When I first arrived in Paris, although my aim for being there was a passion for my writing, I knew that I needed the strength of the erotic nature of the city. Although Paris has the poverty and the distress of any other large city, it was blessed by Eros and evokes a desire that lies dormant for me in other cities.

There is also permission in the air in Paris. I needed that permission. I craved that permission.

Although I am an experienced lover, I have not abandoned myself to the depth and the darkness that I know exists in woman. I feel it like a smouldering dormant volcano inside of me. It writhes and coils when I am involved in a seduction, then at the moment of consummation, I feel the fear that results in restraint that most women experience sometimes, or all of the time. Then I give myself to my lover in a submissive willingness that is a lie to the temptress that seduced him. With women I show more courage, able to take them in that power all the way to her orgasm as my lips are fastened to her exploding sex; but as soon as she tries to devour me, sucking my own orgasm form my body, I withdraw in a spiritual nature. Fearful of the thing that is being unleashed, I betray my woman lover by leaving her emotionally and creating my orgasm alone. I thank her for it, but it was never her that created it. My withdrawal, felt by her, was my way of keeping the demon at bay.

I both feared and longed for the release of this demon that lived inside of me.

When I arrived in Paris, I rented an apartment close to the university where I would study. A man who had moved to London and rented to students, owned it, and he prefers a woman student, to live in his home. I was to care for it, and my reward was inexpensive rent.

My first erotic encounter was in this apartment when I was on my own. I felt the sexual potency of the city. I am the kind of woman that can have an orgasm if I have immersed myself in a magnificent work of art. Art inspired a sexual ache in me that was satisfied by itself. I had felt the light-headedness and trickling wetness of my heated sex many a time in an art gallery and never failed to cum in front of a Van Gough. Except for the scent of arousal, and my flushed features, there was no way to tell that I had cum. Only once, in my life, did a man standing by me notice. He was dark and dressed immaculately. He turned to me, just as I came and watched me orgasm as I stared into the "café de nuit", that was on exhibition. I closed my eyes at point of explosion and he took my hand. I did not flinch or move, and when the tide had passed over me, he walked me to a small alcove, where he wordlessly moved my back to the wall, and standing in front of me, pressed his body into me as me stared into my eyes. Watching my expression with no emotion he ran his hand up my dress and moved it into the hot wetness that I had just created alone. He slid 2 fingers into my trembling cunt and pressed the heel of his hand into my clit. Watching me, expressionless, he manipulated me to orgasm again, and I burst in erotic fever all over his hand. He removed his hand, moved my panties back into place, and placed his wet hand at my lips. He watched my face as I licked his hand clean. Then, never removing his eyes from mine, he ran his hand down again and replaced and straightened my dress. He stepped back, and turned on his heel and left. I never saw him again.

I was thrilled to be sleeping in the bed of this man. He was a literature professor, and I knew him to be open and comfortable about sleeping with the women students. He had never married and was in his late forties. There were photos of him everywhere and he was very handsome. I, of course, would never meet him, but that was of no consequence to me. I could smell him. I could see his image. I could feel him. And there were small notes to me about the apartment as he instructed in a very forthright manner how the place was to be managed.

On the fridge: "No food left to spoil. Must be kept odour free"

On the hall table: "Mail to be collected every day. Never leave it, even for one day."

On the washing machine: "You are only to clean your clothes here twice a week. Monday and Thursday."

On the bed: "My bed is only for sleep, masturbation and Sex. No food or cigarettes."

There were notes that had clear and sometimes strange instructions everywhere. It was erotic and felt as though he were there, drawing me out, making me something that I want to be. I wanted to follow his orders, no matter how bizzzarre. Then, under the pillow, was this note: "Box under the bed, for masturbation only, or for female lovers. Not to be shown to men."

I was very wet and excited by this time and I felt that to masturbate would be wonderful. I wanted to follow the instruction. So I felt under the bed and soon found a box covered tightly in beautiful red Thai silk. I pulled it out and in it I found a small vibrator, a clit sucking device and a viewfinder. I have not seen a viewfinder for years, but this was a modern one, that showed small, rapidly moving pictures so that it was almost a film. Like if you have pictures on the pages of a book and you flick them and they appear to be moving. It was like that. Of course, there was a note attached.

"Maria,

If you are reading this, then my notes excited you and you are ready to cum. You may share this with women, especially if you wish to seduce them, but you are not to show it to men.

I will know if you do.

Get a photo of me. As you cum, I want you to look deeply into my eyes. If you lie in my bed, and masturbate to my pornography, you are my slut and you will recognise me as the originator of your orgasm.

Enjoy the gift that I have given you while you are in my home, and feel my hands on you as you sleep.

Monsieur."

I was faintly smiling, but also shocked that he had so much power over me without being there, without having ever even met me.

But I did it, just the same.

I stood up and moved the rich dark red covers off the bed. On the crisp navy sheets, I sat down and removed my shoes and my white silk blouse. I lay them, methodically at the end of the bed. Shoes in perfect alignment to the lines of the bed and blouse softly on the covers. I stood and took off my tight skirt, sliding it over my legs, over the white lace at the tops of my stockings. I removed it, and lay it over the other side at the end of the bed. I removed my white lace thong panties, and my matching bra, and my stockings, meticulously folding them and arranging them neatly at the end of the bed.

I lay down into the cool sheets, enjoying the feel of the cotton against my skin. I was deeply eroticised by the process of undressing. I felt hot and wet between my legs and I could smell Monsieur everywhere. I looked over at the picture I had next to my bed. He had a cool steady stare and I felt a responding vibration in my clitoris as I looked at him. Oh, I was very ready for this.

I picked up the vibrator and inserted it into my vagina. It was small and this disappointed me a little, but it needed to be I soon realised as when I turned it on, it vibrated so powerfully that it would have been squeezed out if my inner walls could grip it too tight. I lay and enjoyed the feel. Just let it flow into me, for a minute. Then I took the small suction device and lay it against my hard small erection. It had a long cord and a handy switch so I kept that by my hand. I did not want to turn it on too soon, as I did not want to cum yet.

Then I picked up the viewfinder, placed it against my eyes, and flicked it on.

Immediately, there was an image of a woman lying on her back, slightly raised up. Her hands were tied and she was struggling against her bonds. Her legs were spread and tied also and her knees were raised, and apart. She was beautiful and erotic as she pulled at her bonds. But she was also filled with a peculiar kind of fear. Her eyes were wild and huge. The whites were clearly visible around her dark brown colour and she looked terrified.