Thursday, November 19, 2015

He stood looking out the window as I sat on the edge of the bed in my bra and pantie rolling on my stockings. We were at his house in the 16th, a very traditional affair set on a gated street. Our conversation was heading down a well worn path.

"I can't understand you," he began without turning, "you're quite successful but still do this.? After a meeting, most men choose not to interact, they leave, bury themselves in their phone or even turn on the TV. "Are you complaining?" I asked. "No its just that it confuses me," was his reply. "You shouldn't worry about it and just enjoy my company. I was dressed now and stood behind him. "Besides if you are so concerned about me, now that your divorced you can marry me. You know, save me, make an honest woman out of me, be my Edward Lewis," resting my head on his back my hands bracing his shoulders. 

"Who's Edward Lewis, he asked, turning. "Pretty Woman," I gave him a hint. "Oh, well that's not happening," he guffawed, "you're a slut, a smart slut, a pretty slut, but a slut none the less and all of Paris, or at least that part of Paris that I care about knows about you." "And you're a notorious punter, we should be a matched set," I told him. "You know it doesn't work that way," he said and then changed the subject.

"You're coming with me to London next month, aren't you? He asked, "I'm planning to," I replied, "but I got the feeling you prefer not to be seen with sluts." "Being seen with one is fine, married to one isn't, he responded.



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