Angels and heaven in the city of love

ENG
He is standing in front of the shop where we agreed to meet, somewhere in Le Marais, with his eyes glued to his phone. From a distance, I can see the page with our conversation open. He doesn’t notice me arriving. When he does see me, he is happy, even a little surprised. As if in the three minutes I was late and he was looking at my last message, he had already concluded that I wasn't coming after all. But I always come.

We go to one of those Parisian cocktail bars where the door isn't really a door, and you have to crawl through somewhere halfway to get inside. As we sit down and the bartender explains how the cocktail menu works, I take off my sweater. I didn't know he would keep talking, and so I ruin my grand reveal myself. I know the man will try to contain himself in front of the waiter. A missed opportunity. My hair, trousers, shoes and sweater are black, but as I peel off the top layer, a purple top is showing. It’s a single piece of fabric that comes together in one place, just below my breasts, with a silver jewel. Above and below the jewel, the fabric falls open. It shows the lines of where my breasts begin and where my stomach ends. The bartender and the Frenchman both let their gaze fall on the bare skin between above and below the silver jewel, and for a moment the air around us is silent and crisp. The bartender leaves and in the man’s eyes I see a sparkle. He showers me with compliments all evening, and not one of them feels hollow. He keeps repeating: "You are so alive and vibrant. You are bursting with energy." I giggle and let my hand rest on his arm.

We go to his studio in the 3rd arrondissement. He hands me an envelope. I smile and can’t hide how much it turns me on to count the notes and feel his presence next to me, the tension of waiting until one of us takes the first step. I look around. There is a kitchenette, with a bathroom behind. Everywhere there are shelves filled to the brim with dusty bottles of wine. An investment, he says. Wine crates are stacked on the floor, and black-and-white photographs he took himself hang on the wall. He tells me about two photos he took in Biarritz. The sea is exceptionally calm in one of them. He took the photograph during the equinox, the longest day of the year, when there is no ebb and flow. The sea is so calm that there are no waves, barely any swells. The next day, they return with even more force. The ebb and flow thrive again as we know them. I ask what ebb and flow is in French, and I find the answer disappointing. It's not as romantic as in Dutch, I tell him, and that's his cue. He kisses me, long, passionate. He kisses me and carefully undresses me and lifts me onto the bed. We each start taking off one of my Dr. Martens shoes, and I make it a game to see who can take them off the fastest. I win and announce it beaming. We laugh and he pulls my trousers all the way down. He takes off his shirt. I want to help, but my long nails rob me of the freedom to undo someone's buttons. We laugh again. It’s funny how someone completely changes when their clothes are off. Once they are naked, they are real. Their bodies, body hair and scent become real, and are objects of desire.
He is so grateful. He falls apart with gratitude. He falls apart and rebuilds himself, and his cock is hard and ready, but first he bites every surface of my upper body. No one has ever bitten my shoulder bone, my elbow, taken my fingers in their mouth and played with them with their teeth. I surrender to the pain and my body twists like a contortionist. He turns me around, bites my ass, my thighs, lets his fingers come dangerously close, turns me around again, licks around the heat and then finally where I've wanted his tongue to find me, where I wanted to feel it, for so long. I come. He tells me how good I taste and how beautiful I am. I sit on top of him, kiss him, put on a condom and return the gesture. He lets me suck him off the way I know how to, with fat drops of saliva, with my tongue, mouth, lips and hands. Sometimes they just ram their cocks down my throat, and I like that too, but I love it when my craft is appreciated. He asks if I want him to take me. I want nothing more and I climb on top. His eyes. They are filled with wonder as I ride him, as I position my arms so that they squeeze my breasts together. He turns me around again and asks if I want a break. I stammer a no, and he sighs under his breath that he's not my age anymore, but slides into me anyway. He mimics my look of utter despair and I have to laugh. He fucks me harder and tells me I like it. I confirm with loud cries and a stammered yes, or ja, or oui, I can't tell anymore. He asks if he can lick me again and won’t stop until I can't take it anymore. He tells me to breathe calmly and asks if he can come inside me. I almost beg him to. Please, please, please. And then that's exactly what he does.
This may not be what most people expect sex to be like when one party pays for it and the other is paid. But this is exactly how it went. I came twice, I felt fully satisfied. We catch our breath and drink water. He tells me again how beautiful I am. ‘The face of an angel,’ he murmurs. He tells me he hasn't had such intense sex in years, and thanks me. I count the money again, and he tells me it’s good I count, washes his hands, and helps me put on my coat. I put my arms around his shoulders, thank him for everything and kiss him goodbye. He wants to see me again, he texts, from “the cloud in heaven where I brought him”.
Frenchmen. I like them.