Touching down at Charles de Gaulle airport, four thousand miles from our hometown of Philly. Lola, my hot redhead bride, kisses my neck in the window seat. Beautiful weather in late April, the perfect begin to a two-week honeymoon in Paris. Plenty of time to live out our kinky French sex fantasies. We’re just a pair of clueless hedonistic one-percenter Americans, loaded with cash from our posh jobs at Greenberg and Goldberg (a division of Ambulance Chasers, Incorporated.)

Lola gets a fat wad of Euros from an ATM machine in Terminal 2B, and I rent a bitchin’ Porsche. I wouldn’t touch those crappy French cars with a ten-meter pole. We hop into that little German rocket and cruise through the suburbs, gradually reaching the historical core of Paris. Paleo-gothic churches, pretentious Belle Époque coffee houses, and Eurotrash night clubs galore. So many chic chicks are promenading on the Champs-Élysées. Lola gets that familiar naughty look in her big green eyes, and she strokes my right thigh as I try to maneuver through the insane traffic circle that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe. Just like the one in London that Clark Griswold got stuck in.

“All these medieval buildings are getting me in a real medieval mood,” she murmurs. “Let’s go right to the hotel and get down to business.”

“I dunno, babe. The jet lag is kicking in, so why don’t we ‘get down to business’ tomorrow?”

“Ah-ah, Jerry. Remember what you said on our wedding night?”

“Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.”

“And little man, little Lola wants you.”

I snicker at her insatiable appetite while crossing an ancient stone bridge over the Seine river. We enter the Île de la Cité, pass the burned-out shell of Notre Dame, and finally arrive at the luxurious Hotel Fauborg across the street. Our penthouse suite on the sixth floor has an awesome view of the Hunchback’s cathedral, three years into the rebuilding process.

“That church is like a metaphor for modern society,” I muse while gazing out a picture window at the temporary metal roof and scaffolding. “We keep playing with fire, and we keep getting burned, but somehow we’re still standing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lola mutters while opening a bottle of $300 vintage red wine. Jean Foillard Morgon Cote du Py, 2006 vintage. “Take off that stuffy lawyer suit, and show me that that big lawyer dick.”

Lola is a legal eagle with a penchant for domination, in the courtroom and in the bedroom. I fell for her so fucking hard, like Bill for Hillary. My clothes are soon draped across a red velvet Louis XVI sofa. She tosses her flaming red hair and takes a sip while admiring my nine inch nail.

“Damn, this shit is like the nectar of the gods,” she moans.

“Wine is the only thing the French are good at anymore.”

“Drink up, Jerry-boy,” she orders sternly. I also fall in love at first sip, and drain the glass real quick. Lola plays some smooth jazz on her iPhone to set the mood for our honeymoon. I hate every form of jazz, being a former metalhead who sold his soul to “The Man.”

“You better follow my orders to the letter, boy,” she says sternly.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Get in the bathroom and sit down in the tub.”

“Ooh, a little water bondage to get this soiree started.”

I obey her order with a smirk on my face and pep in my step. The luxurious retro bathroom has a marble clawfoot tub that’s big enough for a hippopotamus. Lola grabs a bag of kinky goodies from one of her suitcases and sets it down on a big marble sink.

“You’re my husband now, and I’m making damn sure you’ll stay my husband. Cutting your macho ego down to size. Get your hands up in the fucking air!”

I surrender to my fate, and she fastens the cuffs nice and tight around my wrists. Then she grabs a long thin metal chain, wraps it around the cuffs and the white lion claws beneath the bathtub, and forms a tight bond with a padlock. Goose bumps cover my body on a crisp Parisian evening.

“There you go, all chained-up and emasculated. That gets me so fucking hot,” she murmurs throatily while stroking her clit through a purple Givenchy dress. “I think I’ll go over to the Red Light District to do a little shopping. I’ll bring back something real special.”

She turns around and struts toward the front door, showing me an ass worth killing for.

“Seriously? You’re just leaving me here in bondage?”

“I won’t be gone too long.”

“What if you get hit by a car? Those French drivers don’t give a shit!”

“Neither do I. Just chill out and enjoy the groovy tunes.”

She grabs her loaded purse and struts away. I growl in utter frustration.

“You’re a crazy fucking bitch, Lola. You know that?”

