Afternoon with a Princess

I have the picture mounted and framed, and it occupies a prominent place in my little impromptu gallery, the section of one wall in my apartment where I display my best work.

It's a bit unusual for me, since I'm really not a glamour photographer. I'm a photojournalist by trade and inclination, good at shooting meat-and-potatoes stuff for the newspaper, much better at capturing sports action.

Nevertheless, the portrait always draws comment, for several reasons. For one thing, it's a candid shot of a woman, a young woman of dazzling good looks with an awe-inspiring body. She's tall, probably six feet, possessed of thick red hair and a perfectly-placed set of tits.

For another, it's what she's wearing, or, more precisely, what she's not wearing: a bikini top and tight, low-cut pants, both white as snow, with a string of pearls around her neck, a funky orange hat on her head and white come-fuck-me heels.

But the main thing is the look. The woman is leaning forward on a chair in a provocative way, with her sparkling eyes gazing away, to something to her right, and they are eyes that draw the viewer like magnets, mischievous orbs that fairly scream out a lust for life and a lust for ... lust.

Friends see the picture, they ask me about it, and I just smile knowingly.

See, the picture is the only proof, the only memory I have of one of the most memorable experiences of my short life, now all of 24 years. It's the story about how I made love to a goddess, a princess, and so help me God, every bit of it is true.

Her name was Cecilia and I met her in Paris one warm summer afternoon -- actually, it was late morning -- at a street-side café, and I have my natural curiosity and abundant self-confidence to thank for that.

My name is Reese Matthews and I am the only child of a career cop and a schoolteacher from Pensacola, Fla.

I wasn't spoiled by any means, but as the only child I could pretty much get anything I wanted, as long as I behaved, did well in school and did my household chores in a timely and efficient manner.

And what I wanted, from the time I was 10 years-old, was a camera in my hands and an opportunity to shoot pictures. I liked action, and when I got into high school, Dad started letting me tag along when he went out to investigate crime or accident scenes.

Needless to say, I saw some pretty gruesome stuff. I think that was Dad's way of letting me see for myself -- without him having to lecture me -- about the pitfalls of drug and alcohol abuse.

Pretty soon, I started stringing for the local newspaper, and quickly earned a reputation as a kid who could be counted on to shoot anything, anywhere, any time, and come back with clear, evocative photos.

That job, along with a part-time job at a local camera shop, allowed me to get my hands on some pretty sophisticated equipment. The guy I worked for was old school and he insisted that I learn how to develop film, even though the digital age has made film an anachronism.

When I graduated from high school, I got a scholarship offer from the University of Florida and went to work for the school paper, while still stringing for several newspapers, as well as the Associated Press.

The first two summers, I came home and interned with the local paper, but after my junior year, I decided to join one of my history professors on a three-week tour of Europe.

The theme of the trip was, "The Footsteps of Napoleon," and the idea was that we would immerse ourselves in the life and times of Napoleon, including stops in Corsica and Paris, plus visits to the sites of his most famous battles.

I'm a bit of a history buff, but my main reason for going was simply that it was a chance to visit Europe for a reasonably affordable price.

I really wanted to go to France, more so than any place else on the itinerary. My mom is from Louisiana and I've got a bit of Cajun blood in me, not enough to speak much French, but enough that I kind of look the part.

We were in Paris for four days, and on the last day, we had the day to ourselves.

I was having a cup of coffee at this sidewalk café a couple of blocks from our hotel when I saw her. She was talking in an animated way with a man, arguing about something or other, then he got up and walked away rather angrily.

It was as her eyes were following him that I got the shot, and the look in her eyes puzzled me. There was almost an amusement to them that was totally at odds with the scene I'd just witnessed.

I shot several frames in rapid succession, and then I heard her say, in perfect English, "fucking bastard."

I wasn't sure whether she was directing that comment to the now-departed man or to me. I found out when I saw her stand up and walk toward my table.

"You!" she said standing over me belligerently. "I didn't give you permission to take my picture. Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Whoever she was, one thing was certain. She was an American, and she was acting like every European's worst stereotype American, angry and arrogant. I'm not sure how she figured out that I was also an American, but started right in on me like she assumed I understood the language.

