Friday afternoon, early summer 2009. I’m crashing in Paris on an artist residency stopover, six months of anonymity in a city that doesn’t know me. Beaubourg’s fourth floor, permanent exhibit. Crowded halls echo with footsteps. I spot her in the painting room: stunning Eurasian girl, early twenties, feline grace. White skirt hugs her slim frame, tight top. Long black ponytail, 160cm, perfectly proportioned, maybe 45kg.
Lose her in the crowd, phone rings. Spot her again by the abstract expressionists, Motherwell’s massive canvas. She asks in English about the painter. I explain, we chat. Kim, 23, from Copenhagen. Danish mom, Korean dad. Art student at Royal Academy, part-time model. In Paris for days before Vienna train to meet a friend.
The Stopover
Suggest coffee at Georges terrace. Laughter flows, fresh and magical. Her body sways as she talks. Propose dinner. She agrees, heads to her 8th arrondissement hotel to change. Meet at La Perle bar in Le Marais, 8pm.
Arrive late. She’s there in low-rise dark jeans, black heels, tight black top, aubergine suede jacket. Two guys hit on her. Jealous twinge. She smiles wide, kisses me firmly, arms linked. ‘My date tonight.’ They vanish.
Kirs, Pouilly Fumé at bar. Simple bistro dinner, Burgundy red. She leans in, whispers over noise. Perfect teeth, cedar-fig scent, plump lips glistening. Up for dancing at Maxim’s special night. Friend gets us in, table with his gay crew. Champagne flows.
She grinds close on the electro dancefloor. Sweat mixes. She pulls me in, tongue dives deep. Child-fresh breath despite drinks. Bites lips, sucks. Instant hard-on. She rubs her crotch on me, rhythm matching bass. Hands under her top, skin hot. Her excitement tastes subtle, primal.
4am. She wants her hotel. Taxi hunt on Concorde place. Luck strikes. To Les Mathurins, four-star. Tell driver drop-off only. She insists: ‘You come with me!’
Swipe magnetic card, elevator hums. Door clicks shut. She jumps me, rubbing hard. Sweat-perfume mix drives me wild. ‘Wait, too excited!’ She unbuttons my shirt, licks chest, pits. Kicks off heels, peels jeans. Pink cotton thong, top and jacket on. Jumps bed, cues Sade’s ‘Smooth Operator’ on iPhone.
The Transit
Striptease: graceful, teasing. Suede jacket drops. Thong slides off, tiny dark bush over smooth slit. Top lifts, perky small tits. Spins, legs wide, cameltoe wet from dancing. So slim, fist fits between thighs.
Leaps, legs over shoulders. Light as air. Pussy at my mouth: sweat, sweet perfume, musky tide. Lick fine hairs, vulve. She moans to Sade. Tongue deep, juices flow. Spotlight beams her open sex. She cums hard: ‘I love it!’
Drops me on bed. Rips clothes. Licks balls, sucks whole. Tongue rims anus, probes. Massages nuts, sucks circumcised head like vacuum. Tongue in urethra. Edges me, squeezes base. Explodes down throat. Swallows all. Vertigo orgasm.
Dawn light floods bourgeois room. She strokes me awake. Freshen up: piss, brush teeth. Back to bed, her carnal scent lingers. Morning whispers: happy, perfect start.
Roll on her. Legs spread wide. Pin arms, she lifts knees. Slide in slow. Tight like virgin ass. Hits cervix. Pump deep, lift her light body. She cums, floods. ‘Come in me!’ Unloads inside, sucking walls milk me.
The Departure
Checkout time nears. Her Vienna train calls. Quick shower, tangled sheets rumple. Magnetic card returned at desk, corridor echoes fade. Steamy goodbye kiss in lobby. No numbers exchanged. Back to my studio, her scent on skin. Paris transit fantasy: urgent, anonymous, etched forever. She boards train tomorrow; I vanish into residency haze. Perfect one-night derailment.