“Yak, yak, yak. Au revoir!” she beams while exiting the penthouse suite. Leaving me butt-ass-naked in a ridiculous bathtub, listening to the tinny guitar licks of “Right Down Broadway” by Chuck Loeb. With my sort of luck, she will get hit by a clunky Peugeout 508 sedan, and fall into a coma, leaving me stuck here for god knows how long. The Paris police will eventually find out where her husband is, and they’ll discover me babbling incoherently right here, stewing in my own piss and shit.

You’re getting the trouble you asked for, Jerry-boy. You knew how crazy she was when you said “I do,” and now you’re just hanging on tight and enjoying the ride. You rejected the illusory concepts of “true love” and “romance” during your hazy Harvard days, and it’s been one big kink-fest ever since. You’ve made plenty of dough off other people’s misery at Greenberg and Goldberg, but money can not buy happiness. (But it can buy plenty of genuine leather whips, harnesses, stockades, and glory hole milking tables.)

Time crawls by painfully slow, with so much mind-numbing “music” blaring from her stupid “smart” phone. Like saxophone slurry oozing out of a plastic pipe.

Oh shit, now I gotta take a piss. Damn that tomboy bitch for making me drink all that vintage wine from the flowery hills of Provence. The toilet is just four feet away from the tub, but impossible to reach in my current state of bondage. It’s one of those classic European models with the upper tank hanging a few feet above the lower bowl, for more flushing power. Makes a lot more sense that way, for clearing out all those pesky micro-turds. Right next to it is something else you never see in the USA: a bidet. For rinsing your ass crack to clean off all the doo-doo. Why the hell do Americans love having skid marks on their skivvies?

My bladder gets closer and closer to the breaking point. Twenty minutes later, it finally explodes in a pseudo-orgasmic rush of relief, drenching my legs with soothing warmth. A very familiar sensation; having been pissed on by dozens of women over the years (and doing the honors on them just as often.) The warm urine soon turns cold and sticky, and I get royally pissed-off. Lola is taking her sweet time at those stupid Red Light sex shops, drawing out the suspense like a master showgirl.

An hour later, the front door finally opens, and I hear the sweet voice of Lola McCarren singing “Le dernier jour de disco” (The last day of disco,) a recent euro-pop hit by Julliette Armanet. She croons the lyrics in fluent French; having mastered that freaky language at Harvard. It makes everyone sound like my grandmother after her third stroke.

The last day of disco

I want to hear it in stereo

And tell you there is nothing more gorgeous . . .

Lola lingers out of sight for a minute, then she struts into the bathroom, and my jaw drops open in pleasant shock. I assumed she was shopping for a cliché form-fitting black leather dominatrix suit with a Nazi hat and a big braided bullwhip. . . but she actually bought a vintage French maid costume, right out of those fluffy 1920’s burlesque shows. A tight black mini-dress with a lacy white apron, a lacy black-and-white maid cap, lacy black fishnet stockings and garters, and black stilleto heels. A white feather duster is like icing on a retro redhead fetish cake.

“God damn, that’s the sexiest thing I ever saw.”

“Bon soir, monsieur,” she beams in a convincingly native accent. “I am Lo-la zee maid, at your service.”

“There must be a mistake. I didn’t order a maid.”

“No mistake, monsieur. This salon ees a pig sty, needing expert touch of femme domestique.” She dusts off the marble sink and Louis Quatorze vanity cabinet, wiggling her lacy ass oh-so-cutely. She wiggles over to the tub, and gasps at the mess.

“Oh mon dieu, you naughty boy! Tinkling yourself in le bain! I must clean up this dieu horrible bordel!”

I find out the Merovingian words quite well, thanks to four years of French classes at William Penn High College. Thank god I didn’t do the sensible thing and learn Spanish instead, so I could flirt with border-crashing Mexican maids in Philly. She grabs a stainless steel shower wad, turns the froide dial, and blasts me with icy cold water.

“Hey, what the fuck!” I shout while thrashing against the chains. She laughs giddily while giving me the cold shower treatment, like a nineteenth century sanitarium inmate.

“Une douche froide is just what doctor orders for hothead.”

“Cut it out, you fucking cunt! You want me to get hypothermia?”

Lola laughs again, then mercifully turns off the water. She goes to her bag of tricks and pulls out a high end genuine leather riding crop. Designed for real horses, not porn stars with fake tits. A french maid domme? This lady never runs out of surprises. Hard to believe she was in a Philadelphia courtroom two days ago, getting ten million dollars for a guy who slipped on a grape in a grocery store.

“A good french maid tolerates no dirt, and no dirty men.”

