A Rainy Night in Paris
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Preface - It was Samantha's first trip to Paris. She was a new clothing buyer and she was completely unprepared for the City of Lights until a chance meeting over coffee led her to find love, success and possibly fulfillment.
It had been raining all day. It was a grey, steady, depressing rain that seemed to wash all the colours from the city, reminding you just how much of the city was built of stone, solid gray and unyielding. Paris had survived the rule of Louis XIV, had watched her citizens rebel in the French Revolution. She had been witness to the German tanks on the Champs Elysées, the very same streets that Napoleon had marched on. But today she was shrouded in rain, bearing witness to beginnings and endings. The Seine, seen from the Pont Neuf was black and heavy as if oil rather than water were flowing through its course. Tonight, everything seemed depressed, or maybe that was just their mood. Paris, the City of Lights. Gay Paris. People fell in love in Paris. Tonight there was very little happiness, despite the romantic setting. It was their last night together; she was flying out in the morning. He had to be in London by lunchtime which meant he had to be on the morning TGV. They had promised no regrets, only fun, but as the reality of the end loomed closer, the weather only helped accentuate their inevitable feelings.
The cafes and bistros, normally boisterous cauldrons of frenetic energy, tonight were deflated and almost tranquil. They were finishing their wine, the dinner long since cleared but the small dessert plates still in front of them. The cafe was only steps from his Paris apartment but neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave, content to sit and sip their wine, forestalling the inevitable separation. The remaining patrons were all local and the patois rolled over and around them and like the background music it was one more memory to cherish and remember as the minutes ticked by. He poured the last few drops of merlot from the carafe into their glasses.
"Une autre carafe, chérie?" He asked quietly, the empty carafe in his hand by way of enquiry.
"Non, merci," she said, shaking her head, almost sadly thinking how much her limited French had improved over the past week almost entirely through exposure to him and his friends.
They had met in a café like this almost a week ago. The meeting had been much less harmonious...