Several weeks after my sensuous secretary, Nina, left for Los Angeles, I decided to take a shortcut on my morning ride to work and suddenly found myself in front of the Louvre. As a boy, I had visited the Louvre many times, but, since opening the modeling agency 15 years ago, I had been too busy to sample the museum's artistic delights. On a whim, I parked my motorcycle on the street and went in.
For many people, the Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile (has she just returned from a steamy rendezvous with her secret lover?) is the Louvre's main attraction. For me, the Winged Victory of Samothrace has always been the woman of my dreams. Every time I see that fabulous Greek sculpture, I am instantly transported into a state of rapture by the way the clingy drapery shows off the goddess' voluptuous hips and curves and how her flowing skirt billows between those delectable thighs. Even though the goddess is made of marble, I've often dreamed that I could awaken her passion with a single touch and transform her into a real woman of flesh and blood.
So lost was I in my reverie that I barely noticed the soft sobs a few meters away from me. Startled from my waking dream, I saw a young woman in a pink leather jacket crying softly, her head in her hands. I sat down beside her and offered my monogrammed handkerchief. I could see from the words on the cover of her guidebook that she was probably an American tourist. "Please tell me what is wrong," I said in my very best English.
»» It was several minutes before she stopped crying. She dried her tears and looked at me, black mascara dripping down her cheeks. "My boyfriend was supposed to fly to Paris to meet me today," she said, explaining between sniffles that today was the one-year anniversary of their relationship. Her boyfriend had emailed her this morning to tell her that he had met another girl at their college in The States and decided to cancel the trip. Email, I thought to myself. Those Americans can be so cold.
I put my arm around her shoulder and, to my surprise, she laid her head on my chest. I should take this slow, I thought. This girl is in a vulnerable state right now. I don't even know her name. But a quick glance at the butterfly tattoo above her heaving right breast convinced me otherwise. Peaking through her magenta tank top was a lacy black bra. I began to wonder what my new American friend would look like in a sexy black lace-up corset. I whipped out my cell phone and told my secretary to cancel my appointments for the day.
"Come with me, Mademoiselle," I said, gently but forcefully taking her hand. "Allow me to show you the real Paris."
Hand in hand, we ran out of the Louvre and jumped on my big, black Harley, a souvenir from a trip to America many years ago. From the Arc de Triomphe to the Eiffel Tower and the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the sights and sounds of Paris whizzed by us like a colorful carousel. There was something that I liked about this girl with the baby blue eyes and the dirty blond hair. Maybe it was the way she gripped my black, leather jacket with her soft, plump fingers painted with baby pink polish.
Around lunch time, we found ourselves on the Left Bank near the Sorbonne (my alma mater) and realized that we were famished – and not just for food. Steering my bike down a narrow alley, I parked in front of a tiny restaurant. Inside, the bistro was dark and smelled of old cognac. I ordered a bottle of Burgundy and two plates of steak frites. We chewed our food ravenously, eager to get to the next course.
When the bus boy removed our dishes, I shot a knowing look at the maitre d'. Bowing slightly, he retreated to the kitchen and brought out two small plates with Godiva chocolates and a large pink box with a silver ribbon.
"Open it," I told her.
Nikki flashed me a devilish smile. By now, any thoughts of her callous American boyfriend had completely vanished from her mind. Tearing off the ribbon like a child opening her first present on Christmas morning, Nikki ripped open the wrapping paper and pulled out the beautiful black strapless corset that laced all the way up the back. Leaning across the table, she gave me a long, slow kiss.
"I hope it fits you," I said, thrilled by her girlish excitement.
"There's only one way to find out," she shot back.
After settling up with the maitre d', we jumped back on my bike and sped through the streets of Paris like two bats out of Hell. When we reached the office of my modeling agency, I pushed the bike into the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. After Nikki changed out of her clothes and into the black satin corset with the tiny g-string, and matching petticoat that my new secretary, Laura, had tastefully picked out for her, we spent the rest of the day in a marathon photo shoot, Nikki posing seductively on the back of my Harley in every position imaginable.
That night, after I finished developing the photos, I brought Nikki back to my apartment and initiated her into the joys of French lovemaking, complete with wrist and ankle restraints and a fur-lined leather blindfold. Then it was Nikki's turn to show me why The Beach Boys wrote all those songs about California girls!
When I woke up the next morning, Nikki was gone. I ransacked my apartment, frantically searching for a note, a hotel key, any clue as to where she might have gone. Somehow, during our brief night of passion, I had neglected to ask her for her phone number or email address. All I knew was that she lived in L.A. and that she was probably headed back to that cad of a boyfriend. On a hunch, I grabbed my passport and jumped in a cab. "Take me to the airport!" I told the driver.
Cherchez la femme, I told myself as I grabbed my boarding pass and ran to the gate! The chase is on!
Cassandra Casanova
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