She whips me five times, nice and hard on my erect nipples. It hurts twice as much when you’re wet, and three times as much when you’re cold and wet. Of course I love it, but I pretend I don’t.

“What the fuck? What kind of maid service you workin’ for?”

“The best maid service in Gay Par-ee, you closet homosexuel!“

“I’m not a faggot, you fucking dyke-domme.”

“Shut zee fuck up!”

She whips me ten more times on my chest, turning my white pecs a nice solid pink. These love/hate role-playing games drive me mad with desire. Masochistic pleasure in the haze of nostalgic hedonism that wafts throughout Paris.

“I am sick and tired of dirty greedy hommes like you. I whip them all in shape, and make France chic again.”

She aims lower and hits the bullseye, right on my pee-hole. My whole body convulses against the stainless steel and Carrera marble, yet I beg for more.

“Fuck yeah, turn that big dick fucking red!”

She gladly obeys my order, lashing every centimeter of my bitte in a blur of black leather. Then she gives my big balls equally painful attention. The pressure builds and builds in my prostate.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

“Put down that fucking crop and make me cum, bitch!”

She slaps my face hard with her free hand.

“Do not call me a bitch, you putain du trou de cul!” (Fucking asshole.) I chortle under my breath, and she slaps the other cheek just as hard.

“Apologize to your maid mistress!”

“Sorry, maid mistress,” I mutter, and she slaps me again.

“Louder, you baiuseur de cochon!“

Pig fucker? That’s a new one.

“Sorry, maid mistress!”

“Beg me to suck your bitte!“

“Please, maid mistress, suck my bitte,” I mutter.

“Beg me louder, you pathetique caniche!“

“Please, maid mistress! I’m begging you! Shove my cock down your throat and drink my splooge!”

“Good doggie,” she coos mockingly while tussling my dark brown hair. “You have earned your douce recompense.”

She takes off her French maid costume, revealing impeccable milky D-cups with pointy pink nipples, and an awesome fire crotch. She grabs the chains, wraps her lips around my thick shaft, and whips her entire torso up and down while growling fiercely against my man-meat. She’s given me so many great blowjobs ever since the night I met her at a coffee house near Fair Harvard, but she still hasn’t let me fuck her. Being a pussy-virgin is her only claim to morality as a non-practicing Irish catholic, but I’m sure as hell going to void that claim. I’m not going back to the states until she gives me some snatch.

She nibbles the tip of my penis for a minute, making me yelp like a poodle. Then she shoves the shaft back in her mouth and picks up the pace while massaging my P-spot, sending me quickly over the edge. I blast that jizzum right down her throat, screaming and shuddering in complete ecstasy. She growls indignantly as I fill her mouth to the brim. Nasty white goop oozes between her bright red lips.

She pulls out, stares me dead in the eye for a moment with a vicious frown, and spits that sour cream all over my face. She giggles at my thorough emasculation, then she stands up and pisses all over my face.

“Fucking biiiiiitch!” I growl as her bladder gradually empties.

“Do not call me a bitch!” She slaps my piss-soaked face, getting me even angrier. “Now suck me off, you fucking American swine.”

“Yes, maid mistress.”

She shoves her fire crotch against my face, and I suck her little pink mound nice and hard, getting a nice tang of tinkle. It doesn’t take long to bring her to an unmistakable orgasm. She grabs my head with both hands and screams loud enough for everyone in the Hotel Fauborg to hear.

“Merci, merci! You are my favorite boy-toy in this hôtel très chic .“

“You got me all filthy again, you dirty little maid.”

“Oui, monsieur. You need another douche froide.“

“Come on, at least give me a hot shower this time.”

She ignores my plea and gives me another cold shower, making me groan even louder. She finally frees me from bondage and kisses me tenderly.

“Maid service with a smile,” she coos, reverting to her native Philadelphia accent. “I love you soooo much, Jerry-boy. This is gonna be the best honeymoon of all time.”

“Damn right, Lola-girl. I think we’re both ready for the International Club,” I reply. Paraphrasing a quote from The Opening of Misty Beethoven, my favorite vintage porn movie set in Paris and a few other European cities. I want to tame that shrew and make her a good obedient lover; just like Dr. Seymour Love did to a Red Light whore named Misty.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The morning sun hits my eyes like a towering inferno, rising over the temporary metal roof of Notre Dame. A brand new day in Paris, full of intriguing possibilities with my ginger bride. Time to get a good history fix, eat plenty of oversauced French cuisine, and drink plenty of overpriced French hooch. I want to drown myself in passion artistique and pretend I’m Jamie Gillis, starring in a 1970’s “porno chic” flick. Making up for all the years I’ve wasted in blind pursuit of the almighty dollar.

