FICTION
Paris, the Jazz Club and Armand

By Dr. Patti Britton

Excerpt from
The Adventures of Her in France

The blaring sound of the gate numbers for Air France arrivals wakes me from the deepest of naps. Was it all a dream? I snap awake, bolt upright, and escape the assault of the departing crowd, stepping lively out the plane with leopard jacket on my arm and the sleek leather carry-on at my wrist.

Ok, where's the baggage? I mumble, almost aloud. I poke around the walkways, looking for baggage signs, up past notices in foreign languages and amble through passport checkers till I find myself stuck in a swarm of Babblers by a doorway to the tram.

Oops, wrong way.

I march deliberately back up the stairs past the guards and sneak a quick left turn to the baggage.

At last, I sigh to myself.

The carousels spin and purr, empty, and finally I spot them. My grand mastodon-of-a-bag from Monoprix in Aix stuffed to exploding with French wooden easel, blue folding canvas chair, oil paints in plastic wrap, boxes of multicolored pastels, and gifts, and the tidy blue zippered wheeler with my wardrobe of the past few weeks in tow. I haul them away to the taxi stand, never stopping to look back for an instant, reeling in the reverie of all the adventures I've had. I'm feeling a bit sleepy and in a slight trance…so many days of such beauty, painting the luscious scenes of Provence, and of course, my whirling memories of romance in France…Jacques, Christian, Dedion, Gerard, Patrick, and all the rest. The sheer thought of them makes me moisten as I flag a dark green Mercedes station wagon. I hear the echo of French phrases while I hand over the tiny printed card with his hotel address.

"Fifteenth Arrondissement, near Montparnasse…vous connaissez?"

"Oui, madame," the driver retorts.

My final night in France, Paris-bound, and Armand awaits me. Will it be a quaint bistro, an elegant dinner al fresco, an intime jazz club or drinks on a chic barge on the Seine? And will he ravage me, pouring essential lavender oils over my aching loins and limbs, and brush my tangled blonde-streaked mane into ecstasy as only he can do?

"Bzzzt." I ring his suite.

"Bonjour, entres cherie…" it resounds from inside with his deep-throated velvet masculine tone.

"J'entre, mon amour…" I tease, "I'm C-O-M-I-N-G!" as I spin the wheels of my bags and lift the heavy carry-on for the last time over my tired shoulders, tilting my head and peeking into the room for a sign.

No lamps. Just what seems like a thousand candles and a fire is crackling. The smell makes me heady and feel alive again. The golden glow lights up the spacious red-and-gold curtained parlor with overstuffed burgundy couches and matching chairs, sunken tan carpeted floor and tinkling expanse of sky through the endless windows overlooking cityscaped Paris at night.

Armand stands poised, staring out the huge patio doors to his rooftop garden with that irreplaceable view of the Eiffel tower in sparkling lights. He cups a blue cell phone to his mouth, and motions me in, flashing a longing glance at me with that toothy white smile. I enter the room, releasing my baggage like a drape falling from an alabaster statue in the Louvre. I watch as he folds the phone into a tiny shape in his palm, then silently moves toward me like a mountain lion on the prowl.

"I missed you, Her..." he bellows, and pads over to me in sepia velvet slippers with open arms to scoop me up.

"You, too, my love," and all I can feel is the warmth of his form enveloping mine as we embrace.

I feel his heat radiate all over my body. Hot, penetrating, deep heat rub sort of a hug that goes to the marrow of my bones. It's always like that with Armand, like we board a space shuttle and pell mell shift into another dimension. It felt that way the very first time, fully clothed, when we hugged in front of the hotel by the Seine years ago. His huge body, tall and standing like a redwood encompassed my small frame, and the sheer energy surge made me feel like I would swoon. I remember lying with him the first time, back in San Francisco, at my parapet penthouse with the million-dollar view of the East Bay from my tippy top hideaway in Twin Peaks. There we were that first night, splayed on my black and leopard patterned velvet duvet covered pedestal bed, with the twinkling lights that wove in and out of the canopy just over us. There we lay, just holding each other into eternity and then letting go with our mouths melting as our bodies went into orbit, without taking off a stitch of clothing we went out there. We knew even then what love could be.

