Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Un AprĂ"s-midi Ă  Paris ("An Afternoon in Paris") by Chris Hailey, Copyright 2017 Story codes: Mg12, oral, first, Paris Summary: A man waits at the Metro stop for a twelve-year-old girl who has agreed to spend a clandestine afternoon with him in the La Ville de l'Amour. But will she come? ============== He had his phone out while he scanned the people standing around the statue on the boulevard, her selfie pulled up on the screen. His heart was racing--was this actually going to work? Was she really going to show, like they'd planned? Like she'd promised? Disappointedly seeing no one in the crowd that seemed to fit the bill, he examined the photo again. It was a beautiful picture. She was a beautiful girl. Reddish-brownish hair fell in demurely expressive wavelets past her shoulders, a round face accented by bright hazel-green eyes and full pink cheeks and a big friendly excited smile. Even though he'd been disappointed, at first, that that the picture she'd sent him wasn't more revealing--the girl had resisted even his relatively innocent suggestion that she pose for him in her bra and panties--he'd nonetheless spent many nights with that selfie pulled up on his tablet, imagining what it might be like if they really got together, if she really showed up like she'd promised him she would. He wanted her. Oh fuck yes, he did, very badly. She'd told him that she was twelve years old, and a virgin, and that she really wanted to have sex with him. He knew she was ready, that's for damn sure. She was obsessed with sex, and porn, and especially with cocks. He'd sent her many pictures of his cock, like guys like him will do to girls like her, and she told him she loved it and wanted it to be her first. But as he sat down on the edge of the pedestal of the statue on the boulevard, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves, he was disappointed now. She wasn't there. She hadn't shown up after all. Sure, maybe she was just late, and she'd be on the next train, or the next. But more likely, the girl had chickened out. That was completely understandable. And heck, as disappointing as it would be, in some ways it would be better than the alternative. Actually having sex with the girl could be very fucked up indeed. God only knows what the consequences might be. But he was more than willing to find out. A minute after he sat down on the pedestal, a surge of people appeared in the opening of the stairwell leading up from the Metro stop. A hundred people or more, each turning the corner or elbowing through the crowd, hurriedly dashing to their various destinations. He sat up straight at the sudden presence of the new crowd, running his fingers through his thinning, graying hair, and trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to make his nervous face produce something approaching a friendly, nonchalant smile. The crowd emerging from the subway thinned to a trickle, but no reddish-brown haired twelve-year-old beauty appeared. He sat back and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Jesus, it's hot today. I'm gonna need a cold shower. Well, at least it's nice and sunny, a good day to just sit here and watch the Parisian multitude for a few more minutes before I head back to the hotel. Resigned, he put his phone away and took out a tattered old paperback from his pocket and started to read. A few minutes later, another surge of people from the Metro stop. He sat up straight again, copped that silly smile, just in case. But, predictably, no girl. No sweet innocent French lass showing up to be defiled by a man four times her age. The book was good enough, and old horror story, and he read of blood-sucking monsters as he sat in the sunshine on Boulevard Saint-Germain and the sounds and smells of a busy street in Paris happened all around him, completely unaware of his existence. By the fourth or fifth surge of people from the Metro stop, he'd given up by now. She was more than half an hour late, and he barely bothered to raise his eyes from his book to look for her. "John?" he heard a voice say. Though the voice was high, and thin, the "J," in "John," had a delightful thick buzz to it--"Jjjhh-ohn," like the French say the letter. His heart leaped to his throat and he stood quickly to his feet, before he'd even seen her. "Michelle?" he said, spinning his head to look for her. And there she was, as beautiful as he could have dreamed, red-brown hair flowing in those wavelets over her shoulders just like in her selfie, her round cheeks flush, droplets of sweet flowing down from her forehead and matting her hair to the sides of her face. When he said her name, her face lit with a smile. "I thought..." she said, struggling with her English, "...I worried..." She fell into