Paris Diaries: La chaleur
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I was nervous when I walked back into the hotel. I couldn't see Nikolae, but the moment I walked in I heard his voice. "Would you like a drink?" He was standing behind the little hotel bar on the opposite side of the foyer.

It's rare for me to turn down a drink. It's almost unheard of me to do it when an attractive man is offering it, but when the only other option is going up to one's very large, very comfortable, but very empty bed alone? Well, at that point having a drink with the attractive man becomes a moral imperative.

I walked over to the bar. "We have anything you like-wine, coke, even coffee." I looked behind the bar; There were perhaps 8 bottles behind the bar-one of them was Jack Daniels, which amused me. While I may be an all wine all the time girl in Paris, there comes a time when one must go for something stronger. There was a bottle of whiskey. "Some of the jamesons on ice, please." He quickly poured it and gave it to me. He was constantly in motion-touching glasses, re-arranging bottles, buffing the counter top with a towel-while I sat still and watchful. We chatted a bit-about books. He worked the night shift so after one or so he was left on his own-generally to read or cruise around on the internet a bit. He had grown up in Paris, and we chatted about various places-or more accurately he brought up several places in Paris thinking I hadn't been there. Finally, a bit deflated, he said "You know Paris very well,"

I sat there smiling and confident. I was unsure what he had in mind. I mean he had asked me for a drink, and I'm fairly sure he didn't have a discussion of the hotel's internet connection in mind. Occasionally people would come in and he would run over to the desk to take care of them. I was getting tired. Looking at my watch I had been chatting with him for over an hour. Where did I think this was going to go? I mean, sure he was cute and amiable, but there comes a time when a girl should just go on to bed. I had to rest up, after all, for my last day in Paris. I was considering this very fact as he dealt with a couple checking in. He hurried back over telling me that was the last check in for the night-from here on out things would be quiet.

"We shall wait and we shall see how quiet things are," I thought to myself.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked once safely ensconced behind the bar. Parisians seemed shocked that I would go out in 40 degree weather with a heavy sweater and no coat. "Not at all" I said and held out my arm. "I'm Irish and German, I was made for this kind of weather." He seemed embarassed to touch me. "Go ahead," I said "It's just my arm. You'll see I'm not cold." He touched me. The look of pleasure and shock on his face when he realized that indeed my skin was warm despite being "underdressed" was delicious. Touching my skin, he said "chaleur." "What does that mean?" I asked, "Heat." He seemed to both enjoy my touch and pull away at the same time.

"What is it?" I asked him as he turned back to organizing things on the bar. "I'm trying to make you uncomfortable, but it's not working," he sheepishly admitted. Going for a bit of the quid pro quo, hoping that I wouldn't keep my upper hand. He really didn't know who he was talking to. "I have never been made uncomfortable by an attractive man behind a bar offering me whatever I want" I laughed. He smiled, nervously, and shook his head as he confessed that he didn't understand what I meant. "Don't worry about it, honey" I smiled at him in full femme fatale mode.

There is a moment when you know that you have a man. When it is so real, it's a historical fact. You could say "Get over here, kneel on the floor, and lick the inside of my knee." And it would happen so quickly his body would appear as a blur. It's a wonderful feeling. He touched my arm again. "I'm not a heater," I reproached him "Je suis une mauvaise fille." (I am a bad/naughty girl.) It seems despite my utter lack of real French, I instinctively know how to talk dirty in any language. He gasped, but I could see what I said turned him on. "Say it again," his eyes large. "Je suis une mauvaise fille." "Again." "Je suis une mauvaise fille." I could see the effects of my words on him-they pulled him and he stepped around the bar. He stood so close to me without touching me. I hadn't been teased that long for a kiss since my very first boyfriend. He was so close I could almost taste him, his skin, his cologne, his hair, his full lips. My entire body was suspended with the agony of waiting for that kiss, yet hoping at the same time he would wait one more second-draw out that pleasure just a bit more. Finally, neither one of us could resist. This wasn't a delicate kiss-it was passionate and wild, his hand already under my sweater at my waist, my breasts pushing against his chest, finally able to taste him. He stood pressing into me as I sat on the barstool. His body was wedged between my legs, his cock against my hip. He took my hand and guided it until I could feel him, his desire.

I've never been a size queen. I have openly admitted here that I have had great sex with men who were average and in some cases below average. On the other hand, I have been friends with some of the great size queens of the 20th century. I'm friends with guys who have sucked more dicks in one afternoon than I have...ever.** I couldn't believe what I was feeling was him. Not only that big, but rock hard before even touching me. The suggestion of me, the proximity, had been enough. He was so slight in every other respect. All I could think was I could ride him until there was nothing left of him, but a french inkspot and barely break a sweat. And I knew, when I felt his desire that I had to keep going. There was no turning back now if not for me, for every size queen in the free world.

Because for me this is what France is all about, unexpected adventure and ill advised, but satisfying liasons with attractive men. And it had always served me well.

(Don't worry there is more to come about Nikolae and myself-I just wanted to tease you all a bit.)

**This is actually true. I have a friend who sucked 60 dicks in one Paris now that I think about it. I don't even know how you suck that many dicks in one day

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