Eighteen-year-old Louis sat at an outside table at Café Aroma in Rue De Mon Amour mesmerised by the girls on display in shop-front windows on the other side of the street, each girl in various stages of undress and repose advertising her own particular pleasures. He watched as men strolled by, stopped, looked, and collected a wave or a pouted kiss from the occupant … then an empty window. How did you choose? Who would you choose? Louis wondered. Every fantasy or day-dream was on offer. He sipped his wine.
She leans over and kisses me teasingly on the lips, eyes, up and down my neck; butterfly lashes softly caress my face. She flicks her tongue in my mouth like a snake scenting its prey. Her taste nips at my tongue. Gripping her ample breasts I bite and suck greedily the dark plums of their nipples. I groan as she caresses …strokes and denies me. Tapped by my own lust I mount her with provoked antagonism, spearing into her with the sound of a man in torture as my frenzied body exerts itself to free me from the pain ...and surrenders to la petite mort.
The clamour of the Paris city alerted him, the wine glass still clutched in his hand. She remained sitting across the street in the window.
published 4 May 2012