A Night in Paris — April 17th, 2010

He came for three nights of excess. One day in Paris, one in Beaune, one in Champagne. Thirty strangers, a luxury coach, and an accidental young, cheeky, tan, cocksure Sydney boy, travelling alone. When the French booking agent bit her lip and whispered, “You’re extremely lucky,” she wasn’t wrong.

Four married couples. Two other men.

The rest? Single women.

That night, the Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal trembled.

He stood bare, cock heavy and pulsing, on the edge of the Juliet balcony. Champagne beaded down his chest, Dom Pérignon cold against his tongue, heat rolling off his body in waves.

One Canadian—hazel-eyed and flushed—was on her knees, fingers wrapped around the thick, veiny length of him, jaw slack as she took in every uncut inch. “I’ve… I’ve never seen one like this,” she whispered, almost reverently. “It’s—beautiful.”

She peeled him back like a forbidden fruit, watched the tip swell, glisten, pulse in time with his breath. “It’s fucking alive…”

Her lips sealed around him, slow, sloppy, full of awe.

Behind her, her best friend was sprawled across the bed, her thighs parted, face buried between them—an American wife whose husband had wandered off to a casino and left her starving. Her moans were muffled, desperate, clutching at sheets while her hips writhed and twitched.

He groaned—head back, Dom on his tongue, a perfect mouth on his cock, red lipstick bleeding down his shaft, the night wind licking his skin as Paris glittered around them.

Sin had a taste.

It was champagne, pussy, and the kind of head that made your knees buckle.

And the night had only just begun.