Free The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson Page B

your hands and moving your fist up and down the length of your own fabulous cerise bough.
    You stare at me with eyes lit with sexual desire, the pure light of lust. I am pulling myself up, moving my wet, hot pussy against the trunk, and I know I’m going to come. You match my heavy breathing. My clit is swollen and hard and as deep pink as cherries in July. I pull myself up and thrust my cunt into the tree once more, leaves tickling and caressing my excited breasts. My tongue wets my lips in desire for you and your enormous cherry-red cock. You move your hand ever faster. I wrap my legs around the trunk and pull my pelvis higher, higher one last time. And then I break. Panting, lust-filled, you squirt creamy white cum over the base of the tree. I keep coming, my juices falling down to your lips, your eyes and still you are coming . . .

    Your cherry blossom,

    Rose

WANDA
    And I’ll stay away from Verlaine, too; he was always chasing Rimbauds.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    We wander through the Jardin du Luxembourg, starry-eyed and travel-weary. Paris! I am in Paris with Wyatt, who is no longer wearing his pinstripe suit, just as we are no longer in the library but rather creating our own movable feast.
    The magnificence of this city enters me like a lover. Gentle and powerful, it opens my soul to revelations, delights, secrets unveiled: a Delacroix mural peeking through the dim light of an ancient church; pale pink roses hiding near the stone wall of another. There are so many ancient churches that one travel book describes several as being “one of the oldest” in Paris.
    After all, the city does date back to 250 BC, when the Parisii built their huts on the Ile de la Cité. The Romans conquered them in 52 BC, and you can still see ruins from that time amid the marvelous structures that have arisen in the intervening centuries.
    Surrounded by such superb antiquity, it only makes sense that the old people here possess a keen awareness of their value as senior members of the populace. The Parisian elderly have dignity in their bearing, wisdom in their eyes, elegance in their deportment and scarves around their necks. Ah, the scarves of Paris!
    In Paris, scarf wearing is practically a religion (Our Lady of the Scarf—
the
oldest church in Paris). I had to have one, so Wyatt took me to a little shop on the Rue Descartes and picked out a gorgeous crimson swath trimmed with gold beads and small tassels. I wrapped it around my neck and walked on, a newborn Parisian swaddled in blood-red.
    Somewhere in a labyrinth of galleried streets near the École des Beaux-Arts, we come across, quite by accident, a small, secluded circle called Place de Furstenberg. I recognize it from Henry Miller’s
Tropic of Cancer
: “In the middle of the square four black trees that have not yet begun to blossom. Intellectual trees, nourished by the paving stones. Like T.S. Eliot’s verse.”
    I lean against one of those black trees and imagine a drunken night in 1920s Gay Paree, when Henry might have wandered home in the early hours and relieved himself on this rough bark like some stray dog. Or, as I’m sure he did more than once, backed a woman against a trunk—flutter of skirt, scent of roses, tobacco, sex.
    As if reading my mind, Wyatt puts an arm around my waist and presses against me, biting my ear, kissing my neck. In the streetlamp’s glow he lifts my red cancan skirt (bought in the Latin Quarter) to find I am sans knickers and wet with desire. He pushes into me as forcefully and naturally as these trees push through the paving stones.
    Now I know what Rose meant when she said that sometimes when she’s getting fucked really good she doesn’t have to climax right then and there. I also understand her tree thing now. Wyatt comes quickly and fantastically and leaves me panting for more. We retreat to our hotel room.
    I pour the bath while Wyatt pours the wine. The tub is too narrow for two, but the