“Madame Michel? Your husband left this for you”.

Mary-Lou pauses at the school’s front door and turns to look back to see who has called her. It’s the school secretary, who is waving a black plastic bag. Her heartbeat accelerates.

So. Yannick is calling in my birthday present to him. She had failed totally in her quest to find a present for her husband that met her self-imposed criteria of being both original and fun, as well as not being something that would sit in a drawer until it was thrown out. In a moment of desperation, she’d fallen back on Grimm’s fairytales and granted him three wishes. The twinkle in his eye said he was liking that idea. There are times when his Frenchness in matters sexual pushes Mary-Lou’s Iowa upbringing to its limits.

She takes the bag, thanks the secretary and walks out of the college building. In the carpark, she stops and looks into the bag. There’s a package, and stuck to it is an envelope. She opens it.

Leave the car at the school. Train and subway into the middle of Paris, to Montmartre. Near the basilica, there’s a café called Au Cadet de Gascogne in the Place du Tertre. Go in and order yourself a drink. (It’s the only time you’ll have a choice today!). Change into what’s in the package. At the bar, they’ll have an envelope for you, addressed to Madame X. Your instructions are inside it. Get changed before you ask for the envelope, though. Mary-Lou sighs. Fortunately, it’s a half-day at work. She smiles to herself. Back home in rural Iowa, only working a half-day would lose her half a day’s pay. Not here in France, though. Marriage to Yannick has many advantages beyond a very enjoyable sex life, including access to a secure and well-paid job teaching science.

Ten years of living in the suburbs of Paris has given her a good knowledge of the city, and she finds her way easily to the heights of Montmartre. It’s something of a relief that, whatever Yannick has plotted, it’s going to happen well away from where she lives and works. People ... and especially men ... notice Mary-Lou. At five feet nine, she’s five inches taller than most French women, and if she wouldn’t describe herself as stacked, her boobs are in proportion to her slim outline. Yannick is a passionate and creative lover, who encourages her to dress up, and is delighted to see her looking sexy when they go out together. Today, she suspects that he’ll have her dressing to look sexy, but on her own. It’s a (small) relief that in the middle of Paris she’ll be less likely to run across a parent, or even worse, one of her final-year chemistry students who eye up their “exotic” American teacher with barely disguised lust, in spite of the conservative dresses she wears for work. Today’s is calf-length, with a high collar and long sleeves, but that hasn’t stopped them from ogling her.

She comes out of the métro subway station and sets off up the two hundred plus steps to the big white church. At the top, she pauses to get her breath back and looks for the café. Inside, she orders a mineral water to drink while she finishes recovering from the climb, then a camomile tea, in the (vain) hope that it will calm her down for what she suspects she’s about to discover.

Twenty minutes later, she can’t put it off any longer and goes down to the toilets in the basement. She shuts herself in a cubicle, takes off her work dress, stuffs it into her big shoulder bag and opens the package. It’s her blue wrap dress, Yannick’s favourite. She strips to her underwear, starts to put it on, and gasps. Yannick, you sneaky ratbag! He’s had it shortened from a perfectly presentable just-above-knee length, to reaching barely halfway down her thighs! There are mirrors in the restroom and she goes to look at herself, grateful that she put on tights this morning. It’s not a micro mini but it’s shorter than anything she’s ever worn, in public at least. She smiles to herself. In their bedroom is a very different matter. She goes back up to the bar and asks if there’s an envelope for Madame X. There is. She opens it. The message is in English, so there’s no chance of her deliberately misunderstanding Yannick’s instructions.

Oh, no, my dear! I know you too well! Today, in accordance with my three wishes, you’re wearing the dress ... and nothing but the dress! No bra, certainly no “pantyhose” and no “panties” either! The dress and your shoes, full stop.

Mary-Lou can’t stop herself from smiling. She can picture Yannick’s disgusted face as he says this words. He only uses words like pantyhose and panties when he’s being ironic, and usually when he’s about to strip them off her.

