We disentangled ourselves from a rowdy dinner at a bistro at l’Odéon before it degenerated into a melee and walked arm in arm down Rue Garancière. A left at Saint-Sulpice, its mismatched towers and double colonnade now bathed in yellow floodlights, and then a right onto Rue des Cannettes to meet Leah at a subterranean wine bar called Chez Georges.
Leah and I were drinking buddies who, for reasons never discussed, had a kissing habit. An evening together would be punctuated by friendly French kisses — we were in Paris, after all — that were innocent by dint of being without agenda and often enjoyed in front of friends, who smiled and rolled their eyes and told us to ‘get a room’ or, better still, go to the bar and order another round.
We had taken it further just once, rolling up at my apartment at 3am, swaying drunk. We fumbled and stumbled, and the zipper of her tight pencil skirt stuck fast. It became clear the zip with not going to cooperate, and the skirt was too tight to squeeze down over Leah’s curves. We flopped onto my bed and fell unconscious.
The morning was one of light-hearted mutual recrimination. Whose idea had it been to come back here when we had never done so in three years? What on Earth were we thinking? Ridiculous! She had showered, put her rumpled clothes back on, downed two cups of sweet black coffee, smoked my last cigarettes, and gone home.
She was a Nordic beauty with blue-grey eyes and dark blonde hair. A talented diver in her youth, she retained some lithe athleticism even now, after a decade of drinking and partying her way across capitals of Europe as she worked her way up the pole at a private bank.
She was a wonderful kisser. Her tongue would slither around mine, instinctively varying the rhythm and pattern at just the right moment; her lips soft and giving one moment, firm and pressing the next. Our kisses never lost their way. Once or twice I had opened my eyes mid-kiss and saw that hers were closed. She was transported. We knew a relationship between us would probably spoil a friendship we both valued, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t kiss, did it? Looking back I suppose it was a little odd, yet it did not seem so at the time, at least to us.
Introverted and calm, my Indonesian lover was a very different creature. Edira’s beauty lay in her big, long-lashed eyes, lustrous black hair, and lean, muscular body. She had broken away from her traditional family in Java and travelled to London to study before making her way to Paris. It was in Paris that she blossomed, embarking on multiple affairs with men and women. “Here,” she told me, “I can be myself in a way that I could never be at home. I am a black sheep there.”
In the beginning she had survived working shifts at the Burger King near Place de la Bastille by day and waitressing by night. Three years later she was making enough money to support herself in some style by sourcing furniture from her homeland for distributors in France and Germany.
After an hour in Chez Georges, Leah suggested we go to her place for a nightcap. I decided to leave it to Edira. If she said go home we would go (I was in the mood to make love, and approaching the point of intoxication at which sex becomes less and less of a practical proposition for a man); if she said yes we would go to Leah’s. She nodded.
It was a relief to walk off the fug of the bar. This was back in the days when smoking was permitted in bars and, by 1am, Chez Georges was a miasma of Gitanes and Marlboro fumes. Reaching the old apartment building where Leah lived, we squeezed into a tiny elevator, dimly lit behind its ornate wrought iron cage, and trundled up to the sixth floor.
I was directed to the kitchen while the girls went to the balcony. “Look in the fridge. I’m pretty sure there’s some wine in there.” When I popped my head round the door to ask if the expensive looking Chablis in the chiller was OK, I saw that the balcony was deserted.
Long minutes had passed by the time I had spied the corkscrew on top of the extractor fan, gathered three glasses, and opened the bottle. I stepped out on the empty balcony, deposited the bottle and glasses on a table, and padded down the hallway to the bathroom. I washed up, turned the tap off, and listened. Silence. I walked further down the hall and pushed the bedroom door fully open.
Edira was standing at the foot of a big double bed. Her skirt formed a pool of darkness at her feet, which were encased in a pair of white high heel peep-toe pumps. Leah was sitting on the bed. Her right hand was down Edira’s tiny white panties and I could detect a steady, rhythmic movement. My synapses fizzed as I reconciled erotic reality with prosaic expectation. I had not seen this coming.
The silence was like a crystal, and I felt that if I were to utter a sound the crystal would shatter, and whatever was happening would stop happening.
Edira turned to look at me as the hall lights illuminated the scene and then let out a little gasp as a thrill of pleasure forced her eyelashes to flutter and her lids to close. I placed myself behind her and looked down. Leah’s index and middle fingers were buried in Edira’s smooth pussy whilst her thumb rubbed the clitoris. A little pool of liquid had collected in the palm of Leah’s hand and a rivulet ran from her wrist down a pale, slender forearm.
I tugged Edira’s panties down and placed my hand on her belly so that my fingers pulled up gently on her pubis. She tilted her pelvis forward in response, at which Leah dropped to her knees and replaced her thumb with her tongue. I reached down a little and held Edira apart as Leah’s tongue flickered and licked.
Edira’s body began to tremble as Leah began to alternately suck and lick, and jammed two fingers all the way in. I could feel under my hand that Leah was curling her fingers to press up against the g-spot. She looked up at me with an inscrutable expression of lust, and then reapplied herself.
There was a soft squelching as Edira reached the point of no return. She let out, “Oh my god oh my god oh my god, I’m going to come,” followed by a drawn out moan which rose in tone until she reached a shuddering climax. I supported her weight as her quivering legs gave way.
I knew from experience this was not the end and told Leah, “Keep going now and she will come again.”
I unbuttoned Edira’s blouse and cupped her breasts. As she approached the event horizon of her second orgasm I squeezed her breasts more firmly and clamped her nipples between my thumb and index finger. As she felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, Edira grasped Leah’s neck and began to pump her hips. Leah tipped her face up and held her tongue stiff as Edira worked her pussy back and forth.
When it was over we stayed there, like that, for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Leah broke the crystal. She wiped the wetness off her mouth and chin, stood up, kissed Edira full on the lips, and smiled at me. “I don’t know about you, but I think I need a drink!” I took Edira’s hand and we followed her back down the hallway. Leah poured wine and asked me to fetch ice. “Please,” she giggled. “It’s a little warm now.” Still wearing her high-heel pumps, Edira slumped into a chair. Her nude body gleamed with a sheen of perspiration.
“You know, if you want Paul to stay here with you, it’s fine. I can go.” I looked at her, mystifed by her thought process, and then I found myself saying, “No, I think you should stay.” Leah leaned over and took my hand. “I promise I’ll deliver her back to you tomorrow.” It was decided.
We finished the wine and it was time to go. Leah walked me to the front door and, as I turned to say goodnight, she pulled me down and kissed me longer and deeper than she ever had before and I felt her warm, moist breath in my ear. “Thank you”.
It was an easy half-hour stroll to my apartment, crossing the river at Pont Neuf and then on into the Marais. I sat out on my own balcony, rolled a smoke, focused my attention on imprinting this night in my memory, and watched the first fingers of dawn creep into the sky as the city began to wake up.
Leah and I remained drinking buddies and, although our kisses died away, we would often hold hands companionably as we talked. Edirah spent every other Saturday or Sunday afternoon with her, and I never tired of taking my beauty to bed afterwards and mounting a pussy already aroused and pleasured by the same expert tongue which had entwined with mine so many times.
Mr. Hedone
