My 4th of July in Paris

 

My 4th of July in Paris

I’d found cheap tickets to Paris for the fourth of July weekend. On the fourth, I was in one of the museums, when I was approached by a pretty young woman with a vintage camera. She wore a dark coat over her skimpy outfit- the top was little more than a bra, and the skirt was tight and short. Black stockings and heels rounded it out. None of that was what I noticed first about her. No, what I noticed first was how drunk she was. She tried to hide it, I'm sure, but the fact she was swaying like wheat in a windstorm indoors and the resultant clack of her heels along with the occasional hiccup gave her away.

When she spoke it was obvious, “Hello, d'you speak english?,” she asked, her words slurred, and her breath smelling sweet with wine. 

“Yes, I do,” I answered. 

“Grade.  Im a li'l titsy ann my frensh suffers grainly.  Im Emily, ann american universidy ssudenn doin' a semesser abroad.  I havva photography clazz, where i need t'be the monnel.  Whould yoo be innerestssed in bein' my photographer?” she explained.

“Sure. Say, I was just about to grab lunch. Why don’t we discuss what photos you need over some food and wine?” I asked

“"oh, thad wooud be perfeckt," she replied.

The two of you start to walk off, only she stumbles and you catch her. “Here, let me help you,” I said, wrapping my arm around her, grabbing her ass.

“Ssangs,” she slurred. Once outside of the museum, she directed me, “Thiss way.  My professor showed me the bezz ressraunn- iss authennic, bud nod pricey.  The zzrings arr ssrong though.”

“Sounds perfect. I take it you’ve had several glasses of wine already?” I risked asking.

“Only a couple,” she lied, before asking, “I hope yoo doan mine?”

“No, not at all,” I told her enthusiastically. The walk was surprisingly short. 

Inside the maitre d’ greeted Emily, “Bonjour, Emily, mon amour,” with a kiss.

“Bonjour, Louis,” she returned the kiss. 

“Your usual chambre, oui.” he asked, with a wink to me.

“Oui, pleeeze,” Emily answered. He grabbed a menu, and let us into a private dining room, though Emily clearly knew the way. I helped Emily into her seat, and then took mine, as I told Louis, “Bring us a bottle of your strongest french wine, please.”

“Les dames favorite, good choice,” the maitre d’ noted before leaving. 

Picking up the menu, I asked Emily, “Dose les dames have a favorite entrée and plat principal?”

“Oui, the creamy burrata, ann the normanny beef tennerloin,” my newfound date told me, just as Louis returned with the wine. Once served, Louis left as our waiter left. Are you ready to order?”

“I am, how about you Emily?,” I asked.

Emily took a long sip of the wine, and told me, “Whad ever yer havin',” and continued sipping her wine.

“We’ll take two Creamy vurratas and two normanny beef tennerloin,” I decided.

“Right away sir,” and the waiter departed. The waiter had scarcely left, when Emily finished her wine. 

“Your favorite indeed. Well, go on, pour yourself another,” I prompted her, wondering if the drunk beauty before me could without spilling.

“Merci,” she said as she picked up the bottle. The simple task of pouring a glass of wine was not easy for Emily at this point, but to my surprise, she did so without issue. 

Just then the waiter returned with the creamy burrata. Once the waiter left, Emily grabbed both plates and held them under her breasts, “Creamy burrata, rounn, firm ann soft liyke my boobies,” she flirted with me. Then she put the plates in front of us and we ate. It was a delight-not just the food-but watching Emily eat. She was so drunk that she made a mess, but she was also very sensual. As she ate, she sipped her wine. When her glass was empty, she declared, “Finie,” as the waiter brought the next course. 

The waiter wordlessly took Emily's plate, and retreated. “Ummmm, tennerloin,” Emily said as her foot found my crotch, and she poured another glass of wine.

This made it hard to eat, so I remarked, “I think les dames is irve.”

She stopped rubbing my crotch, and took a sip of wine before she told me, “Oui, i am zzzrunk.  I need t'be few arr t' helb me wiss my photography clazz. Is thad 'kay?”

I quickly told her, “I'm not complaining. So what type of photos do you need me to take?,” I asked. 

She blushed, and sat her fork down. She gulped down the rest of her wine, and nearly whispered, “Nue ann érotique.”

As he poured yet another glass I briefly considered it. “Quite bohemian. However, I'm willing, provided you pose drunk and I get a copy.”

“Oui, zzzrunk, ann 'course i'll give yoo a copy,” she informed me. Then coily and in a near whisper again, added, “Ann ozzer pleasures,” with a wink as she resumed rubbing my crotch. 

I struggled to respond to the beautiy before me, but finally said, “certainly.” As we resumed eating, I asked, “Where do you want to pose first?”

“How 'bout le metro?” she offered.

“Sounds good,” I told her as I poured her the last of the wine. “Is this bottle enough or should I order more?,” I asked as we resumed eating. 

She took a sip and told me, “Iss enough.  Ive gotta boll uhf cognac in my purse.” We hastily ate.  As I paid the tab-which as she’d told me was surprisingly inexpensive-she told me, “Lemme gow yuse the basssroom,” as she stood. I wasn’t sure she could stand, much less find and use the bathroom, but remarkably, she staggered off. Just as remarkably, she returned a short time later. “Less gow,” she told me. 

Though she’d proven herself capable of walking on her own, I took the opportunity to slip my hand behind her coat and under her skirt. Thus I discovered she wore no panties. If she’d worn it since I met her, I can't say, nor could I understand her. In the metro station, I snapped a number of photos, all progressively more risque. When I thought we might get in trouble, a train pulled in, and I quickly guided her on. 

On the train, I took a few more photos, as well as stole a few kisses.  When the roll of film was now full, so I’d given her back her camara. We got off at the Liberte station, which was empty. There her drunkenness caused us to fall. I ended up on my back, her on top of me. As she tried to get up, her bare pussy found my face. I instinctively started to lick her pussy. I didn’t get a photo, but I imagine it looked something like this:

Well before dark in Paris or the US, Emily and I saw fireworks.

I created this fiction story inspired by a drawing of the same title by Apollonia Saint Clairink, shown here.