The Tour

“I just wanted to call and give you a heads up on an upcoming project,” her boyfriend said, leaving a message on the answering machine.
Deanna sat in her tiny studio, absently listening as she studied the canvas wondering how she was going to fix the acrylic red smear. As he droned on, she debated about picking up the phone. Victor was second year art professor with connections in the foreign exchange program and wanted her to be his traveling companion for the summer.
His proposal was enticing. It offered a chance to enjoy Paris the way it was meant to be. Yet she had reservations. Victor was a quick hitter, a blank canvas when it came to romance. She realized that after their first night together and chastised herself for not following her initial impressions. By early spring it was over, but they still remained friends.
Unlike most of her girlfriends, who counted money and fame important parameters for considering chance partners, she found their names essential to good sex. It had to taste right. It was uncanny how well it mirrored the veracity of a man’s sexual appeal. Only with Victor she had ignored the prerequisite. Her fantasies had not melted like decadent chocolate morsels, nor had her mouth expectantly watered at the mere mention of it. Instead, swallowing the syllables had left her spitting out the bitterness and vowing never to ignore what her mouth told her.
But still the offer was intriguing. She had always heard that Frenchmen were fantastic lovers. There were attentive, kind, and oh so romantic. And their names. Monet’ tasted so delectable. She picked up the phone and said she’d go.
Halfway across the Atlantic Victor dropped the bomb. She’d have to give tours for the agency that donated the trip. By the time they landed she had calmed down and realized there may be advantages. She was afterall, studying the French Impressionists art form and Paris was full of their partisans. French artist, lusty men with mouth-watering names.
The first weeks proved uneventful, days were filled with friendly people interested in what made Paris an international hub. Nights were spent fending off Victor. On the last Friday of her third tour, she stopped at the café d’Paris for a luncheon with her guests. It was a special treat, a farewell of sorts.
When she was making arrangements for the following Friday’s group, she noticed the handsome stranger sipping a glass of wine. Their eyes met for only a moment, but his smoldering gaze was enough for her to know he was interested. Stirred by his brashness, she hurriedly finished the accommodations, only to be disappointed when she turned around and found him gone. It would have been nice to know his name.
When she got back to the agency there was a message from Victor. When she called him, his amorous mood was appealing, more so when she imagined the mysterious stranger nibbling her neck, caressing her hips. While she waited for Victor arrival, she scanned the list of guests for her next tour. There were several from the University of Paris and a group from Chicago, Illinois. Flipping the page she continued until she came to a name that stunned her senses and sent shock waves through her loins: Antwane Molnes.
His name offered an exquisite flavor, one that conjured images of hot lusty passion on the steps of the Musee d’Orsay. She imagined him a dark hair robust stud with strong facial features and an angular, yet muscular body, aching to satisfy her lusty needs.
Antwane Molnes.
Oh God!
His touch would be gentle, his voice sweet, heavy with passion, and he would devour her. Licking, touching, teasing, and pleasing, he would tempt her into unimaginable positions.
She gasped and stopped as the first hint of an orgasm tingled her loins. Victor invitation had triggered a gradual rise in her desire that warmed considerably when she whispered Antwane’s name. She knew he would be perfect. He was French, and the thought of him taking her steamed her fantasies.
When Victor sauntered through the door, she attacked out of desperation, hoping to quench the growing flames inside her. They squirmed and struggled against each other, grinding in passionate embraces until he lived up to his reputation. But Deanna was still hungry, consumed by her cravings. She forgot who lie beneath and concentrated on Antwane, superimposing Victor with her the dark haired beauty. Methodically she moved up and down, taking, giving, taking, and digging her nails into her imaginary lover. Helplessly, Victor struggled.
When she finally exploded and crumpled against his chest, Victor was deader than alive. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, but Victor’s eyes had rolled back in their sockets. Exhausted, though still aroused, she whispered his name hoping to evoke a response. But it was not to be. Victor was out cold.
When she awoke the following morning, images of the mysterious stranger still burned inside her. There was no satisfying the urgency as she lingered on the verge of another orgasm. She rolled over and considered Victor. His eyes had recovered, the pupils had returned, but his dick was beyond repair. He slept with it cradled in his hand, a purplish crank, swollen and puffy like an over cooked sausage threatening to split. Disappointed, she rose and dressed quietly, then slipped out the door.
By the time she arrived at the office the first bus of Chicagoans were disembarking. They gathered in a crowd nearby as she held the clipboard tight against her chest. It was hard; stern and unyielding, like Antwane’s name. She shifted, two buttons coming undone. Her nipples hardened as she imagined Antwane’s hands massaging her heaving breasts.