French. "DĂ(C)solĂ(C), je suis retard." "Ça va," he answered. "Je suis heureux... que tu es ici..." She smiled sweetly at his broken French and wiped sweat from the side of her face with the back of a hand. "C'est trĂ"s chaud," she said. "Yes... Oui, c'est... We can shower at my hotel." When she gave him a puzzled look, he said, "Une douche froid? Ă- mon hĂ'tel?" This brought another sweet smile to her face, and she nodded. "Oui, monsieur. I would like, how you say in English, une douche froid?" He smiled back. "A cool shower," he said. "Yes, a cool shower." His heart was finally calming down. He slipped the paperback into his pocket and put his hand gently on her shoulder, turning her towards the crosswalk. He kept his hand there as they walked. "How was your train ride?" he asked her. "Comment Ă(C)tait le train?" "It was good," she said. "Hot. And... C'est trop peuplĂ(C)." He nodded. "There are.. C'est trop peuplĂ(C) in tout de Paris!" She laughed. A genuine adorable little French-girl laugh. "You are right!" she said. "C'est la vĂ(C)ritĂ(C)!" "We can be alone in my hotel room, though," he said. "Seul... Nous sommes seul dans mon hĂ'tel." She smiled, and nodded, but didn't look at him. She was nervous about it, of course. He could tell. But he was impressed that she'd been brave enough to come. He wanted to tell her thanks, that he was glad she came to meet him after all, but he struggled to think of how to say it in French. "Merci... de me rencontrer," he said, hoping it was close to right. This time she looked up at him, his hand still gently on her shoulder as they arrived at his hotel and he opened the old wooden door for her. "De rien," she smiled. It was that adorable sweet friendly smile of hers, only wavering slightly at the edges. He was glad that the woman at the front desk was too engrossed in an animated conversation on her phone to notice, when he told her his room number and she handed him the key, that he had a little French girl in tow. Maybe such a thing is not so uncommon at a hotel like this? And so, together they climbed the rickety stairs that seemed on the verge of collapse, up, up, to what Americans call the fourth floor, and the Brits call the third, his hand still gently on her shoulder, guiding her and, he hoped, imparting on her some strength and confidence. It'll be okay. You'll be fine. We'll have fun. These were words he needed to hear as well. Finally at the top of the stairs, then along the narrow hall to his little single room, fumbling awkwardly with the key as he opened the door, and into the stuffy bright confined space. He quickly flung open the window, letting in fresh air and a cooling breeze and the bustling sounds of the busy side street below. She joined him there, to look down at the people, and they stood together for a moment, heads out the window, then turned and looked at each other and smiled, then laughed. "Wine?" he asked her, pointing to a bottle on the table. "Vin?" "Oui, monsieur," she said. She sat on the edge of his bed, her hands folded in her lap, as he struggled to keep his fingers from shaking while he opened the bottle and poured the dark red liquid into two plastic cups. He handed her a glass, then sat down next to her. "To us, to today!" he said, lifting his cup in a toast. "Ă- nous, Ă  aujourd'hui!" She smiled and raised her glass to his. "Ă- la tienne, Ă0/0tienne," she said. "Oui, mademoiselle," he said as he cleared his mouth of his first drink, not exactly sure what her toast had meant, but enjoying immensely her little smile. "Ă- la tienne, Ă  tienne," he echoed back to her as best he could. She giggled. He filled her glass again, just as he felt a trickle of sweat roll down from his forehead. The breeze from the window was nice, but it was still damned hot, especially up on the fourth floor of this little hotel that had no air conditioning. "I should take a shower," he said as he wiped the bead of sweat away. "Would it be okay?" She furrowed her brow a bit and shook her head, indicating incomprehension. "Je suis..." he stammered. "J'ai... J'aime une douche, es bien?" She nodded, her big eyes going wide, and she took a big drink of her wine. "I'll be quick, je suis rapidement, and then, puis, tu..." he stammered, feeling foolish for his lame language skills. "Would you like to take one? Tu aimes un douche?" "Oui, monsieur," she said, understanding his hackened French, and he stood and gave the top of her head a little pat, trying to playfully muss her hair a bit, which made her giggle. The water was excruciatingly cold, which was just what he needed, both to cool his steaming body, and to calm the painful tension in his groin. It did wonders for the former, and nothing for the latter; if anything, he was even harder, and his balls ached even more, when he was