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DailySexScoop is pleased to introduce Private Lives, a sexy new series featuring anonymous first person accounts. Check here every Thursday for another edition.

Paris is known as the romance capital of the world, a city where anything can—and often does—happen. However, I went to Paris under anything but romantic circumstances. My mother, wanting to heal the rift between my sister and I, had decided to take us traveling.

My sister and I were actually getting along pretty well. Distracted by the beauty and sights of the city and the thrill of being in a foreign culture, we were able to put aside petty differences. Instead of fighting, we were laughing as we struggled to deal with the currency, language and above all, the French people.  I knew a little French and was picking up more and more, so I became our official translator.

One day, exhausted from walking through streets and galleries, we hailed a taxi back to our hotel.  We’d gotten used to the friendly banter of Parisian cab drivers and we all agreed that they were the friendliest class of people in France. I always started out by asking, “Parlez vous anglais?” and if they said yes, we’d proceed in our native tongue. If they said no, I’d translate for my mother and sister. This one said no.

Speaking in French, I told him which American cities we were from and how much we loved Paris. The spirit of France must be infectious because I found myself telling him we thought that “Les chauffeurs Parisien sont mervellieux.” (French cab drivers are wonderful.)  He laughed and replied, “Oui, mais je suis le plus mervelleuix dans le boudoir.” (Yes, but I’m best in bed.)

As I exploded into gales of laughter, my sister and mother demanded to know what he was saying. I made some ludicrous story about cab drivers being part of the French Mafia, which caused them to clutch their purses in terror while I continued my conversation.

Jean Luc, as his name turned out to be, became highly animated, paying less and less attention to the road, while he told me to ditch my mother and sister so he and I could go to bed. Cars were honking at us, while my mother and sister quaked. “Tell him to pay attention to the road,” they told me. I dutifully relayed this message, but Jean Luc ignored it.

As he talked on about how great the French were in bed and more specifically, how great he was, I got hotter and hotter.  If a New York cab driver had spoken to me this way, I would have jumped out of the taxi at the first chance. But in Paris, I impulsively told Pierre that I was going to the Rodin Museum the next morning—alone—and if he liked, he could meet me there.

The next morning I set off for the Metro, promising to meet my mother and sister later at the Cafe de la Paix.  The museum was all I’d been told it was, and more. Rodin’s sculptures are the most sensual in the world: male and female torsos; couples making love; even an ebony statue of a shriveled old woman begged for human touch.

I ran my hands over marble breasts and penises, caressed figures of men and women entwined. A guard entered the room and pointed somberly to a sign forbidding touch. Reluctantly, I withdrew my hand; how cruel of them to present these luscious objects that invited caresses, and not allow them to be stroked.

When the guard left, I sneakily ran my hand along an alabaster hip, feeling the thrill of indulging in forbidden fruit. I forgot all about Jean Luc until, rubbing my hands up and down a marble female torso, a voice whispered in my ear, “Les femmes sont delicieux, oui?” (Women are delicious, yes?). Startled, I looked up and Jean Luc laughed as he cupped his hand around the marble breast and stared provocatively into my eyes. I was mesmerized by the sight of his powerful hand delicately rubbing the smooth stone breast. Slowly he removed his hand from the statue and took mine. Dazed, I followed him outside.

We walked through the garden where rose bushes were beginning to bloom and the sun glistened on the huge statue of “The Thinker.” Jean Luc led me to a secluded clearing surrounded by trees so we were hidden from view.  Nonetheless, I was nervous about being “caught,” a prospect that, strangely enough, turned me on all the more.

Jean Luc placed his lips close to my face and ran them lightly over my eyes, ears, even my nose, barely touching my skin. I could feel his hot breath on my face and the occasional teasing touches. As he continued to drive me crazy by attending to my ears and neck, he unbuttoned my blouse. My nipples were stiff and erect beneath the lacy French bra I’d bought the day before. When he bent down and repeated the movements he’d made on my face, lightly running his lips over my breasts, barely touching them I began to tremble and go weak in the knees.

Jean Luc laid out a blanket on the ground and eased me onto it. Then he undressed me slowly, all the while teasing my hot skin with his expert mouth. When I wrapped my arms around his neck, he gently placed them above my head and ordered me, in French, to keep them there.

I might as well have been tied down by chains. Jean Luc wouldn’t let me move, as he caressed my body with his mouth, gradually exerting more and more pressure, bringing his tongue into the action, finally biting me on my neck, earlobes and throbbing nipples. My hands involuntarily flew to his crotch and tried to unzip his pants. Firmly he placed them over my head again.

Finally, he moved his mouth down to my thighs, biting and nipping the soft inner flesh. He then blew on my quaking clitoris, darting his tongue in quick little movements, teasing and goading my hot button until it throbbed wildly. Finally he placed his mouth on my clit, moving all around until I came, grateful tears streaming from my eyes.

When my orgasm subsided, I maneuvered myself to offer Jean Luc some of the same. But Jean Luc reached down and cupped my chin. He said something in French I couldn’t understand and then placed a finger over my lips and motioned for me to watch as he stroked himself.

I felt exactly as I had in the museum: forced to admire beauty, forbidden to touch it.  Jean Luc lay stretched on the ground, his sharply defined bone structure as exquisite as a sculpture by Rodin.  I ached to touch, to suck, to pull him into me, but his one hand held my chin as he touched himself with the other. The warm sun beat through the trees as the faint aroma of roses mingled with the juices of our desire. My eyes glazed over, my watering mouth hung open and when he finally released my chin, Jean Luc finally allowed me to please him.

Soon, he motioned for me to climb on top of him. I impaled myself, moving up and down, leaning forward so he could suck and fondle my breasts. I came again, rubbing ferociously along his granite belly, as he rammed away inside me. I imagined his penis was like the ones I’d been fondling in the museum, made of stone. Art may imitate life but in this case I felt as if life was imitating art.

Afterwards, we lay in the sunshine, exhausted and reluctant to part knowing we’d probably never see each other again. When we finally dressed and said goodbye I told him, “Les chauffeurs francais sont mervellieux, mais tu es le plus mervellieux dans le boudoir.” Jean Luc laughed triumphantly and said, “I told you so.”

“Hey,” I said, astonished, “I thought you didn’t speak English.”

Jean Luc laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Have a good time in Paris,” he said with perfect enunciation and sauntered off, out of the gardens.

I was late for my meeting at the Cafe de la Paix and my mother and sister had had so much wine they were three sheets to the wind.

“How was the museum?” my sister asked.

“Wonderful. You really ought to see it.”

“I don’t know I’m getting a little sick of all this art. Let’s do something exciting tomorrow.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She giggled drunkenly. “Maybe we can ride the cabs and find a driver like the one we had yesterday.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said demurely, sipping my wine. “I think he’s probably one of a kind.”

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