The cool breeze startled her out of the revelry. Embarrassed, she quickly fastened them and scanned for gawkers, hoping no one had been watching. Most were intently studying posters of chalets with buxom blondes drinking foreign beer and not aware of her brief exposure. She quickly stepped into the assemblage and announced it would be another half hour before they’d begin the tour. They were welcomed to roam about the museum until then. Satisfied, she moved off to the side and settled against a marble column to wait. She thought of Antwane and the longing returned.
She played with his name, purposely drawing out each syllable until it hung seductively on the tip of her tongue. She imagined his cool hands moving slowly across her loins, caressing her thighs, searching; soft kisses on the nap of her neck; the excited tingles growing more pronounce as he toyed with her. Her cheeks flushed. She shifted against the cool marble column arching her back. It seemed a delightfully wicked idea.
“How long we gonna wait here?”
The question shattered the imaginary wine glass she held to her lips. A violin string snapped, and the debonair Antwane Molnes vanished, his hands slowly withdrawing from her panties.
“Excuse me?”
Desire smoldered unfulfilled. She tingled with anticipation.
“I said, when do we leave? I’d like to see the Eiffel Tower, sometime today.”
The rotund little bird was part of the Chicago group. Her Midwestern twang grated. She stood expectantly, an Army Drill Sergeant, hands on her hips, waiting. A breeze caught her dress and it billowed like a loose tent. She smoothed the front as the wind teasingly lifted the backside revealing a dimpled posterior covered in white cotton.
Deanna covered her smile.
The rotund little bird snarled a curse. Gray eyeliner accented stormy eyes as she transfixed a heavyset Frenchman watching from a bench.
“What are you staring at?” she bellowed.
The hapless Frenchmen only smiled and shrugged his shoulders. In true Parisian fashion he lifted his arms in mock surrender and answered. “Madame, a most unfortunate accident, yes? But, you have a most desirable…eh, how you say in English?” He scratched his head in thought, then smiled, “Yes, a most desirable butt.”
“Take a hike Frenchie,” she said shifting her gaze back to Deanna. “Like I said honey, when do we leave?”
She leveled another gaze at the Frenchman, her eyes darting back and forth between the two until Deanna answered.
“Very soon ma’am, our remaining guests are just arriving. They should be here momentarily.”
Deanna ignored the woman’s muttering as Antwane stepped off the bus. He was as she pictured him, tall and utterly beautiful. Heavy brows shaded dark mysterious eyes that could bore through granite if ordered to do so. A slender waist and long legs gracefully swept him towards her. In several fluid strides he stood before her, intent on her nametag.
“I’m Antwane Molnes.”
She resisted the urge to jump him, to wrap her arms and legs around him, to smother him in long juicy French kisses. God, she wanted him. This was more than she could bear.
“Hi, I’m Deanna,” she managed to say without choking. “I’m your guide for this tour.”
She hustled them onto a small-canopied bus that pulled onto the main road and headed towards the art district. Antwane sat in the back and listened quietly as she recited her prepared speech about the French Impressionists. They visited museums and galleries while she answered their questions while Antwane remained reclusive, following behind the group. She wasn’t able to talk to him until they reached the small Cafe’ de Paris.
“This concludes our tour for the day,” she offered. “I’ve arranged a small lunch for those who wish to stay. The cafe also serves an excellent list of wines if you’d like a refreshment.”
The crowd dispersed and the Chicago group returned to the terminal while those that remained, wandered down the avenue towards another large outdoor café.
She watched as Antwane sat down at a table for two. She was glad the others had left. She wanted to be alone with her mysterious stranger.
“Deanna?” he called.
She moved easily to his table and sat down across from him. He offered her a glass of Bordeaux.
“Thank you,” she seductively whispered. “This is so nice of you.” A warm glow radiated from his face as she sampled his small gift.
“You did a beautiful job today. I felt it was the right thing to do.” He lifted his glass and gentle touched hers. “To you.”
“To you,” she answered, sipping her wine.
“You should have stayed the other day?” She pushed her knees forward. A rush of heat surged through her body when his hands caressed them, his eyes smoldering with the same desire she felt.
“I wanted to, ” he said. “But I couldn’t. I had an appointment with a model. I’m a painter. Impressionist. I thought maybe, you when I saw you. But you…you’re so beautiful. I was afraid you’d say no.”
“Oh really.” Tendrils of flames engulfed her neck as his innuendo smothered her reasoning. God! He paints. Nudes. Me, nude, posing for a man I’d do anything for. “I’m here, so why don’t you ask me now?”
His hands slide between her knees. Invitingly she spread them, welcoming him in.
“I don’t want you to model,” he said in a husky voice. She thought of the cool marble column and the near orgasm. This time the hands were real, gently stroking her thighs, taunting her.
A quiver of excitement coursed through her body as she slid her hand up his leg. His muscles twitched under the pressure of her fingernails being drawn across his thighs.
“I’d love to pose for you,” she replied.


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