Page 69 of The French Kiss

“The dress code is... well, you will see when you go inside,” I tell her, letting go of her hand. “There is only one hard rule. Everyone wears a mask.”

Autumn looks over her shoulder at the door to the women’s dressing room and then back at me. “If you have on a mask, how will I know it’s you?”

“Exactly,” I remind her. “You will know, but no one else will.” I step toward the door. “See you on the other side,Princesse.”

She searches my face, looking for any sign of deception in my intentions. She will find none. I want to please her, experience Paris with her, and respect that she wishes to not be seen with me—which in itself is an unusuality that I quite like.

With a decisive but tiny smile, she disappears into the women’s room.

Inside the men’s room, it’s essentially a store meets locker room. There are racks of outfits, with fine clothing ranging from casual wear to tuxedos in every size. In another area, there are racks of kink clothing, leather and latex for both the dominant and the submissive. And last but not least is the specialty clothing area for those who wish to explore a side of themselves that perhaps society and their daily lives don’t allow them to. There, one can find costumes of every style.

I strip off my clothing, locking them in the lockers that are available before looking at my nude form in the mirror. I’m in top condition. I have to be for photo shoots, but right now, all I can think of is what Autumn sees when she looks at me. I’ve sculpted myself, removing all the hair from my neck down, and as I look at my long, thick cock, it looks even longer without the tufts of pubic hair to hide some of its length.

I hope that I’m everything Autumn could ever want.

Considering what would make this the perfect French adventure for her, I go over to the more traditional evening clothes, selecting a slim-cut tuxedo with tails, foregoing underwear and making sure every button is perfect, every crease sharp before picking out my mask. The three-quarters white mask is classically Parisian,Le Fantôme,covering both of my eyes and one cheek while leaving my lips and the right side of my face uncovered.

I leave the dressing room, waiting in the hallway for Autumn to emerge. When she does, she takes my breath away and my unrestricted cock surges in my pants as I take in her luscious curves. She’s chosen shiny patent leather leggings that are open on her inner and outer thighs, similar to garter hosiery, but her pussy is obscured by a red leather skirt that hugs her hips, making me wonder if she’s pantyless underneath.

Her top is also black and red, a matching leather bustier that cinches around her waist and pushes her breasts up to look even more voluptuous than normal. The top curves, a huge circular cutout that goes around her cleavage to create a shoulder strap, the whole ensemble held together at her throat with a buckled leather collar.

She’s almost spilling out of her cups, which makes it hard to pull my attention from them. But the light in her eyes sparks, daring me to look elsewhere. With the leather eye mask, she looks like a kinky, sexy superheroine.

I’m almost tempted to go no further. I want to push her up against the wall, fall to my knees, and lift her skirt, sampling and devouring every fucking inch of her right here.

But when she lifts her gloved right hand and I see the riding crop she holds, I smile. So that’s how she wants to play?

Oh, Princesse.

I take her left hand, and we descend the stairs together, the red and ultraviolet lights illuminating our steps until we reach the club level, where lowly throbbing bass heavy music washes over everything. I feel Autumn squeeze my hand and freeze with her.

I can understand. Everywhere you look, there’s an erotic desire on display, filling the two levels of the playground. In the center of the room, suspended off the floor for all to see, are cages, two of which are currently occupied, one by a man in a dog collar and nothing else, the other by a woman riding a machine that’s obviously giving her plenty of good vibrations.

There’s something for everyone. Solos, twosomes, threesomes, and more, there seems to be every combination of human body possible within the depths of the dungeon, all of them moving in time to the pulsing music.

“This... has to be illegal,” Autumn murmurs as she sees a dominatrix on a small stage flogging a partner with a cat o’ nine tails. “Some of these have to be paid workers, right?”

“Most are here to indulge in fantasy, or as a part of their lifestyle. But some? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“How does the city let them operate?”

I chuckle, taking her hand and leading her through the space to a quiet corner to look her fill. “How do brothels and places like this operate in New York? The city and police are handsomely compensated to turn a blind eye. To them, officially, this place doesn’t exist.”

Autumn frowns. “But... the workers.”

“Ironically, being underground seems to have cleaned up Paris more,” I tell her. “The clients, the workers, they don’t want public notice. So they police themselves more effectively than anyone else would.”

“Trust me, I would not bring you to a place that was... exploitative,” I tell her. I give her a moment to decide now that she has seen the place. If she wants, we can go back upstairs and leave. But if she’d like to stay, I think we will both enjoy ourselves very much. “So, shall we?”

I’m not even sure she’s aware of how eagerly she’s nodding her head, her eyes wide and unblinking so she doesn’t miss a thing as they flit around the room.

We grab drinks as we watch some of the action. Autumn tilts her head, intrigued by some of the wilder groups, such as the threesome where one woman is pegging the man while he fucks the other woman on bottom, or the girl who’s allowed herself to be bound, kneeling and blindfolded, her mouth the only thing she can move as her partner allows anyone interested to take advantage of the woman’s lips and tongue.

But what really interests Autumn are the couples, the pairings of men and women who are into each other. Her breath catches as she watches two women, obviously intent on each other, move into an intimate sixty-nine that almost seems out of place in the erotic club. They’re not fucking, they’re making love on the satin sheeted mattress in the corner of the room. It feels voyeuristic to intrude on their sensuality, but I suppose that is the point.

“Have you ever been with another woman?” I ask Autumn, wrapping my arms around her and feeling the heat of her ass press against my crotch.

“No... but those two are still hot,” Autumn admits, and I have to say she’s right. It’s not about the oral sex or their bodies. It’s in the way they touch each other, the way the whole world could dissolve around them and they wouldn’t care. The appeal is the intimacy they’re sharing.

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