Those movements into outer space never cease with us. Like now. As I hold him tightly to me, I feel his mountainous body clutching for my essence, his arms holding me in like a mighty bear, and his breath warm and like the fire's glow around us. His eyes pierce mine, as we begin the journey back into us. I hear the faint bellow of a sound as he groans with loving purrs into my ear, pressing his smooth shaven cheek against my neck and soft cheek while he drags his lips down my neck now, like being kissed by a hummingbird in flight, hundreds of little kisses being planted into my heart through his touch. I surrender my heart to each kiss, kiss by tender kiss, as they flutter to grab my attention and my eyes close in joy at being loved so. I feel his strong hands outline my form, my hair being pulled through his fingers, with deliberate searching and then down my shoulders, around to the front of my bodice and toward my raised nipples under my silk blouse. Ready, waiting for that special touch, that touch that knows my landscape like a frequent traveler to a distant land.

Armand knows this body like none other and I've missed him, I think to myself. I love this man….. Go ahead, A, undress me right here…. play with them…they are all yours…tender receptors of your adoration and your delicate touch and your manly ways with my femininity. Play my instrument for our symphony tonight….

He leans into my ears and whispers, "What are you thinking, my love? Are you drifting away from me? Do you want all of me?"

The heat from his breath pours into me now like lava flowing. Deep, deep into the core of my listening, letting him penetrate me further.

"I want you so much I can taste you, I can feel you inside of me already, Oh, God, Armand, don't stop…" I whisper back, as my body writhes into his shape, becoming another extension of himself, not just me.

"No. Not yet, m'love….mon amour, we have a dinner res at a fine jazz club in 30 minutes….Shall we?" He picks me up in his arms, swirls me around, kisses me passionately on the lips and as I melt into his touch. We grab our coats and off we go into the fresh Paris rain.

It is dark and not a cab is in sight. The harsh wind blows chilly air, and I am shaking despite wearing a longish brown leather jacket with matching fleece lining. Sirens bleat into the evening sky. We shiver, he holds me for warmth and flags several cars before one eases up to the space on the corner.

Rue de … Le Jazz Club, he mutters as his hands slide into mine and we enter the cab.

Something about this night has separate electricity from our lust. The air is charged. Rain tumbles outside, the lights of the city are blurred from the water on the glass windows, as I lean into Armand and peer at the stores, the shops, the grand buildings, the places with their hairpin turns, the statues, all of it, the landmarks of Paris, the City of Lights and the romance that is captures.

I feel alive. I feel loved. I feel love in the air, in the cab and a hanging sensation between A and me. I turn to Armand, notice how he looks at me, with a face of intent, then I feel his face with my hands, sculpting its perimeters with my searching fingers, capped with long, red nails and a 3-carat diamond ring from this beau on my right hand, the kind of discreet setting that you hardly notice in the darkness. Armand gave me the ring when we first met, as a symbol of his eternal love for me, to wear and remember what lasting and truly intimate merging is all about, in freedom, without binds. I wear it occasionally when I know we will see each other as a token of my affection and respect for his love. Tonight it seems especially important, as I am about to leave Paris in a night's time and don't know when I will return.

When the cab reaches the jazz club I am in a dream. I find the place charming. We are seated in a 13th century cave turned celebrity haunt and eatery where the food is acceptable and the tunes by the chanteuse are romantic. Armand and I stay locked in our glances, speak about our lives and work, share stories of the past and time escapes us before we can look at our watches after a smooth first set and bifstek with pommes frites. The tunes are alluring and the words are poetry about romance and love…..forties favorites that make you want to dance cheek to cheek……and suddenly I feel a bolt of heat rush from my groin into my heart. Bing. Armand has reached under the red damask table cloth, carefully so as not to knock over our wine glasses that remain from a delectable meal, and has stroked my pussy….pulling aside the lace panties and discreetly rubbing the head of my hungry clitoris with his deft paws. Up and down, rub a dub, his finger sends ecstatic waves throughout my whole body.

"A-r-m-a-n-d… I coo. "What ARE you doing, sweetheart?" But before I can utter another word, his whole hand has slid into my panties and in an instant he winks at me from across the table and says, "Ooops…my napkin..let me get it…" and without a hesitation, here in our cosy nook in the cave, Armand has disappeared under the table…I feel his warm tongue, into my deepest hole now, diving in and out, pushing against my swollen clit, and I writhe. I feel his mouth sucking my pussy, his finger sliding in and out of my aching space, and with his one-of-a-kind licking I am his once more. I feel the orgasm like a thousand volts of electricity running through all circuits. He keeps the stroking movements going with his able tongue, and his hand continues to stroke against my throbbing Gspot, over and over…the orgasms don't stop. I am reeling sitting here at the table with my lover taking me to places out there. I lose track of time and space. I surrender to his touch. Moments pass and then he rises. He gleams at me from across the table and in a teasing voice, says, "Dessert or home, my beloved?"

He takes my hand, leaves cash on the table and we rush to head back to his hotel.

Once inside, Armand tosses me a robe, zooms off to the bedroom and calls me in.

