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As I think about it, my mind veers from what actually happened to my fantasy. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of Mr. King this way, but it’s too difficult to resist. R slipping off my pants and laying me back on the bed, his hand accidentally-on-purpose brushing against the crotch of my panties, the softest touch against my clit. Me gasping and R looking up suddenly.
“Sorry,” he might say.
I’d grab his hand and put it back between my legs, and despite himself, he would stroke the silken fabric up and down, so gently, the whole while looking in my eyes until they fell closed and I began to moan. His fingers would slip under the fabric, feeling the soft skin of my delicate folds, getting wet with his touch. The only sound in the room would be our breathing, hitched and quickening, as he entered the wetness between my legs, slipping a finger inside me, moving toward my sex with his mouth. His lips would kiss my thighs, naked and quivering under his touch, and he’d pull the scrap of fabric aside and his tongue would touch the tip of my clit as I shuddered.
My hands are working hard now as I lay there by myself. But just the thought of R touching me is making me nearly ready to explode.
What if he were to come in right now and see me touching myself? Would he watch? Would he be embarrassed and shut the door? Or would he shut the door quickly and approach me on the bed, looking at me, his cock getting bigger and harder until he couldn’t stand it anymore?
Would he take down his pants and reveal the massive member I suspect he hides? Would he rip my panties off and plunge inside me, into my wet need?
I can almost feel him here, his cock moving in and out of me, frantic with desire, his lips on me.
Would my parents disown me if they knew this? It’s my last thought before I explode into a shattering orgasm.
After a quick shower, I grab the key and make my way down the hall to the elevator. I can’t help but stop to admire the beauty of the hallway itself, though. Strange that it feels like the first time I’ve seen it, considering I must have been stumbling along the corridor the night before. Gold-framed mirrors give the illusion of expansiveness to the corridor and the Persian carpet is incredibly soft under my sandals. It’s strange to see so many reflections of myself—reflections in reflections in reflections. It feels right somehow. After Kelsey died, I was crushed, fragmented, a thousand different Jordans trying to find their place. And now that R has found me, he’s gathering me, leaving me with the pieces to put back together.
At the end of the hall from the penthouse where R is staying, is an old-fashioned cage elevator that brings the guest to the main elevator. It’s part of the security of the penthouse, as well as adding to the ambiance, I figure. Its creakiness combines with its transparent walls of old panes of glass to reveal the city of Paris in a mottled, romantic light. Much better than the Paris I can afford on my own accord with credit cards maxed—the Paris of drug addicts and homeless, dogs, graffiti, and fruit stands.
I transfer to the next elevator, which is slick and elegant in a completely different way. There’s a French woman in it, slight of frame, but dressed to the nines. She’s “of a certain age” as they used to say, but the way she’s put together, she’s incredibly attractive. She doesn’t meet my eyes at all, even though I’m practically gaping at her. This is the kind of taste I have to learn. Will I be able to find a proper dress in the shop to look half as good as this woman, who’s probably thirty years my senior?
But can I get anything? Will I be brave enough to go into the shop? It’s a huge step to go from buying coffee to shopping in a French boutique.
Stomach churning, I’m on the elevator, and that’s enough for now. I lean against the wall to take a deep breath. Unbidden, an image of him comes into my mind, his hips pressing into mine, his cock thrusting up into me, lifting me up. I gasp involuntarily, and I think the lovely French woman flickers a glance in my direction, but she stops herself from staring. Then the elevator sounds and its doors open to reveal a gorgeous, golden lobby filled with beautiful people.
Momentarily frozen, I almost let the doors shut again. It’s so fearsome to be in Paris on my own, especially in such an intimidating, chic place, but at the same time, it’s no less fearsome in the seedier streets of Marais, where my hotel is. Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and stride out, mentally invoking the image of R, and the feeling I feel when I look at myself in the mirror, seeing my beauty, the sexiness in my curves for what feels like the first time.
There’s a small group of boutiques in the lobby, and I slowly make my way toward them. I have never shopped on anyone else’s dime, but if we are going to dinner for his business partners, there’s no way I can do it in my sandals and cotton dress. If I’m not going to embarrass R completely I’ll have to be dressed properly, and I figure he wouldn’t offer if the money were any kind of issue.
Three boutiques in the hotel lobby sell dresses, each more beautiful than the last. They’re not even clothes, really—they’re more like creations—sculptures or paintings, things worn by vaguely humanoid beauties. I go into the first where the shopkeeper looks at me dubiously. She speaks to me in English. But how does she know I’m not French? I haven’t even said a word.
“Is zere somesing I can ‘elp you find?’ Her words—immediately addressing me in English—are tinged with a sense of disdain that is becoming familiar.
“Well yes, I’m looking for a dress,” I say hesitantly, desperately trying to hold on to the confidence that had that I need.
“Eez thees dress for you?” she says, mouth slightly twisted in a sneer.
“Yes, and I’ll be needing shoes as well.”
“Ah’m very sorry, but ah don’ theenk we ‘ave anything for you ‘ere, but you are welcome to look.”
Why not? I wonder, my last bits of confidence eroding. I have to get something. R won’t be happy with me if I don’t do the one thing he asked of me after everything he has done for me.
“Is there somewhere else you can recommend?” I ask, quietly. She turns her head quizzically to the side.
“Well, all the stores in this hotel, are how-you-say—tres cher. Very expensive.”
“Oh, that’s not an issue, I’m charging it to the room.”
“What room eez zat?” Ah. I’ve gotten her attention.
“The penthouse.”
“Oh.” Her face immediately brightens. “Perhaps I...how you say... misspoke. A dress, you say?”
“Yes, but if you don’t have anything that works for me, I can move along.”
She smiles. “C’est pas necessaire.” Casting an evaluating eye on my hips, my waist, and my chest, she walks to the corner and pulls out three gowns. “For what occasion eez theez dress?”
