Arriving from London on the Eurostar the Englishman walks the short distance between Gares Nord and Est. It’s a bright breezy Paris morning in early Spring, sunny but not warm enough to encourage those outside to surrender their coats and jackets.
As arranged, they meet in Starbucks on the station concourse, embracing fondly and with an easy familiarity, kisses on both cheeks – this is France after all.
“This is not coffee!” she protests, her native Parisian palate mortally offended.
“A penance for not greeting me in person when my train arrived,” he responds with detached amusement.
“And walk from there to my apartment in these shoes!” Madam feigns outrage but has a point, two, in fact, each at the end of elegantly tapered Louboutin high heels.
The Englishman takes her arm, and they promenade across the adjacent Jardin Villemin, (he secretly compares it unfavourably to London’s parks). The Frenchwoman wears a black knee-length coat, matching her stockings and shoes, with a bright Hermes neck scarf as the sole element of colour. At the canal Saint-Martin, the couple turns south until just past the Square de Recollects they reach her apartment block. Beyond the nondescript front door, the lobby has original Art Noveau flourishes, and a tiny ancient lift with concertina gates.
As it creakingly ascends to the uppermost floor, he slides a hand under her coat. She clamps her thighs tightly together, imprisoning it between her legs, kissing him avidly. In response he grasps her buttocks hard, matching her fervour. They tumble into her flat, flushed and breathless, it’s been several weeks since their last opportunity to express such ardent passion.
“Slow down, Cherie, we have all weekend,” she admonishes him affectionately.
“All weekend, does he not suspect?” The Englishman refers to her husband – a minister in Macron’s government.
“He doesn’t ask. Here we don’t enquire, it’s assumed people will have little dalliances,” she responds unperturbed.
“But his high public profile…”
“Our press is not so prurient. There are rarely scandals, we are complaisant – I can’t think of a similar English word.”
“Permissive?”
“Maybe… Not quite, but close. I trust him not to embarrass me; he returns the favour,” she pauses contemplatively, “besides we are upper class.”
“Ah, the aristocracy, delightfully licentious all across Europe, and I a mere commoner.”
“My family survived the revolution.”
“Mine would probably have begun it.”
“You haven’t told me what you think of the flat?”
“Delightfully bourgeoisie.”
“Touché. My husband bought it ‘for business meetings’ – a tax-deductible pied a terre. I may use it ‘when in town shopping’ – you see the polite little deceptions we indulge?”
“Who’s idea was the chaise longue?”
“Ah, I thought you might like that. Mine of course. He considers décor and furnishing a women’s concern.”
“Your monsieur obviously hasn’t read much Simone de Beauvoir…”
“Who cares, I get what I want; he pays.”
The anticipatory tension is almost palpable; he stands purposefully. “Do you intend to wear that coat all day?”
“A gentleman would take it from a lady.”
“I thought we agreed earlier, I’m no gentleman.” He unbuttons the coat, slipping it from her shoulders. She wears nothing beneath but a basque, stockings and jewellery. “You came to the station like this?” He admires her sang froid.
“Yes, it made me feel very naughty. Are you good at dealing with naughtiness?”
“An expert.”
“Consider what you see as my gift to you, to play with any way you choose.”
“Quite the nicest present I’ve received,” he replies sincerely. She is, well who knows, late 30s, or early 40s? It would be crass to enquire. At once slender and voluptuous, a quality achieved seemingly effortlessly by French women, and all but impossible for their English counterparts.
Her derriere was the first thing he’d noticed when introduced at a diplomatic reception in London three months previously, part of a Foreign Office delegation meeting members of the French cabinet.
“The transport minister has bought his wife, as the only chap with fluent French could you possibly entertain her for a few hours during their trade meeting?” asked his boss.
He most certainly could, assisted by natural charm and the ability to sidestep queues he got Madam into an exhibition of modernist art at the Barbican she desperately wished to view. Afterwards, not slow in forthrightly expressing her desires, she easily persuaded him to her hotel room where… Well, apart from some quite spectacular sex, it transpired the minister’s wife very much enjoyed being spanked.
It was mid-evening by the time the trade talks finished, and he ushered the Frenchwoman – smart attire, impeccable make-up and self-possession restored – into the company of her spouse. Politely shaking his hand she’d thanked him, with considerable understatement, “for a lovely evening”, conspiratorially whispering “au revoir” before walking, just a trifle gingerly, away.
