Spontaneous Combustion

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Paris

“More thoughts from your humble penitent…as if I could top last night’s. I see you relaxing at the cottage, perhaps watching TV, flipping through the channels while I’m lying beside you, spread-eagle on the floor (face down face up is up to you). You’d have a whip in hand gently cracking it against my naked flesh at odd intervals, a bit like Chinese water torture. Until you’re ready to take me again. How’s that one? And don’t worry, there will be more…

I could write you a book about what’s happening for me here. But that will have to wait. Must sleep, Sir. Tomorrow we’re on to Paris. (warning, I may not have Wi-Fi, can’t be sure of that in these French hotels)

Hope your day has gone well, Sir, and you’re enjoying your dreams. Thinking of you.”

He replied:

“I think I would want you face down. I’ll save the front for a little closer and more intense scrutiny and play. There you go, making me hard again.”

And Jeni replied:

“Do I apologize for making you hard? That is the goal, isn’t it, Sir, making you hard? I’ll email again when I can. In the meantime I’ll be thinking up more ways to repent. Why did I promise you a hundred?!!!”

***

Paris – the city rushed on her like a brisk wind. After the relative calm of Rouen and its gentle surroundings, the fast pace of Paris swept her into an entirely different atmosphere. Crowds in every museum, tourist spot and on the street. The Metro was frightening, like diving into a sea of warm bodies jostling against each other for places to stand, and with any luck, sit. Noisy. Relentless. Exhilarating. Street musicians in the subterranean corridors of the Metro stations played everything from bagpipes to polkas, all loud enough to drown out her thoughts.

The architecture of Paris was weighty and substantial in size, Roman in design. There were monuments around every corner marking the turbulent history of Paris. Much of the city was built in the late 1800s, except for the churches and Cathedrals, which looked to Jeni as if they’d sprung from deep roots in the soil beneath. In whose minds had the seeds for these monoliths been born? What tenacity of spirit had made them grow to such magnificent heights? One man’s vision? Or a hundred? A vision that consumed so much human toil from year to year, decade to decade, century to century until the present. Now, many of them were layered with scaffolding as ongoing restorations continued.

Along the neighborhood streets were window boxes and balconies, produce vendors and flower stalls. More vendors along the Seine selling old books and a variety of art, all pretty as a picture, but flung against the humanity of the city, the mix of cultures, the well-heeled and the down and out, who casually slept on the sidewalks, in abandoned phone booths, tucked into doorways. Poster art advertised concerts and exhibitions, including an American film festival with the image of Steve McQueen as the drawing card – as if he were still alive and well, not the dead matinee idol from her mother’s generation.

The air was thick with history from centuries past, in every corner, encroaching on the spirit in ways she never expected. Sometime she felt the oppressive weight, other times uplifted. She walked into a tiny neighborhood grocery store down the street from their hotel, looking for a carton of yogurt, and spent an hour poking through the aisles, smiling at items she recognized from home, deciphering labels written in French. On the street, the aromas of bread and croissants permeated the air, hitting her nostrils with pleasant scents that acted on her s****l body as another in a long line of aphrodisiacs.

Paris was amazing to look at, but more amazing to feel inside the bones and the heart. It seeped into her pores and resided there – she wouldn’t understand until much later, after she returned home, that the feeling would never leave her. And that was as it should be. That feeling could be resurrected with the remembrance, and take her back to when her senses first experienced Paris.

Their second full day in the city, Jeni and Celia took off to Montmartre, the hilltop village within the city. They got off the Metro at the nearest station, and plunged into a sea of humanity, feeling pulled by that human force toward the tram that would take them to the top of the hill. Exiting the tram they pressed their way through another crowd of tourists, into the marketplace where vendors lured them toward shops filled with cheap curios and racks of printed tee shirts. The smell of food was a beautiful assault on the senses, spices, mouth-watering confections, pungent, exotic aromas. Jeni wanted to taste it all and leave nothing out.

It was no surprise to her that she was overwhelmed again – a reality of the trip she couldn’t shake. With her mind in such bewildering disarray, she was tempted to panic; although just as often overwhelmed was much like a gentle buzz, inebriation without the alcohol. How could anyone do Paris without the bittersweet realization that as much as there was the desire to take it all in, that could never be done? Not in a matter of days, maybe not in a month, a year, or ever for that matter.

They stopped to eat at a restaurant on the Rue des Saules, a picturesque looking green and white stucco building several stories high with white shutters on the windows above and flower-filled window boxes on the second floor. They sat tucked into an out-of-the way corner, far from the long tables filled with laughing, chattering tourists, and ate crispy roast chicken and potatoes. The best Jeni had ever had. Simple. Delicate. Every succulent bite a small celebration. There was something fundamental about the tastes; food as it was meant to be. Jeni’s buzz expanded with a glass of red wine. She and Celia were alone together—again Celia’s choice. The sly self conscious smirks they exchanged suggested flirtation. Flirtation? That meant something bigger than friendship, didn’t it? If she weren’t in such a wine-dazed oblivion, she would have been self-conscious of her emerging desires for Celia. But, as if she needed to keep those feelings in check, Jack was never far from her thoughts. He meant s*x to her, naked, collared s*x, submission, surrender, pleasure of a sort she’d always longed for, what was fundamental to her life. He meant a s****l energy wide open to any sexy stimulation, including the idea of an affair with the woman across the table. Celia with the teasing eyes.

