I was thinking today about a trip to Paris I had with a boyfriend. We were at the dusk end of our relationship, and so I spent a lot of time exploring the city by myself. One of the few nights we spent together we went to a club where they had live sex shows on the stage. The Parisians all sit and watch in sophisticated silence, as if it actually were dinner theater, and so it caught me by surprise during one of the shows that night, featuring two women, when one of them looked out over the audience and then, catching me eye, motioned for me to join them up on the stage. At first, I shook my head in embarrassment, but she kept waving and then enjoined the crowd to clap and encourage me. I looked at my boyfriend to save me, and perhaps it was his look of disapproval that threw the switch inside me. As I said, we were not much longer for the world as a couple, and so there was a tangle of resentments and simmering anger unresolved between us, and seeing his look of disdainful disapproval, as if I were a slut for being the object of such attention from the women on stage, that just pissed me off to no end. I immediately stood up and walked towards the stage. The crowd roared, and I actually began to feel a rush of pride that I was so much better than the obvious low opinion that my boyfriend had of me.

Let him watch as a whole roomful of Parisian men got to witness me have sex on stage. The two women, I should mention, were very sexy, not in a Penthouse photo spread kind of way--no ballooning breasts or long blond hair--they were both slim, with one of them very much looking like a dyke--short hair, sharp almost masculine features, and slim boyish hips and pert breasts. They pulled me up to the stage and in tandem slowly and sensuously undressed me. Each piece of clothing they took off eliciting howls and roars of approval, and each time I glanced at my boyfriend I could see his seething anger and humilation at seeing me up there. After awhile, I stopped even looking at him, instead concentrating on the feeling of the two women's hands roaming over my body.

Before I knew it, I was naked and they were pulling me down to lie back in the reclining chair that had appeared on the stage while they were stripping me. It was as if I had no control over my body--their hands guided every move, opening my legs so that my knees were propped up as if I was on a gynecological examination table. One of them began to kiss me passionately, and at that moment I lost track totally of the fact that there were hundreds of men watching me. She seemed to have a magical tongue, and kissing her took my mind off everything else. I felt a rush of heat between my legs, and I realized that the other women had begun to lick my pussy. I had kissed other women before, during drunken college parties when I had kissed friends to the whooping and hollering of horny guys, but it had been an act to tease guys, and even though I had felt a sharp pang of desire at times, nothing had ever come out of it. I had fantasized about those moments sometimes, and whenever I watched girl on girl scenes in porn it would make me think of those moments, but I was still a bit surprised how horny I felt at that moment.

No boyfriend or casual sexual encounter with a man had created such a sense of being out of control, of being utterly in the command of someone else. Both women were so masterful, the girl kissing me was fondling my breasts and pinching my nipples, the other girl was tonguing me in a way that no man had ever even come close to doing so well. She licked up and down and feathered my clit with light kisses.

At one point she pushed my legs up higher, resting them on her shoulders and then licking all around my asshole, eventually poking her tongue inside and darting in and out. She replaced her tongue with one of her fingers, and soon I wasn't even sure which parts of her anatomy were inside me or outside. i was being filled, in every hole, by something, that was all I could tell. I came, gently at first but then building up without the wave cresting, until I had a series of rolling orgasms that made me feel like a big hung of jiggling jelly.

When the waves started to subside I realized that the crowd was on its feet and had been giving me a standing ovation. I think that might have stunned me out of my sexual reverie, and I suddenly felt self-conscious, and instead of reciprocating with the other women, and getting my first taste of another woman's pussy, I started moving to my clothes and picking them up. I thanked both women sheepishly, and they didn't try to stop me from leaving the stage, although something in their eyes made me think that they would have been very happy if I had stayed onstage and kept the act going. My boyfriend was royally pissed off. He immediately dragged me out and on the subway back to our hotel room he was so angry he could neither speak to me or look me in the eye. I felt smug and unrepentent, and knew with a certainty that I had never felt so strongly before that he was the wrong person for me and that we did not belong together. Like every screwed up thing in life, of course, we stayed together in a dysfunctional spiteful haze for another year and a half, and I stuck with him even though he became abusive.

About a month after we left Paris, he came home drunk one night (probably after going by himself to a strip club, which he began doing more and more--before Paris he had been proud to go to strip clubs with me on his arm...), pulled my panties down while I was asleep, and started to fuck me in the ass. I woke up screaming in pain because he hadn't bothered to lubricate his cock or my ass, and when I asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing he just smirked and began to pump even harder into my burning ass. He had me pinned face down in bed, with his weight on his hands on my arms and his legs pinning my legs underneath his thrusting hips. Fortunately, he came after only a few minutes, grunting and calling me a fucking bitch as he shot his come into my ass. I was so horrified, and felt so violated, that I immediately grabbed my clothes and moved to my girlfriends apartment. Being stupid, I moved back in after a few weeks, responding for some reason to his apologies and grovelling about how he had been so drunk he didn't know what he was doing. But of course it didn't work out. Maybe it was because he and I had to go through some more stages of hellish dysfunction, but I didn't begin to fantasize about my night in Paris until years later, and then it was never with his presence in the fantasy. It was only about the two women, and what it would have been like if the evening had kept going...