"I want you now, Her…hurry, darling…come to me…" He half chortles and half seriously commands. I stop by the lou, clean up a bit, put on the silvery satin robe, let down my tresses and sidle into his lair. There he is, a handsome sight. As he lies on the bed and pats the other side with a smile A extends an open hand. I jump onto the bed, fully robed while he lies naked beside me. His eyes sparkle like the diamond he once gave me. Bright and open and inviting me inside, to that place of pleasure and connection we know so very well.

I lie down beside him, feeling his warmth, peering back into his brown creamy eyes, and wait for his beckon. His hands begin to march over my territory, carefully and deliberately untying, sliding off, and pulling away all that is between skin to skin. He moves toward my face and with a plunge his mouth and mine are one. Blended, molten forged into an energy of oneness. I feel his tongue, inside of my mouth, probing and forming an electrical charge with mine. We melt, mouth into mouth, ego past ego, our bodies flowing into each other as we caress back and forth, and move like dolphins undulating in the belly of a calm sea. Back and forth, in and out, swirling and flowing our bodies join in synchronous motion. We are one outside to outside and yet feel inside to inside. Hands touch hands and ecstasy begins anew with each searing kiss, wet and deep and strong, currents like an ocean engulfing us now. We ride each wave unknowing of the shore, now distant, knowing that we are about to go off into the distance, into orbit.

In the ooze of our loving, mouth-to-mouth, hands to hands, body to body, I feel his cock hard against me, Armand rolling now on top of me, like a prancing mate in play. The feel of his hardness sends shock waves into my groin, my body rises up to meet him, lets him press hard now against my body, his weight against my pelvis, as I ache for his penis to be inside of me. I feel how wet I am, an ocean of longing welling up to take him diving. He pushes harder, then lightens his posture, rises up to lift his body and without losing a beat, he places his flame into my ocean. Deep, deep, he penetrates the core of my being. It is so deep that I cannot feel where I leave off and he begins. We are merging, melting into a union of intense pleasure. I feel the edges of the universe gone now and oneness is all there is.

Armand thrusts, in and out with tender push and pull, then mighty throbbing up and down the vaginal canal, till he is about to enter my cervix and I feel that moment, that happens so rarely, when the upper part of my pussy opens the gate. The gate to the Goddess. The gate to Bliss. The gate to real union. He has found it once more and we are off to the highest places we can know as lovers.

"You have passed the Gate, my love…" I half speak to him as I contain him, all the way into my essence.

He begins to talk to me, in a soft masculine voice, "Surrender to me, my love…. Let me take all of you….come to me, all of you…..be all mine…..I want you for forever….I've never loved like this before….Let yourself go, and love me back into forever…………I never want to be apart again…can you trust me, cherie?….I cannot live without you any more….Say, Yes, and I am yours, whatever it takes…let me show you what total surrender into love can be…..Oh, God, I love you, Her, with all of my being into infinity…" His words are like magnets, pulling me deeper into him. As I listen I repeat back sayings and promises, and float into his fantasy as never before. I surrender my body, my mind, my words, my heart, my spirit, yes, my soul…..as we travel beyond form, time and space.

What seem like hours pass, we transcend our orgasms, nine or ten each, repeating the patterns of loving, over and over, then finally share giggles, look into each other's wet eyes from the tears that such closeness provokes, roll over and fall asleep.

Morning tiptoes in all too quickly. The sunlight wakes us both, we brew rich dark Parisian coffee and drink in silence, holding hands and blowing kisses as we sit together, side by side in his wrought iron chairs at the white marble table placed by the patio doors. The view of the roofs of Paris is memorable and I take it in as a snapshot, a way of freeze-framing this moment.

"God, Her. How can I live without you? I don't know if I can go on like this for much longer? When will you be back?"

"Soon, my love…soon," I lean over and offer a kiss that seals the promise.

I finish my coffee, get dressed, repack the rest of my things, walk to the street with Armand to hail and cab, kiss him goodbye with both of us letting the tears stream down our wet wet cheeks, and say final "Je t'adore's" before I take off for the airport to head home.

As the whirring of the wheels of the cab salute the pavement, we spin deliberately toward the airport, and thoughts of my trip flood my memories. My body is still warm and soft from being with my true love, yet I gaze glassily out the window, watching the beauty of Paris blur behind me now, and I begin to muse over the recent weeks in France…

Excerpted with permission from
The Adventures of Her in France
By Dr Patti Britton
An erotic adventure novel, written by Dr Patti. This is the charming tale of a 40-something, happy, sexy, saucy woman of the world and her adventures in the art of love.
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