For a moment, I was speechless, not because she intimidated me, but because I was absolutely in awe of this woman's beauty.

Like I said, she was tall, well-built, with a healthy set of lungs, no visible excess anywhere, and very good-looking.

"Well?" she continued. "You think you can roll your tongue back into your mouth long enough to answer a simple question? Uh, parlez-vous Anglais?"

"Excuse me, but I believe this is a public place, and I'm entitled to shoot any damn thing I please," I said as I came back to reality. "What makes you think I was taking your picture? I could have been shooting your boyfriend, for all you know."

"Oh? Then I suppose that's a banana you have sticking in your pocket, no?" she was smiling now, I guess because she thought she had the upper hand.

"Probably isn't the first one you've seen today, is it?" I shot back.

I'm not the biggest guy around, or the strongest, but I don't lack for confidence, especially in the face of snooty bitches, and I've got a quick wit and a deft way with a comeback.

I was ready for more verbal warfare, having regained my equilibrium. But she surprised me. She suddenly started laughing.

"Good one," she said. "Mind if I join you? I don't get too many chances to talk to an American these days."

"With pleasure," I said, pointing to the chair across from me. She sat, and a waiter quickly came over and took an order for a glass of wine, and I got another café au lait.

"So, what's a perfectly good American girl like you doing slumming around in Paris?" I asked with a puckish smile.

"I am what you might call a kept woman," she replied with a seductive smile that had my groin throbbing.

Turns out, Cecilia was a true Boston blueblood, as close as you'll ever find to royalty in America. She'd gone to the finest prep school in New England, then attended college at Radcliffe, where she majored in art and minored in French.

She married right out of college, to a Harvard man from one of the "right" families, but she soon became bored with the stiff lifestyle that came with him.

That changed when she met a wealthy French industrialist, a client of her father's company, who swept her off her feet, and was, in turn, beguiled by her beauty.

He offered to set her up in a studio apartment in Paris and give her whatever she needed for her art if she would run off with him and be his mistress.

So she did, and she had been living the good life in France for three years now. She'd had some of her works displayed at a few art galleries, and she supplemented her income by teaching English to the children of some of her lover's friends.

"My parents were mortified," Cecilia said. "It was a big scandal in their social circle. Well, fuck them. My ex was a toad. I mean, for God's sake, we're in the South Pacific at this resort on our honeymoon and he spends most of the time on the phone making stock trades! Plus, he was a lousy lover."

Of course, the flip side was that Jacques, her "keeper," was married with several other girlfriends besides Cecilia.

"That's what we were fussing about a little while ago," she said. "He really is good to me, but I'd like a little more of him, and it frustrates me to always be competing with his other girlfriends, not to mention his wife."

I just sat back and did what I do best, listen and empathize. She asked me what I was doing there, and I told her, and that's when things took a definite turn.

"Let me see if I can guess where you're from," she said, then after a few seconds of thought, she had her guess. "I'd say you are from Georgia, or maybe Tennessee.."

"You were closer the first time, but wrong," I said.

"Then you must be from Florida," she said. "You definitely have a Southern accent, but it's not real thick."

"Very good," I said, and I told where I was from and where I was going to school.

"I've got a keen ear for nuances of language, especially English," she said. "Comes from studying French. I'm a very talented linguist."

"Oh, a cunning linguist, are we?" I said with a chuckle.

"I've linged a few cunnies in my time," she said, staring intently at me. "And I'll bet you're a pretty cunning linguist yourself."

"With someone like you, I'd do anything you want," I said.

The conversation meandered in a different direction, as Cecilia started talking about the French language, how tough it had been to put her schoolbook knowledge of the language into everyday practice. But there was an undercurrent of lust bubbling under the conversation and it didn't take long for it to bubble to the surface.

"About the only phrases I know in French are 'laissez les bon temps rouler' and 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir,'" I said.

I swear I saw Cecilia's nipples spring to attention when I said that, and that's when I started to get a tad nervous. Up to that point, I'd been playing with her. I was relaxed and convivial because I knew I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting anywhere with this princess.

But right then it started to hit me that perhaps if I played my cards right, I just might get a trip to paradise.

