We are the filthy new romantics, looking down on the city of love from an iron tower beneath a Monet sky, my hands hard on your 1950’s hips and my lips to your right ear, whispering.
“Let me fuck you here, fuck you above Paris where anyone looking up can see us.”
You hold the railing in your fragile hands and push back from the edge, the gently swaying metal pushing movement through your feet and up to your twitching knees. I feel you squish back against me and edge my hips forward, resting my tight balls against the small of your back, on the upper slope of your Bardot ass which flexes and softens against me.
“You can drive me later,” you say, quickly glancing back at me with those castle-sieging, stone-grey eyes, your hair flicking across my mouth, (your voice becoming a whisper as men in unbuttoned shirts walk behind us, coughing) “if I can wait, the front of my dress is already heavy.”
I am completely undone by your words and move my hands around your waist, tracing the buried elastic edge of your panties with my fingertips until they plump up against your rise. Damp heat soaks all the way through the cotton of your dress as I fan my hands down into your protected creases, pushing your barely found lips together and then dragging them slightly apart, tensing the material of your underwear.
“Why can’t I have you when I need you most?” I pant into your ear as you purr like an electric kitten, the smell of your hair and neck filling my head, cocoa and butter and Cabernet. I am drooling on you, leaving glistening strands in your raven-wing hair, you are my futuristic Anna Karina swaying and pushing atop this monument to death. You slowly lift and collapse an arm behind your own shoulder, drag your Merlot nails across my open mouth and heavy tongue, then snake your arm out, down and back between us, making a tiny fist that pushes into the top of my trousers, behind the belt-buckle, before opening up and slathering my head with saliva from your fingers.
“Slow down, move down,” I gasp, not wanting my petit mort to take me too soon. “Don’t spoil your surprise.”
Your slick fingers slip slowly, wetly down my erection, your touch light and agonizing.
Pulling my face from the heady tangles of you, I lean forward and look over the chipped metal railing to the scene that spreads beneath us like an unfurled roll of God’s own carpet, from the sweeping expanses of suicide netting that hangs taut below us all the way down to the people-thronged streets, a mass of wriggling primary colors, then further, further into the distance over clipped buildings and a leveled skyline that sits low and magnifies the already huge blue sky.
I cup your breasts through your dress and rotate my thumbs over your noisette diamonds imagining the thousands of dramas unfolding and climaxing in the wondrous grid of cold humanity and warm architecture that sprawls all around us. Little cigarette-burned tableaus of pencil-skirted vixens and slim-suited rogues rattle by inside our longing, dirty minds. The artist going down hard and angry on his wide-hipped muse in a sunny studio as she smears paint and blood across his back, gasping beneath his mouth. The bored housewife inviting the baker’s delivery boy inside her parlor where she loosens her breasts so he can lap at them like a hot spaniel, his basket spilling on the tile floor. The drunken actress frigging herself in the back of a cab as the driver watches in his rearview, her skirt around her waist, his hands on wheel and stick, their eyes locked in a reflection.
We lap it up like thirsty black cats let loose in a dairy farm. In a flash of white these filthy imaginings shake themselves loose from the sprockets in our heads and it is us again, just us, hot and needy.
You turn around and face me, your granite eyes wide and full.
“She is here,” I say, almost gasping, and let you plunge your tongue between my lips, pull hard on my hair. I close my eyes as our teeth grind across each other for a moment and you explore every dark corner inside my mouth, sliding and delving, licking and tasting, as I push my tongue against the roof of your mouth.
The platform we are on has emptied of people, probably embarrassed at our unashamed displays of utter desire and want.
“Maybe they are envious,” you say, sucking on my lower lip and letting it snap back as you pull your mouth from mine, “off to shape their own breathless moments.” You look over my shoulder and I feel you shudder. I know she is there, that you see what she is holding, that it excites you even more.
I turn and together we watch the girl. You wrap your arms around my waist, interlock your fingers against the baton of my cock that rears inside my pants, and move them up and down like you are starting a slow-burning fire.
She is pretty and black-haired and very French in tall black boots and a short red skirt, a grey military style jacket with large silver buttons and a red hat. She holds an expensive looking camera in her soft girl hands and smiles at us, uncapping the lens and bringing the camera up to her face.
“Have fun,” she says in an accent that drips down my belly like syrup, “do your thing and ignore me if you can.”
You spin me back around, grasp my head hard and lick my chin.
“This is my surprise?” you ask, your eyes half-closed. “I fucking love it, I fucking love you.”
I hold your small chin with one hand and bite your lower lip, hard.
“This is your surprise,” I say. “Whatever she takes we get. It’s all arranged. We will always have this. Now, get yourself a good view of the city and show me your ass.”
You laugh, run to the corner of the platform and press your belly against the railing, lift your dress over your waist. I walk towards you, unzipping, pull your tiny emerald colored panties to one side and push myself inside you, finally. All the while the camera is click-click-clicking around us, its long lens viewing, cataloging and moving inside our private sky-shaming show.
“Fuck me like it’s the last time you’ll ever know me,” you say loudly, resting your chest against the metal rail and reaching back to pull your cheeks wide apart. I start thrusting into you, hard but slow, feeling the reverberation in your buttocks crest across my thighs with every hit. I arch my back and look down at your deep red fingernails pressing into your own whitest flesh, watch my cock slide out of you, glistening, then in again, your little asshole tightening above it with every thrust.
You let go of your cheeks which close around me in a hot press of flesh and hold onto the railing, pushing back. With one hand on your naked thigh I move the other around to your front and between your legs, briefly feeling my cock sliding into you with my fingertips before slipping them up and pushing your cunt lips apart, slick and warm and alive. I’m aware of the camera, held out over the long drop down before us and shooting back as we fuck on the platform. It vanishes and I think it is behind me now, shooting up between my knees. I bend my middle finger and press it up under your clit, move it up and down, round and round, deep into the folds of your pussy and back again, just how you like it.
We switch positions more than once. Face-to-face with your panties around one ankle and your legs around my hips, laughing into the lens as we kiss and bite. Sideways with one foot tossed up onto my shoulder, your ass round and white and profiled for the camera to eat up as I expose your tits and nipples in bright, colorful silhouette against the low, bouncing skyline. The French girl in the long boots is talking dirty in words we kind of understand as she skips and bends around us. It is glorious and we can’t stop laughing, biting.
You cum curved forward looking down on Paris, I cum thrown back looking up past the narrowing metal structure above us to a bright blue sky. This, we decide later as we lay naked and look through the glorious snaps in our hotel room, is the best photo of the fucking bunch.