Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr
Lucky girl that I am.”
“You won’t smile so easily, mademoiselle, if they stretch your beautiful naked body out on the wheel, your legs spread so far apart to reveal the delicate inner pleats of your pink pussy lips, your breasts pointing outward, your nipples sucked on at the whim of the hangman, his ugly tongue licking you wherever he wishes.”
A bad taste lingered in his mouth. The wheel was too cruel a punishment when the girl’s only crime was foolishness. He remembered how many years he had suffered pain, stiffening in fear, never knowing how long the blows from his stepfather would last.
In his mind now, his thoughts went back to Giverny, to his childhood home with heavily fringed lace curtains keeping out the light and sending him scurrying out into the fields to paint. He could see the soft fields of poppies, azaleas, peonies, begging for him to take up his brush, hours he spent painting, knowing when he returned home, his stepfather would try to beat this “painting nonsense” out of him. Sometimes he couldn’t paint at all. The years of beatings by his stepfather took away his sight and set off a painful emotion that pressed upon his artist’s soul, dragging out the mental effect of the beatings long after the physical pain had ceased.
The girl knew nothing of his pain. Innocent of life’s harshness, she blinked, running her long fingers up and down her cheek. Such soft skin, untouched. “You are a pervert, monsieur, though a handsome one—”
He dug his fingers into the soft flesh on her buttocks, squeezing her until she squealed. “I promise you, mademoiselle, I won’t hurt you. I wish only to pleasure you.”
A saucy laugh escaped the redhead, but unlike the girls he met up with in the brothels of Paris, she didn’t lower her eyelashes or coyly turn her cheek to allow the morning sun streaming through the glass roof to highlight her bone structure. This girl was the exception, and that intrigued him even more.
She said, “If you only knew what pleasure you bring me.”
“Zut alors, mademoiselle, you surprise me with your boldness.”
She laughed, throwing her head back. Her voice was low and husky. His cock hardened with desire, straining against his pants. “But if you try to fuck me, monsieur, you’ll be limping home. I know karate.”
Kay-rah-tay? What the hell was that? A devil’s curse?
“Pardon, mademoiselle?” Paul blinked, frustration slowing down his exploration of her cunt. He removed his fingers from inside her, but that didn’t stop her from pressing her slim hip up against his thigh. He suppressed a groan. He was never a man to let his physical needs override his reason. He’d been nurtured in a society where manners were more important than emotion. This little firebrand, he noted with wry amusement, had no manners.
“No man ever dared proposition me as you have, monsieur, asking me to…to…it’s so unbelievably erotic, so sensual, it takes my breath away.” She pulled away from him, but he held on to her. “Are you real? Or are you a dream?” She squeezed his forearm. “Mmm, you are real and ripped.”
“Ripped, mademoiselle?”
“Buff. A hunk. Pumped-up.”
Her words sounded strange to his ears. A country dialect? She spoke with a peculiar accent, lapsing into English, using words he didn’t understand, although he knew a little of that barbaric language.
“I’ll rip ‘off’ your clothes, mademoiselle, and make love to you not once but twice before the cock crows at dawn.”
She laughed. “I love the B horror movie dialogue.”
Ignoring her, he continued, “I’ll make you beg for mon mandrin, mademoiselle.”
“Mandrin?” she asked, not understanding. “Dick, penis?”
He pulled her closer to him. “You fascinate me, mademoiselle, with your choice of words. Parisian females need very little language to get their meaning across, using the elegance of their bodies to let a man know what they want.”
“I know what I want, Monsieur Borquet.”
He drew in his breath. “You know my name, mademoiselle?”
She smiled. “I’ve seen your work, monsieur. Very impressive.” Her eyes moved downward. She squeezed his crotch. “Like the rest of you.”
Gritting his teeth, he ignored her squeeze and her sarcasm, his hands moving up and down the slender form of his captive with an experienced touch. “Obviously, mademoiselle can’t wait to experience the pleasure of my cock in her.”
“I warned you, monsieur,” she said, bringing her knee up to his groin, but his hands were faster. Not only was he a master with a paintbrush, but he had the hands of a boxer. Big. Strong. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his face so close to hers he felt her breath on his cheek.
“I can’t wait any longer, mademoiselle. I want to taste you.”
He bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Kissed her hard. He parted her lips easily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, and he felt her body shudder. A more delicious sensation reveled through him as the half-dressed young woman struggled like a wildcat. He sensed in her a fiery passion that could make the night sparkle. Like a sweet, pink champagne.
Finally she let her body relax, her anger fading. “None of this is real, so why am I fighting you?”
“C’est si bon, mademoiselle. Good, because I’m not letting you go.”
“Don’t get so cocky, monsieur. I haven’t agreed to your insane proposition.” She squeezed his crotch again. Harder this time. “Not yet.”
“Who is that dirty-looking harlot in your arms, monsieur?” Lillie asked, her eyes blazing.
Paul spun around, twirling his cape, but he didn’t let go of the redhead. “How did you find me, Lillie?”
“Everybody in Les Halles is talking about the girl in the red velvet cloak and how you stole her away from Monsieur Renard.”
He could see the blond prostitute fighting to keep the muscle at the side of her mouth from twitching. The look on her face told him she’d been following him from one tiny bistro to the next, looking for the redhead.
“I dismissed you earlier, Lillie. Be on your way.”
“Not until I have a look at the slut.”
Before he could stop her, Lillie yanked the hood off the redhead and, seeing the girl’s beautiful face, slapped her.
“Bitch!”
“Keep your hands to yourself, sister!” yelled the redhead, slapping Lillie’s face. Hard. The blond girl’s hand flew up to her cheek, already burning red.
“Quel cockatrice,” Lillie said, spitting at the girl.
“What did she call me?” the redhead asked him in English.
Trying not to show his amusement, Paul said, “An old, worn-out whore.”
“I’ll tear her hair out by its dark roots,” the redhead threatened, making Paul wonder if he should let her do it. It would be quite a show, these two beautiful women tearing the clothes off each other, grabbing hair, their nude breasts heaving up and down, pulling on each other’s nipples, the smell of their fury mixing into an erotic musky perfume. But les chipettes, women such as Lillie, could attack their victim with a knife as easily as they plucked their eyebrows. Not a pretty sight.
“Not so fast, ma belle,” Paul said, trying to keep the two females apart. “Mademoiselle de Pontier isn’t a woman to be tampered with. She is a calège, a high-class woman of pleasure, from one of the best brothels in Paris.”
That didn’t impress the redhead. She started laughing, then wet her lips before she said, “Where I come from, women who sell their bodies are known by the same four-letter word, whatever their price.”
She