Turns out, I'd already laid down a winning hand.

"And would you?" Cecilia said quietly.

"Would I what?" I answered.

"Coucher, avec moi," she said. "Would you like to fuck me?"

"Jesus H. Christ, Cecilia, what kind of a stupid question is that?" I said flippantly. "Man'd have to be queer or a eunuch, or a queer eunuch to not want to fuck you. Are you asking me seriously? If you are, then we're wasting time."

"Reese, I'm bored, and I can't think of a better way to spend a hot afternoon than fucking a nice sexy man, a nice sexy -- American -- man," she said. "My flat is about 10 blocks that way. What about it? Do you think you're man enough to please me?"

"Honey," I said, getting my face right up close to hers. "I may not be the biggest fish in the ocean, but I know how to swim with the barracudas. The sharks I stay away from. But I think you're just a barracuda -- dangerous, but not deadly. So, if you're ready, then let's go. But first..."

And I reached for the back of her head and brought her face to mine and kissed her, gently at first, but with ever-increasing ardor. I knew I was only going to get one chance and I was ready to grab for the gusto with both hands.

Cecilia lived on the top floor of an old house overlooking a pedestrian plaza. If you've ever seen the original "Day of the Jackal," movie, the one about the plot to kill deGaulle, you'll know what her place was like.

There was a large open room that was cluttered with a variety of her work, along with the scattered supplies and stuff, and I have to say she was quite good. She seemed competent in a number of media, but it was her work with charcoal that was the most riveting.

She had charcoal drawings of virtually every place in Paris that was worth drawing, along with still-life portraits. Charcoal allowed her to express nuances of shadow and light, much like a really good photographer does with black-and-white film.

I was able to connect with her on that level, and I could tell my standing rose a few notches in her estimation.

The bedroom and bathroom were off to one side of the apartment, and a kitchen area was at the other side. The place was actually bigger than it looked, but with all of Cecilia's things scattered about, it looked small.

"Now, where were we?" Cecilia said as she tossed the hat onto a chair and shook her thick auburn locks free.

"I believe we were discussing voulez-vous coucher avec moi," I said as I shed the photographer's vest that I wear everywhere I go to shoot pictures.

"Yes, I believe we were," she murmured, and we came together in the middle of the room.

Even though she had at least three inches on me, I took the lead. I reached up, pulled her face down to mine and kissed her. I gave her my Grade A best, sensually working my lips on hers -- and God, what lips she had! I casually slid my tongue into her mouth and we dueled languidly.

After a couple of minutes of this, Cecilia pulled away with a flush to her face and a quizzical look in her eyes. I wasn't sure what her game usually was, but I had an inkling that she got her jollies by seducing young American guys like me and playing the dominant role.

Well, fuck that. I don't believe in a dominant or submissive role in sex, but if push comes to shove, I'm sure as hell not going to be any woman's submissive. Ain't happening.

"You are very, very sexy," I whispered. "But then you knew that."

"What can I say?" she said. "I like sex and I like adventure."

I kissed her again, and ran my hands over her sensuous body. I reached up and unhooked her top and let it fall to the floor. I think I hissed when I got my first look at Cecilia's naked breasts.

They were round and fat, but not excessive, perfectly set on her chest, with plump nipples that were begging for attention. I filled my hands with her orbs, lightly caressing her flesh and rolling her nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

This time, it was her turn to hiss in mounting lust, and I quickly pressed my attack by leaning over slightly and capturing one of her hot-pink tips with my lips. I sucked and licked on her nipple, then released it and captured the other.

I was gratified to hear a low moan escape her mouth as I suckled her tits while I casually sawed my hand between her legs. I could feel the heat rising under the tight cotton of her pants and I knew she was ripe for fucking.

She pulled me up then and began to undress me, which took almost no time. All I had on were shorts, a T-shirt, sandals and my boxers. While she got me naked, I worked her pants open and peeled them down her legs.

We were frantic for it now. I hadn't gotten laid since the end of school, and I was horny as a goat with three dicks, and I could sense the same intense lust in Cecilia.