“Which reminds me,” he says, returning his mind to the moment, “I’ve bought something for you.” From the holdall, he produces a slender package that she slowly unwraps to discover a shiny new riding crop.
“You had this gift wrapped?”
“The assistant at James Smith & Son in New Oxford Street did struggle to keep a straight face.”
“Something that can hurt a horse will damage me!”
“You’ll have to trust me to use it with skill.”
She examines the crop carefully before playfully asking, “I’m surprised you are a beater and not one of the beaten – le vice Anglais?”
“I went to grammar school, not public school.”
“Will you use it on me now?”
“It’ll be my privilege, however first I intend to spank you.” Carefully the Englishman guides her onto the chaise longue where Madam obediently kneels, places her hands on the back and bends forward. Sensually he strokes the taut skin of her twin globes. Soon the first slaps follow; she slips into subspace and awaits the endorphin rush.
He smacks her bottom harder and faster, alternating between each cheek. The impact of his hard masculine hand ignites a hot surge of desire between her legs. Despite a series of seductive wiggles, punctuated by the occasional Gallic expletive, Madam remains in position until he’s spanked her blushing peaches to a gloriously rosy glow.
“Stand up,” he assists the Frenchwoman unsteadily to her feet, teetering on the high shoes.
“Can I rub?”
“Of course – and don’t feel you have to speak English to me.”
“French is the more beautiful language — but English has more words for what we do.” She carefully massages her tender cheeks. Meanwhile, he fetches a low padded stool and places it at the room’s centre. She looks up enquiringly, awaiting instruction.
“Take your knickers off.” The Frenchwoman shivers imperceptibly at the implication of this command, feels her breasts swell and her sex dampen. She obeys decorously, providing an erotic glimpse of her carefully trimmed sex as madam lifts first one leg then the other.
“Lie on the stool face down, spread your legs wide and place your toes and fingertips on the floor.”
“Like so?” She adopts a cruciform shape, her legs straight, delectable pink bottom contrasting with her pale skin.
“The perfect position for your first experience of the crop,” says the Englishman. “I intend to whip every inch of your bare bottom and thighs.” Walking in slow circles he brings the crop’s split leather tip down sharply onto her posterior. Observes the Frenchwoman’s firm, mature buttocks clench against the smart. As promised, he works the crop up each tender thigh, causing her to kick out at this unexpected hurt.
“Oh, God! Please stop. This is too much. I can’t take it.”
“Untrue, your fantasy is not being able to take it, but you can, and you will.” Nevertheless, he helps Madam up, pulls her close, and holds her tightly.
“I need you,” she pleads urgently.
“Soon, but not yet.”
“Am I marked?”
“Yes, but not enough, further discipline is required.”
“Qui, d’accord,” she acquiesces.
He manoeuvres her back to the chaise lounge and bids her kneel crossways, head and hands on the floor, bottom prominently raised.
“Keep still,” the Englishman growls. He strikes the full expanse of Madam’s buttocks, leaving livid red lines, taking the Frenchwoman to a space where pleasure and pain don’t so much meet as collide. Sensing she’s close to climax he grasps her hips, the crop is no longer required. His cock most certainly is…
Slowly he sinks his rod into the warmth of her welcoming cunt, simultaneously slapping Madam’s still-stinging bottom and eliciting an anguished yelp. Amused, he slowly withdraws his cock almost completely.
“Non! Put it back now!” Dignity abandoned, she demands its return, and he obliges in a single thrust.
“Don’t stop,” the Frenchwoman pleads, pushing back lasciviously, green eyes shining at the intensity of the fucking. Madam writhes and moans ecstatically as the hardness and size of his erection fill her wildly contracting pussy. The sublime sensations are all-encompassing and trigger a shuddering crescendo.
Lost to lust, he continues to plunder her pussy until, surrendering to waves of pleasure, she shrieks joyously and orgasms again. The Englishman comes too, pulling out at the last second to shoot copiously over her heat-radiating buttocks. Kisses each cheek reverently, then leads the Frenchwoman into the bedroom for a less frantic reprise.
Afterwards, they lay together on her bed, Anglo-French relations have never been closer, a true entente cordial.
“Shall I bring the crop to London when I visit you?”
“No, it belongs here now, however, I do intend to employ it again prior to your political soiree tomorrow evening.”
“Where I will sit down very carefully and tell whoever is next to me how important it is for British and French people to continue a close association, regardless of Brexit.”