She goes back down to the door marked “Toilettes”, and takes off her underwear. She can’t say she’s altogether surprised that the shortened dress was only phase one of Yannick’s plan, but it’s still scary. Scary? I’m terrified! And how will I find out what I have to do next? When she goes back up to the bar, she can feel the eyes of the waiters on her, almost as if she were naked. Do they know, or is it all in my head?

“Madame? There’s a second envelope for you”.

“Go back to the Basilica, then walk down the long flight of steps and take the subway to Trocadéro. Cross the river, and not far from the Rodin museum, theres a café that calls itself an English Tea Room. If I’m not there when you arrive, sit on one of the benches across the street and wait. I’ll expect to see plenty of leg! If I’m already there, pretend to have a stone in your sandal. Bend low to take it out and remain in that position for thirty seconds. Then come in, and we’ll take tea together, like an old married couple. Then we’ll go home and fuck like wild things.” Mary-Lou gulps as she goes over the instructions again.

Avoiding arrest for indecent exposure is going to be a major challenge. I’m about to travel across Paris, on a weekday afternoon, in the high tourist season, while I’m not even half-dressed? Shee ... it! Next birthday, dear husband, you’ll be lucky if you get one sock, let alone a pair! She sets off down the famous stairway in front of the basilica. It seems to go on forever to Mary-Lou. It certainly felt that way coming up! She can feel people looking at her. Since she’s been in Europe, she’s got used to being looked at. With her height, her fine eyes, her short, well-cut dark hair and her slim figure she doesn’t pass unnoticed. It’s nice to know that even at thirty-eight, I’m still an attractive woman. Yannick tells me so almost daily, but I’m married to him, so does that count? Right now, though, she’s all too aware that only a (very) few centimetres are hiding her bare sex, and that her nipples are rubbing against the delicate material of her dress, as her unrestrained breasts move naturally. She’s not used to being without a bra. She knows that her pink cheeks are a clue to the butterflies in her stomach. She feels more sexually awake than for a while.

Pussy on fire? Maybe not quite, but close! More ... vulnerable? Oh, yes! A lot more at risk. A little gust of wind flips her dress open, and suddenly all she can feel is the breeze in her pubic curls. She tries to avoid any eye contact, but the look she notices from the young man coming up the steps towards her tells her that her state has not gone unobserved. Her nipples tighten up even more at that thought. The man is a few steps below her and she knows he must have seen everything. She can feel she’s getting wet. Ignore him, Mary-Lou, even if he is handsome!

“Bella, ma troppo Bella”, he murmurs as they cross on the steps. She just can’t anymore. She takes hold of this Italian stranger by the arm and turns him towards her. They kiss, gently at first, then with lust, tongues mingling. Mary-Lou is reminded of the celebrated Doisnel photo called “The kiss at the town hall”.

But that young woman wasn’t almost naked, and I can’t afford there to be a photo of “the woman having an orgasm on the steps at Montmartre”! It’s hard to pull away, because the young man’s hand has slipped inside her dress and is playing with her erect nipple.

Shall I let him carry on? My body really wants him to. She shivers, and with regret, steps back from him.

“Thank you” she stammers, her voice hoarse with desire.

She turns her back on him and sets off again downwards, almost trotting. The drum she can feel beating in her ears has to be her heart. She knows how close to an orgasm she has just been, but she knows she must not let herself give in.

If my dear Yannick was hoping I’d be turned on by the time I meet him, he’s already won that bet, but why should my excitement only be for him? I can enjoy it too... That thought makes her smile, as she carries on down the long flight of steps. Other people smile back, as they take note of this beautiful mature woman who is radiating an almost visible sexuality.