I roll over to kiss Lola good morning, but she’s not there. She prances into the bedroom a few seconds later, wearing that same French maid costume from the Red Light District. Looking even hotter in the morning glow.

“Bonjour, monsieur!” she beams while dusting off the night stand with that white feather duster and wiggling that heart-shaped derrière.

“Bonjour, Madame McCarren,” I snicker in reply. “Hey, you’re my wife now, so why don’t you drop that stupid French maid act and ride me like an American cowgirl. Daddy needs some pussy.”

“My vagin is not ready for your bitte, monsieur. In meantime, I will dust that big cock to sparkle like Versailles.”

She tickles my nude manhood relentlessly with the ostrich feathers, making me laugh reflexively.

“Cut it out, bitch!”

“You are the fucking bitch!”

She tickles my Tinkerbell even harder, driving me utterly insane.

“Apologize for your chauvinist insolence!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I moan pathetically between laughs. “Please, don’t make me wet the bed!”

“You better not piss bed! You will piss in le seau à champagne.”

She grabs an empty leather champagne bucket from the nightstand and holds it above my lap.

“On your fucking knees, monsieur!“

I obey her order reluctantly, and she tickles my dick to the breaking point.

“Ha … ha … ha … oh gah . . . oh gah . . . right now!“

She pulls the feathers away and aims the bucket just in the nick of time.

“Oooooooohhhh FUUUUUUCK!“

Another mighty geyser bursts forth, quickly filling that leather bin with rich golden pee, distilled from Provençal wine.

“Oui-oui!” Lola shrieks in delight. “I love making men piss in budoir. Just like old days of Paris, with pots de chambre.”

She puts the full sloshing bucket on the nightstand, and sucks the last few drops out of my throbbing wang.

“Fuck yeah, make me cum in your mouth right after I pissed a gallon. Go fast!”

She pulls out and waves her finger disapprovingly at my face. “Ah-ah, not now, Jerry. We got a long day ahead of us, and I’m saving your reward for the end of it.”

An hour later, we stroll idly down the Rue du Cloître-Notre-Dame, soaking in the vintage French ambiance around the iconic cathedral. Plenty of Japanese tourists are taking plenty of selfies with peace signs, with a few accordion players setting a folksy mood for spare change. We cross another stone bridge over the northern branch of the Seine river, and Lola drags me into La Bourdonnais, a classic Parisian coffee house. We order some authentic croissants with French roast lattes, and lounge around under numerous posters of 1890’s Can-Can cabaret girls by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. My eyes are magnetically drawn to a group of twenty-something French girls sitting in the opposite corner, smoking and chatting about their sophisticated school boyfriends at The Sorbonne.

“Wow, all those indie movies weren’t lying,” I remark to Lola. “Paris is full of women with short dark hair, artsy berets, gingham dresses, and menthol cigarettes.”

“They’re cute as hell,” Lola beams while ogling the flat-chested boyish one. She had quite a few lesbian flings before we got married. She takes a long pensive sip of dark roasted Java, and strokes my left thigh thigh seductively. “Tell me, baby . . . have you ever had a ménage à trois?”

The question hits me like a bolt from the blue, and I nearly drop my mug full of Joe. “Nope. Have you?”

“I had three ménage à trois -es during my college days, with a bunch of English majors. They’re usually obsessed with taboo stuff like that.”

“Was it fun?”

“Crazy fun, for a little while. But then it got real awkward and testy. One partner usually gets tired of sharing the love, and demands more attention.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that arthouse movie way too many times.”

She tosses her flaming bangs and leans closer. “Do you want to make that movie real?”

My face turns pink with embarrassment. I’ve tried every kinky sex trick in the book, but somehow the idea of a “household of three” makes my perverted mind revolt.

“Uh . . .”

She giggles playfully. “Of course you do, but you never will, because you have to maintain a veil of respectability for your high-paying lawyer job.”

“Whatever you say, you dirty little maid.”

She slaps my wrist playfully. “Watch your mouth, boy, or I’ll have to punish you again.”

I grab her wrist and scowl at her smirking face. “Hell no, I’m doing the punishing next time. Returning the favor, with interest.”