She had on a pair of thong panties that were drenched in her juices, and tangy they were, as I quickly discovered when I swiped a couple of fingers up her drooling furrow.

Her pussy was framed by a well-trimmed bush the color of burnished bronze, with well-defined labia that might as well have been like the gates of heaven.

I dropped onto my knees and pressed my face to her crotch. I inhaled her aroma a split second before I dove into her creamy pie tongue-first. Cecilia wrapped her left leg around my shoulder, lifted her head to the ceiling and howled in runaway passion.

Oh, she was sitting on a powder keg of explosive lust, and I skillfully worked my lips and tongue all over her churning flesh, as she undulated her hips in an effort to keep the connection between my mouth and her pussy.

It didn't take much of that before I felt her body ripple with a rather intense orgasm. I clamped my mouth onto her twitching twat and let her ride it out on my face.

When she was done, she looked down and noticed that I was idly stroking my cock, getting it ready for a trip to nirvana.

"Nice one," she said as she pulled me up from the floor and led me to her bedroom. Cecilia had a sensual way of moving, as if every part of her body was in constant motion. She looked to be in shape, but her body was smooth and lean, rather than muscular.

I lay back on her unmade bed and just stared into her eyes. I was content for the moment to let her take the lead, to let her show me her stuff.

She crawled onto the bed with cat-like grace and set up shop between my legs. She hefted my throbbing, purple boner, stroked it lightly and hummed softly.

"Oh yeah, it is a nice one," she said, as much to my dick as to me. "Like you said, not the biggest, but nice, very nice."

In truth, I'm never going to win a contest for longest dick, but it is pretty meaty, and I do know how to use it to maximum effect.

Cecilia brought her face right up to it, slashed her tongue up the underside, then lapped her way up the shaft, always up, until she reached the crown, which was covered by a film of pre-cum. I groaned heavily as she slowly opened her mouth and slid the head past her ruby-red lips.

I swear it took every bit of my self-control to hold back the tidal wave of cum that boiled to the surface when she started to work her mouth up and down on my cock, with her tongue swirling around with every plunge.

I've had some mighty fine blowjobs in my time, but Cecilia beat them all. She took every bit of me into her throat and worked up, then all the way back down again. I subtly thrust my hips upward to keep as much of my inflamed dick in the hot depths of her mouth.

I happened to look beyond where her mouth was locked on my cock, and I could see that her free hand -- the one that wasn't hoisting my cock -- was underneath her body working her pussy back into a frenzy.

I knew then that it was time to take command of the situation. I gently pried Cecilia's mouth off my cock, pulled her up the bed, rolled her onto her back and got up on my knees between her legs, my cock firmly in hand.

As long as I live, I will always remember that sight of Cecilia lying back, her breasts heaving, her legs spread and a look of need on her face. It didn't matter that I was just an anonymous fuck toy for her to use at her pleasure, a kid she'd picked up at the cafe; she needed me right then, and I knew it.

I slid the head of my cock between her lips several times, priming the pump, if you will, and that evoked a whine from Cecilia that spoke volumes. She was just another horny woman who needed her pussy stroked, and I was just the man to do it.

"Fuck me, Reese," she panted then. "Fuck me hard and make me come."

"Oh I intend to do just that," I said breathlessly.

And I did.

I slid the head of my cock into one of the hottest, juiciest pussies I've ever had the pleasure of fucking, and I rammed it home with a gentle authority -- hard, but not rough.

As soon as I got all of my cock in Cecilia's steaming cunt and began to set up a steady rhythm, she started in with the vocals. She keened, she hummed, she gasped, she squealed, and she pulled me to her, wrapped her legs around my waist and worked her hips in time with mine.

I'd love to say I lasted forever, but really I think it was less than five minutes of furious humping. But, man, what a five minutes!

I circled her clit as many times as I could with every thrust, and I could feel her sweaty tits, rubbing together with my sweaty nips, sending shock waves of lust one to the other.

I could feel her climbing higher and higher to one of those orgasms that rattles every bone in a woman's body, and I could feel the rusty crackle of overheated cum boiling over.

"Unnnnnnh, yeah!" she wailed. "Don't hold back; don't hold anything back, baby. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck meeeeee!"