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yorkiechai
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Belle Epoque Part 3

Part 3 of a multi-part story - find the rest on my blog.

The month that intervened between my first encounter with Madame G and my second, my last as it would turn out, is a jumbled memory of work meetings, cocktail parties, dinners out and yet being able to find the time and the inclination to stumble on the little nooks and crannies of Paris that only a local could know - jewels in the tiara, or should that maybe be on the "g-string" - of this very erotic city: a cafe that served the best, the richest iced espresso swirled with molten chocolate and rich cream; the boulangerie that opened its doors just as the first croissants were coming out of the oven, rich in the layers of buttery sweet pastry; a very small park centered around the most exquisite and erotic ulpture, surrounded by high walls, forgotten by most, so that each time we went, my lover and I, we had it to ourselves, resting - barely clothed - in the heat of the summer sun, under the trees that seemed to dapple the entire area in a cooling shade; and laughter wherever we went: laughter that contained the unbridled enthusiasm of for whatever game they were playing; laughter that came from a group of friends truly enjoying the hilarity of a situation; laughter that reflected the joy we felt in the intimacy of our secretive life in this beautiful city, not realizing, then, how short that time we spent together would truly be. But, for me, through all of these days in that intervening month ran the undercurrent of the memory of Madame G's peculiarly exquisite shop, the frisson of excitement I had felt standing naked before her, and the cool burning of her hands as they traced each curve of my body.
I felt more confident, this time: I knew where the tiny boutique was and I knew, at least to a certain extent, what to expect, and I was eager for it. Never had I felt so alive, so aware of, so willing to revel in, my body as a female form than when I had been at Madame G's, and, of course, I was eager to see what lingerie she had created especially for me. Would there be a demi-tasse bra, cups so delicately supportive that they would leave the top half of my breasts, nipples included, bare, the rounded domes of flesh visible to all with my plunging necklines? Or a corset, tight laces in the back that hinted oh so subtlety of bondage and submission? And the panties, would they be cut high in the leg creating a visual arc that lengthened my proportions? Or perhaps, the barest whisper of lace that did little to cover "la chatte" and all but disappeared as the fine lace "T" tucked between the rounded curves of my bottom. Stockings, perhaps I would purchase some stockings after I diovered whether garters were part of the lingerie from Madame G's and throw out the awful panty hose that I despised wearing anyway. And so it was with an anticipation hened by the erotic tension of wondering - hoping really - whether, once again, I would be required to stand bare in front of her and have her cool hands stroke my heated skin, that my heels clacked down the few stairs and I reached for the Belle Epoque handle and opened the small black door to the boutique.
Yes, things were the same. Madame G's was still Madame G's. The wing backed velvet chairs were still in place, the lamps dimly lit as they had been before, the drapes blocking off the rear room from view still curtained the back wall, and the drawing, the charcoal drawing of a very young nude Madame G and her step-sister still seemed to almost shimmer with the ecstasy it portrayed as it hung on the wall. I stood, clutching my little purse, wearing a sleeveless chiffon dress that floated around me as light as a cloud, paired with soft leather sling back pumps, near the middle of the Persian carpet trying to drink in details I had missed on my previous visit - such as the framed sepia photo on the little table between the chairs of a reclining and very well endowed, unclothed man - and inhaling, deeply, the unusual fragrance of absinthe and blackberry that hung in the air, when I heard Madame G's remote voice emerging, strangely muffled, almost like she was eating or had just eaten something, although I cannot imagine her being so gauche as to speak with her mouthful, from some remote corner of the hidden room, "Have a seat, mon cherie," I understood her to say, "I will be with you momentarily." And so I sat in of the velvet chairs with my back to the curtain, feeling a slight disappointment that Madame G had not been there immediately to greet me, to embrace me, to unclothe me, and to stroke the skin of my naked body. Then I shook my head. What was I thinking? I had come here to pick up some bespoke lingerie, not to be erotically entangled with a much older woman. I was married, although not particularly happily, to a man, for God's sake. And I had a male lover. 'There must be an hallucinogenic effect to that absinthe,' my internal monologue suggested, trying to find some excuse for my "perverted" desires. I leaned my head back on the chair; the day was warm, and the boutique so relaxing and quiet, that I think I must have dozed off as I waited for my lingerie for I seemed to wake with a start as a pair of hands were placed low on my shoulders from behind. "This must come off," it was Madame G's voice, but those were not Madame G's hands. They were the hands of a man, hands I knew very well, they were my lover's hands. "What, what are you . . ." I looked up to see the devilish grin on his face as he peered down from behind me and then began undoing the row of buttons that ran across my shoulder where the seams of a dress would normally be. I was puzzled, but not uncomfortable, after all, this was some I knew intimately, and when my dress fell down to my waist exposing my bare breasts, I was not at all dismayed.