done. He showered quickly, and dried off quickly, then wrapped the little hotel towel around himself. He gathered up a fresh towel and emerged from the tiny bathroom, holding his little towel in place around his waist, and reaching the other out to the girl. "Here you go," he said. "You're turn!" She took the towel from him, but didn't look up at him. Her green eyes were wide and staring directly at the big, thick, prominent rise standing up between his legs underneath his little towel. "Sorry," he said, embarrassed, wishing there was something he could do to hide it. At least he had free hand now, and used it to cover his erection as best he could "DĂ(C)solĂ(C), I... Je suis, j'ai un..." She stood, and smiled up at him now. "It's okay," she said, then rose up on her tippy-toes and kissed his cheek. He downed another glass of the tepid wine to calm his nerves as he sat on the bed and waited for her to finish showering. His mind was racing. Should he really do this? It's too late now to back down. She's here, she's willing, he needs her desperately now. Oh God, he needs her so badly now! And then she emerged, herself, from the little bathroom, tiny towel wrapped ineffectively around her little body. She sat down next to him on the bed and gave him a nervous smile. "Did you have a good shower? Une bonne douche?" She grinned, and nodded. As she did, he saw her towel slip down. Instinctively, he reached out, hooked a finger under the top of it, and helped it fall. She sat there motionless for a second, tiny breasts revealed. They were little more than swollen nipples; pink, oh so wonderfully pink! He reached out, cupped a hand over a breast, leaned into her, and kissed her. The next moment, they were prone on the bed, and he was on top of her, pulling his towel off, pulling her towel off. In his fantasies of this day, he'd imagined them spending all afternoon in foreplay, kissing, licking, tasting each other. But now, his painful cock and aching balls took complete control. Fuck the foreplay, they wanted her cherry, and they wanted it now. And her pussy must have had the same thought; she put up no resistance, spreading her legs wide beneath him. Lying on her fully, he reached down between his legs and gripped his shaft, rubbing his cockhead along her slit. Once, twice, then in! She arched her back, squinted her beautiful green eyes closed tight, and he entered her. A moment later, he was bucking hard, delving deeper with each forward thrust of his hips. He held his newly-deflowered girl tight beneath him, his body heavy on her, his arms wrapped under her shoulders with his hands on her head and his fingers lacing in her reddish hair, still wet from her shower. And he pumped and pumped his hips, fucking the little twelve year old, there in the little bed of his little hotel room, with the window wide open and bright afternoon sun illuminating them in a motherly glow, and a gentle breeze cooling their once-again sweaty bodies, and the sounds of the busy Paris street below wafting in but ignored entirely by the two lovers on the little bed. Their minds were completely lost to the passion of their copulation, virgin girl and grown-up man, united inside her. "Oh Michelle," he groaned, has he felt his balls clench in anticipation of much-needed orgasm. "Oh my little lover, my little kitten! Mon chaton!" The girl looked up at him with sparkling green eyes and a happy, if exhausted, smile on her sweet red round face. "Je suis ton chaton," she said. The sound of her sweet voice, saying such sweet words to him, brought him to the edge, and he gave her another solid thrust, and another, and a third, and then, with his face lifted to the air and a long, low, gruff moan, he began exploding inside her, pumping and pumping, draining his aching balls inside her. They lay together, sweaty, sticky, flush and hot, him still on top of her, still inside her, until eventually, no doubt much to her relief, he slipped out, and slid over to her side. He propped himself up on an elbow, facing her, and reached a hand out, setting his fingers gently on a pink round cheek. "Tu son trĂ"s jolie," he said softly. "C'est incroyable, comment jolie tu es." She turned her face towards him and smiled. "Merci." He slid his fingers down, to her chin, then to her neck, then her chest. A finger circled around a sweet little nipple, then over it, teasing her little nub to stiffness, then did the same to her other nipple. Then he moved the finger down, teasing her belly button as well. She lay still as he touched her, her legs still spread open just as they had been when he dismounted her. As his finger ventured lower still, he saw that her inner thighs were smeared with the sticky remnants of his cum mingled with the painful red of her virgin blood. He stood then, went to the