Jeni still wasn’t sure if she was being seduced or just befriended by the sensuous redhead. On the subject of seduction, she didn’t know its language or its rules – if there were any. She wasn’t sure she could read the signs of s****l interest with any degree of accuracy, especially coming from a woman. Some women were just naturally hands-on, like Celia. She liked rubbing elbows, speaking close to her ear, resting her hand against her back. The slightest physical touch, an open palm resting on her back, could mean nothing – or everything.

Some women had the knack of gaining confidences and physically expressing affection when nothing more was intended than a simple sisterly fondness. Celia’s eyes exuded compassion, wrapped people inside her tenderness like a comforting blanket, but Jeni couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more than sisterly going on between them. Like everything s****l in her life right then, including Jack, especially Jack, there was a huge unknown, a delicate dance, and a heap load of mystery as she wondered about the final outcome.

“This is fantastic,” Celia expounded as she slowly chewed a bite of food. Her eyes were glittering again as she stared into Jeni’s mesmerized face.

“I know. Best chicken ever.”

“Here,” Celia dipped a piece of crusty French bread into the sauce on Jeni’s plate and fed it to her, smiling, licking her lips. Coy. Tempting.

“Humm my, just gets better, doesn’t it?” Jeni wriggled her crotch against the wooden seat of the chair, worrying that she would leave a wet puddle of juice when she got up to leave. There was just Celia in her thoughts at that moment. The woman before her was no fantasy, but physically present inside her space. Her soft hand found Jeni’s knee once or twice, and she leaned in close as she talked. Celia’s eyes fixated on her, and Jeni unthinkingly returned the attention sharing a giggle and a fond if not self-conscious smile.

Where was this friendship leading? Jeni always had her fantasies, but this was different. This was flesh and blood and two beating hearts.

Celia’s turn to giggle – she had a wine buzz, too. “This food is so sexy,” she said as she examined a forkful of chicken and potatoes. Then with a sideline glance at Jeni she added, “Not to mention the company.” She popped the food into her mouth then invitingly ran her tongue over her lips. Abruptly she pulled back, as if she suddenly realized what she’d just said and done. “Getting carried away here with this lovely wine,” she laughed and she poured herself another glass.

Fragrant wine, delicious food, Paris, France, and two warm female bodies, were an erotic feast to savor. Jeni’s thoughts soon drifted into familiar places – to a warm bed, to lips, to breasts, to the valleys between their thighs. And then it was a strap-on that appeared in her head, and Celia descending on her with eyes darkening over some evil plan.

She took a deep breath to halt the runaway thoughts.

The wine, yes the wine. That second glass had her head swimming into perilous places. And then, like a haunting refrain, it was Jack inside her thoughts again. He was the background music against which all this eroticism played out. She couldn’t forget, couldn’t leave him out of the picture, even though he was no more than a phantom. Even in the midst of Celia’s artless seduction, he wouldn’t let go. From the slavish, naked surrender to Jack as master to fierce lesbian lust. The fantasies played leapfrog in her mind, while her p***y spasmed involuntarily and her body continued to move against the chair seat.

“What if we got away from the tour for a night, and did a little nightclubbing around Paris?”

Celia’s sudden suggestion took Jeni by surprise, but she smiled once she let the idea gain a little traction. “I don’t know,” she finally answered, a little flustered. Her heart was starting to race, and she took a deep breath. “Nightclubbing? I don’t even do that when I’m home.”

“Then why not here? Let loose for a night? We could disappear into Paris nightlife and not come back ’til dawn.”

Not come back ’til dawn. Sounded like some sappy romantic fiction. “You’re just dreaming, aren’t you?”

The woman shrugged. “Not entirely. We do have a free night, and what could be more fun than going off the grid?”

“I don’t know about off the grid. But a nightclub and dancing. Sure.”

Celia beamed.

“So, you have some place in mind?” Jeni inquired.

Celia blushed, as if some sexy memory had returned. “Oh, I wish. There was one, but…” she snickered, “but it’s gone out of business. Already checked. It’s been so long since I’ve been here that I doubt any of the places I went to are around anymore. But it’s Paris. There’s certain to be a good place to party. We just need to ask around.”

Celia was the kind to ‘ask around’.

***

Jack’s email:

“I couldn’t get back to sleep. Been killing time looking at porn. Now I’m horny and hard. Have you ever submitted to a golden shower? Tell me about it if you did. I once gave one to my slave. She liked it and so did I.”

“Yes to your question about GS.” Jeni answered. “Yes, though the results were mixed. I guess depending on my mood and who I’m with, I might like to do that again.

I need to tell you about Celia, but need to sleep first. So, onto another way to atone…can’t forget that. At the moment, don’t know why, I’m really in to waking you with your c**k in my mouth for a long slow suck before you f**k me like a madman. Not that outrageous. Like you, I’m just horny. Till Later.”

“I hope you got a good night’s sleep.

You picked a good time to leave the area. Last two nights have been near frost and cool during the day, hope you’re having better weather.