"Oui, oui" Madame G chirped from her position standing in front of me. With her hands clasped to her chest, her tilted head, and the gleam in her eye, she looked just like a bird pleased at its own cleverness. "Now, please, you stand up," she gestured with a waving up movement, and with an almost drugged compliance, I did so, my chiffon dress dropping into a pool of the palest green at my feet. By this time, T had come around the chair to the front where I was standing and he held onto my elbow as I took a step out of the circle of chiffon that was my fallen dress so that, once again, I was standing naked except for my high heels in the middle of Madame G's boutique. And so was he. Naked that is.
T's familiar body, the contours of which I could draw in my sleep, stood in front of me, his cock slightly erect and flexing, not with his movements, for he was still, his eyes locked on mine, but with the sexual tension that often precedes full arousal. "See," Madame G, chirruped again, "she is beautiful, non?" as if she needed to remind T of that, but he nodded, not objecting to her question at all. "Yes, yes, of course she is," T's voice was low, and I recognized the undercurrent of excitement that deepened the timbre of his tone. His eyes had not broken their locked contact with mine and I responded to the control he seemed to have over me by taking a step closer to him. "Oui, yes, you are in love with each other of course, non?" Madame G seemed to be talking more to herself than to either of us. "I will go and get the garments that I have made for you now. And I will be back in 'une moment'," her French pronunciation mirrored the elegance of the little boutique.
"But, T, " I began, "what . . . " trying to sort out the confusing jumble of thoughts in my head. How had he even found out about Madame G's? What was he doing here; I thought I would surprise him - and perhaps my emotionally distant husband - with the exquisite new lingerie from a place he knew nothing about, but instead, here he was, surprising me. And naked, why was he standing in this woman's shop naked, as naked as I was? But he silenced me with a deep kiss and the warmth of our bare bodies pressed together increased exponentially as we felt the familiar contours of each other and knew, instinctively, where to shift, to move, to slide so that every square inch, or as much as was physically possible, of our skin pressed together. His kiss was deep, mouth open, tongue twining with mine, his cock now very rigid and pressing between my legs. "MMMM," I couldn't but moan, as his hand slid down my waist to cup my cheek much like . . . And then it dawned on me again where we were and what we were doing and . . . so many questions I had. I pulled away slightly to look T in the eyes, but his eyes were half closed, hooded as they often were when we were deeply and passionately making love and he continued to stroke my naked body, bending slightly so his lips met my breast, my nipple where he began to suck and pull. Again I groaned with desire.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the back curtain slip open, and there stood Madame G holding a box tied closed with a large satin ribbon. I gasped a little and went to pull away from T, but, in a hushed voice, Madame G said, "Non, non, you must continue. Do not mind that I am here, and the clothes," she gestured with the box she held, "they will not spoil, eh!" And she gave a little mew of laughter. Quietly she moved across the Persian carpet, T seemed completely lost in the erotic energy fusing our bodies and I could feel the trace of sweet liquid leaking from his cock as it swung, gently, back and forth across my body. Could it be he was completely unaware we had an audience? "Do not mind me at all," Madame G's voice was more a whisper now and she took a seat in of the velvet armchairs as if she was a theatre patron and we the actors in it.

. . . continued on my blog


BoobsandMore2
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Phew, that's erotic. Must follow up in your blog.


yorkiechai replies on 5/12/2018 7:01 am:
You haven't read erotic until you've read the next part. LOL Hang onto your hat . . . er, your whatever! LOL
rm_cuttergus1
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MMMMM intoxitating story.

azzguy12
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Well done that got really erotic towards the rest end.

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