bathroom, wetted a wash cloth, and returned to her. He carefully cleaned her, and as he did, he beheld her little twelve-year-old sex for the first time, hairless but for a few small curls, her outer labia and indeed all of the soft sweet flesh a swollen angry red. Evidence of her first violation. Evidence that she'd given herself to a man, and was a woman now. "Ton chaton es trĂ"s jolie, aussi," he said, when he had finished cleaning her thighs. "Mon chaton," she said, smiling, eyes glimmering. "Oui, ton pussy." "Mon pussy," her smile even wider. He leaned over her and kissed her, on the lips. "J'aime ton pussy." "Et j'aime ton..." "Mon cock?" "Oui!" she said, giggling now. "Ton cock! Ton grand cock!" They both giggled fitfully together. She reached her hand out, setting her fingers on his chest, and he lay back. Now her finger circled and teased his nipples. She lay her head on his chest, facing downwards, watching as a delicate little finger traced over his limp prick. The small and satisfied appendage awoke, swelling in reaction to her gentle touch. She turned her head to look at him and smiled, then turned back to watch as her finger brought him to full erection. Rubbing that delicate little finger up and down the length of his now-hard shaft, she noticed that he, too, had a smear of her virgin blood at the base of his cock and down onto his balls, sticky and foamy and matting down his thick ballsack hair as it dried. She picked up the washcloth that lay nearby and gently wiped him clean, as he had done for her. Then she lay down next to him, on her side, snuggling her face into his cheek. He felt her warm breath against him and held her, and she held him, as they lay together in the hot sunshine and the cooling breeze, silently absorbing their closeness mingling with the sounds and smells of the Parisian street below. After several minutes, he sat up. "Are you hungry?" he asked her. "Faim?" "Oui," she answered, sitting up herself, "j'ai faim." He stood. "I'll run down and get us some croissants," he said, pointing to himself and to the street below. "Je vais Ă  la boulangerie. You stay here, okay?" He pointed to her, then to the bed. She nodded, understanding. He returned a few minutes later, a bag of pastries in one hand, a bottle of cold champagne in the other. He was disappointed to see that she'd put on her clothing while he was gone. He poured them each a plastic cupful of the champagne, and they sat together on the edge of the bed, eating croissants au pralinĂ(C) and enjoying the sweet cool wine. He filled her glass as often as he could, and the bottle was three-quarters gone when she bit, somewhat sloppily, into her second croissant. A large dollop of the praline, warmed in the sun to near liquid, fell from the pastry and onto her shirt. "Oh!" she said, looking down in dismay at the mess. "Quick," he said, "take it off, and I'll wash it out!" He stood, and leaned over her, and pulled her shirt off of her. He dashed to the bathroom and rinsed the chocolate out. She sat topless, slouching, sipping more champagne, as he hung the shirt outside the window to dry in the hot afternoon sunshine. He returned to her then, putting his hands under her shoulders and lifting her to her feet, sitting down and turning her to face him, her little pink nipples directly in front of him. He picked up the croissant, gathered a dollop of the near-liquid praline on a finger, and she giggled as he smeared it on a nipple. He leaned into her and sucked the nipple clean. He repeated this with her other nipple, then smeared the chocolate down her chest to her belly, kissing, licking has he went. He unbuttoned her pants and pulled them down, her panties too, gathering more praline on his finger and frosting her delicate little pussy in chocolate. She giggled as he slid off of the bed onto his knees and leaned down and licked her there, licking and licking, tasting chocolate mingled with her sex. He turned her now, and sat her down on the bed, and spread her legs and leaned down into her and began licking and kissing, loving her sweet little sex. The girl lay back onto the bed, lifted her legs in the air, and let out a series of adorable coos of pleasure. She lay afterwards, sweating, panting, smiling up at him with glassy eyes. