect cock, and with a few brief, urgent strokes of his hand he came, spurt after spurt of thick wet cum pouring again and again from his swollen cock, his warm spunk spilling frantically over the lace and silk, soaking it with his cum, marking it forever with his lust.
to be continued in Chapter Six, after the weekend...