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Don't be surprised, as I was, if all three room service requests are delivered individually, by different staff members. None of them would accept money, and seemed content to settle for just a handjob in the bathroom. I was grateful that the first thing to arrive was the aspirin, so that I could begin to cope with the splitting headache. The young French lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was Solo hung over, and volunteered to provide a special ancient family remedy that he swore was foolproof. I gratefully accepted, and discovered that his wonderful massage actually did take my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I don't have any lumps! Feeling invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a tight white cotton dress, cut japanese low in front and short in the skirt, over it. Then, jumping into a pair of sensible fuck-me pumps (suitable for walking) and glancing in the mirror for one last look, I head out. True, the red and black corset and panties are visible through the white cotton if you look closely enough, but the stocking tops are hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my nipples are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen. Heading along the Boulevard St. Germain, I descend into the Metro. My first stop will be the Louvre (lewvrah, or lewv, or something). I depart the Metro at Les Halles (lay zall), as did most of the men on the train. Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the stairs before them - and even wait until I am five or ten steps up before they begin to follow. The Louvre is one of the highlights of Paris. Not only is it the home of much of the world's best art, it's also alive with Paris' best and brightest aspiring artists copying the masters for practice. While admiring a nude, I am approached by a young fellow who engages me in a fascinating conversation about the way the artist has captured the skin tones on the panties model's nipples, and enlightening me on the courage of the artist in foregoing the traditional fig leaf, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail. I'll never look at a vagina the same way again. He tells me he knows of some other full-frontal nudes in a gallery closed to the public, and asks if I'd like to see them. "Oh, oui! (oh wee)" I exclaim, and in seconds we are in a locked room, surrounded by some of the most exquisite pussy ever painted. Pointing at one that I thought was brilliant, my new friend declares it amateurish and unrealistic. "Zere are too many leetle folds - no wooman 'as zat much peenk!" he pontificates. Thrilled with the intellectual debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is wrong. "Look!" I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling apart the sides of my crotchless panties, "don't I look just like that?" His answer startles me: "oh, non! Yours is - shav-ed, oh la la - but lahk zees one," pointing to another nude who is clearly less excited than our subject snatch. Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to masturbate. He sees my point, and in a fit of intellectual stimulation, rushes to my aid. Soon, his fingers are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to look a lot like the pussy in the painting. "Steel not zere!" he declares, casting his critical eye back and forth between my dripping sex and the masterpiece. He yanks out his French stick, and asian plunges it deep inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with nothing fetish to live on but potato chips suddenly finding a well at an oasis. When he spurts inside me (don't forget to wear your diaphragm in Paris) and pulls out hastily, he gazes again at my vagina and at the one in the painting. "Madame," he concedes with a bow, "you are correct." From the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries (zhar-dan day twee-le-ree) and onto the Champs Elysees (shons ay-lee-say), remembering to tug your skirt down every few steps - or if necessary, pull your stockings up. I wound up face fucking her. This became something we would do almost everyday. panties It was rush job so I wing it and look how that turned out I put bloody condom on wrong. Are you really sure you want to know more about why I want to stay hidden?” I asked. "The Flagpole Sitter, had arrived." As I said, I had no good feelings for her. “Yeah, it’s just in the bag in the back seat of the cab. Dear Ms. Ashe is going to pay rent to me for living here. She pulled at the suit again so that it just covered her pussy, showing how trimmed her japanese bush was. "If anyone comes into the laundry room, and asks you about your nudity, just explain that you had to wash everything. She barely looked up at him. “And if you want to suck on it, you better show me those big tits and fetish that cute fucking ass of yours,” I said, my hand lashing out. Beat red everyone knew the next dare was for Jessica, I was ready to make her mad. Her mind was being overwhelmed by what was about to be; in a asian few seconds, she would be hanging by her neck in front of all these people. His gigantic cock stood almost parallel with his groin and stomach, wobbling enticingly. Ben grimaced, knowing this question couldn’t be avoided. He felt the elevator slow and the doors before him open, he let Athena step out first and, with a crook of her finger, was bid to follow. Jon told me that we were going to have a great time and that there would be lots for me to write about in this journal. She eased her grip on my shoulder, and caressed the clotted wound with her thumb, an echo of the delicious pain sounding Solo through my body with every motion.