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling next to her and dropping his pants. His cock stood out, obscenely large. He picked up the croissant, gathered another dollop of praline, smeared it on his glans. The girl knew just what to do. She lifted her head and turned and licked it clean. Now he took hold of her and turned her over on the bed, onto her hands and knees. He stood behind her, next to the bed, and strong hands grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him. A moment later, his cock sunk deep into her tiny little pussy. The girl groaned at the rude intrusion, burying her face into the bedsheets, and the man took his pleasure from her, riding her hard, holding her tightly in place as his cock violated her a second time that afternoon. This time, driven less by animalistic need and more by a desire to enjoy the remarkable experience he had before him, he allowed himself to feel every bit of her; the excruciating tightness of a twelve-year-old vagina, too small to take his full length as he hammered his cockhead into the soft flesh of her furthest depth; the hotness of her insides; the sweetness of her pussywine as it flowed out of her and saturated his swinging balls. He took his time, an experienced man teaching a girl what it means to be a woman, turning her into his fuck toy. He came inside her again, eventually, a powerful orgasm, holding her hips tightly in place and slamming deep into her. Emptying himself, unloading, giving her preteen womb the seed that she so craved. She collapsed on to the bed when he was done, and he lay down next to her and held her and kissed her. Shortly she was asleep, a sleep brought on no doubt by the several glasses of champagne she'd had, and wine before that. He sat at the table nearby and wrote in his journal, and read his tattered old paperback, as he watched the beautiful girl lying on her belly on his bed, breathing deep and peacefully, his semen still oozing slowly from her little slit. She slept for hours, into the evening. When she finally awoke, he suggested they might go find a place for dinner, an idea to which she heartily agreed. And so they dressed, her shirt now clean and dry, and went back out on the gay Parisian streets and found a delightful little bistro and ate their fill, of veal and salmon, cheese and tortes, coffee and cognac to finish, sitting outside in the still-hot sun. By now, it was passed time for the young girl to leave him. Her worried parents had texted her several times while she was asleep, and again during dinner. "Je dois partir," she told him, after she'd answered their texts. "Oui," he replied, full of melancholy at their parting. "But... Mais... Peut-ĂȘtre une chose de plus?" She smiled, and nodded in affirmation. In his little hotel room again, up the four fights of rickety stairs, with the window flung open and the sun, lower in the sky now and much less hot, filling the room in a wonderful heavenly yellow-orange glow, with the sounds and smells of the crowded street below once again wafting into the scene of their tryst, he gently but authoritatively pushed her to her knees in front of him as he stood in the center of the room. He dropped his pants. He pulled her in. She opened for him and took his cockhead into her mouth. He instructed his little French lover in the art of the blow job, taught her how to stroke him while she sucked, hung his balls in her face when she needed a break and had her kiss and nuzzle them. He joined her in the stroking when she returned to sucking him, to help her finish. The young girl looked so beautiful, down on her knees before him, her mouth filled with his swollen head, her red-brown hair cascading around her shoulders, her round cheeks flush yet again, her bright green eyes turned up to look at him. "Oh Michelle," he whispered to her as his orgasm built to its crescendo, "Je t'aime! Oh, je t'aime!!!" And right then, at least, he meant it, with all his heart and soul. The poor girl could not catch it all in her mouth, pulling away in shock after the first shot filled her mouth, and his semen covered her face and hair. But she was smiling, a big wide wonderful happy grin, those bright green eyes twinkling. "Moi aussi, je t'aime," she said, after she had swallowed the semen that she'd managed to keep in her mouth. They held hands as they walked back to the Metro stop. No one paid them any attention on the crowded streets of Paris, where a middle aged man and a much younger girl holding hands solicited no reaction at all, but even if it had, he didn't care at all. He wanted her to feel loved, and needed, and craved, and so he showed her all the attention he desired. They held each other, down in the tunnel of the Metro stop, and kissed, a long and passionate kiss, which definitely brought the attention of those around them, women staring in disgust, men and girls in barely-concealed jealousy. "J t'aime, Michelle," he said again. "I love you." "I love you, aussi," she said with her wonderful giggle. One final kiss, with more looks of disgust and jealousy, and she passed through the ticket stile, a little wave, a sweet bright smile, and she was gone. [If you like this story--or if you don't like it!--please consider leaving a comment at my erotic fiction web site, http://www.asstr.org/~Chris_Hailey. Thanks!]