At the subway station at Anvers, the train is heaving with the usual crowd of tourists. Mary-Lou is struggling to reach the last empty drop-down seat when it is taken by a woman who could be her sister ... older sister, of course, but not by much. They look at each other and might have spoken, but Mary-Lou, blocked by the crowd, can’t move, and she ends up surrounded by a group of adolescent boys. Her French is good, but they are talking to one another in street-talk, a part French, part Arabic, part Spanish jargon, and she catches maybe one word in three. Some are black, some white, some North-African, some a mixture of all three.

They look and sound like one of my classes on a day out! Mary-Lou is sure that these boys have noticed her unsupported breasts. That makes her feel embarrassed, but it’s exciting, too. The train sets off and she has to reach up to one of the overhead grab handles to steady herself. Her raised arm pulls her dress up a little. With her other hand she tugs at the hem, trying to feel even marginally more covered, but the gesture brings her fingernails into contact with her pubic hair and that gives her the shivers. This dress is right at the limit of decency, at least for me! I’m not eighteen any more! She is torn between the fear of causing a scandal, and a raging urge to pull her dress right up and show her naked sex to all these strangers, just to see their reaction. Her brain is whirling with fantasies of herself being caressed, fondled, and brought to a shattering climax by anonymous hands. She calms herself down, by mentally reciting the table of elements and their atomic weights.

The train arrives at Étoile, where she has to change lines. The carriage empties in a flash, the flood carrying her along. Curiously, she is still surrounded by the same group of adolescents. When she tries to take the corridor for the train to Trocadéro, the pressure around her subtly increases and she is gently but firmly guided towards the platform for the trains out to what in the US would be called “the Projects”. She doesn’t resist when someone takes hold of her arm and leads her into a carriage which is empty but for her entourage. Mary-Lou is bizarrely confused. Curious ... and uneasy. Uneasy, and yet curious. Am I being kidnapped? I should call for help ... but who would hear me? Nobody. So she does nothing and stands motionless in the middle of the group. The weird situation is exciting her, in spite of herself.

Do they know I’m naked under my dress? Her nipples are so hard that they are almost painful. Just the point where they are in contact with the delicate material of her dress is like a provocation.

The group step back from her as the train sets off, and she reaches for the overhead handles with both hands.

A hand takes hold of the hem of her dress and lifts it up. There’s a murmur of appreciation as they examine her vulva. A different hand unfastens the knot that holds her dress closed. The two parts separate and the full extent of her nudity is revealed. They take their time, but soon Mary-Lou is abandoning herself to the hands which are caressing her sex and breasts. There’s an orgasm building in her abdomen, but before she can come, the train is slowing down and entering a station. Her dress is quickly re fastened and she feels it’s almost normal when the one who seems to be the leader takes her hand and invites her to go with him towards the exit. Mary-Lou asks herself why she isn’t trying to escape, but then shrugs.

It’s as if I only exist through what I’m feeling in my nipples and sex. I’m going with these boys because I want to know where that will take me, physically, mentally and emotionally. They don’t scare me. I’m not afraid. At the entrance to an apartment block, she is guided towards the basement. A door is quickly unlocked and the light is switched on. The basement has been turned into some sort of club room, with an old sofa, some dilapidated armchairs and the remnants of a carpet, all no doubt recovered from a dump or stolen. Mary-Lou looks around. They are waiting. But for what? Or for whom? They’re young, some very young, mid-teens, maybe? Even the leader, who is the oldest, can’t be more than eighteen. Mary-Lou gets a grip on herself. I refuse to be their victim! Absolutely not! She reminds herself that she is a teacher, that this is a class, that she can control them and that they will do what she wants.

What it is that she wants is burning her up, now. She unfastens her dress and lets it drop on the sofa. She goes to the boy who her teacher’s eye tells her is the youngest, or at least the one who looks most unsure of himself. She takes hold of his hand and places it on her breast. The boy’s caresses are clumsy, but all the more exciting for that. She pulls him to her. She can feel the heat of his erection through his clothes. She kneels, opens his fly and pulls out his stiff penis.