Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

moan low in the back of her throat and grind of her hips. Yes. He would make her juices flow and flow until her whole body pulsated for want of his cock—

      —and then he would take her again. And again. Every hour. Until his masterpiece was finished.

      I awake into a reality that pushes the absurdity of my situation back into my mind, back into my body. In other words, I have a hangover. Dry mouth, achy eyes and the worst headache. Slowly I become aware of the hardness of the couch pressing uncomfortably against my back, the staleness of the air, an unpleasant taste in my mouth. An overpowering hunger makes my stomach hurt, as if I haven’t eaten in days. If this is 1889, it’s been a long time since I scarfed down those pommes frites at the flea market.

      Not so fast.

      It’s drafty in here.

      I dare to peek down at—

      —my belly button? I’m an inny, but whose flat stomach is that along with the tuft of red hair between my legs staring back at me?

      Ohmigod, I’m naked.

      Naked?

      I’m simultaneously shocked and turned on. This is the second time I meet an artist and I end up nude. What gives? The last thing I remember was standing on the Pont Neuf looking out over the Seine and taking a drink of a pungent liqueur from a flask. Absinthe.

      I vaguely remember taking the drink, then falling into a deep sleep, though I was conscious of Paul Borquet carrying me into what I suppose was a carriage and holding me close to him as we bumped over the cobblestone streets. I remember curling into that special space against his shoulder, his arm around me, my cheek leaning against his broad chest and listening to his heartbeat. I also remember him copping a feel…and my nipples hardening. Mmm.

      Talk about a welcome mirage in my romance desert.

      Between glances around his small studio in Montmartre—I assume that’s where I am—I take a deep breath and lay my head back, content to stare at the ceiling until my hunky dream guy shows up.

      Mirrors. Everywhere above me. In my reclining position on the divan, I can see a girl’s nude body reflected full-length in the mirrored ceiling over my head like a digital pic on a giant computer screen.

      Run that picture by me again. Yeah, that chick. The Playboy centerfold staring back at me from the mirrored ceiling. Gorgeous body. Tiny, nipped-in waist, full breasts, slim hips, sexy shoulders. Who is the bunny with the bod to die for?

      Can it be me?

      I close my eyes, believing when I open them again the girl will disappear; if she doesn’t and the beautiful girl is me, well, this is my fantasy, isn’t it?

      Avoiding making any silly wager with myself, opening one eye at a time, I stick out my tongue. So does the girl in the mirrored ceiling. I draw in my breath. It is me. Interesting.

      Still not believing, I blink several times, turning my head from right to left, each time catching tantalizing glimpses of my nude body in the mirror that makes me utter tiny sighs of disbelief followed by admiration, then again disbelief. I stare fixedly at the glass ceiling, amazed by my own vivid imagination and so very pleased with this free and independent spirit that has come to inhabit my mind and my body.

      Thank you, Min, you naughty boy.

      I watch the girl in the mirror on the ceiling draw her legs up, cross her ankles, press her thighs into the divan so her knees point in the opposite direction. I’ve never seen myself from this position and it’s quite interesting. I have no idea what to make of it. I can’t see my pussy up close and personal, but what I can see makes me appreciate the guy’s point of view when he heads south for a nibble.

      A little tremor goes through me. I hope Paul Borquet also enjoys the view.

      I lift my body up slowly, trying to feel if there’s any sensation in my arms, my legs. A tingling makes me aware of my limbs, although a supreme heaviness keeps pulling me down, as if wet sand traverses through my veins. What’s wrong? I can’t sit up, something is pulling on my wrists, making them numb. I pull again. What’s holding me down?

      I lean my head back and, with a hopeless sigh escaping loudly from my lips, I collapse back on the divan. My God, I’m tied to the couch, my wrists bound by silken cords. This fantasy has taken a wrong turn. I’m in a danger zone. Helpless. Paul Borquet can do anything he wants to me and I can’t stop him. Anything. Lock a collar around my neck, secure my wrists in handcuffs, cover my head in a leather hood that cuts out every ray of light and nearly every sound. The only thing I’ll have left is physical sensation.