“Great news,” I texted him surreptitiously from my desk at work. “We just need to look elegant – there’s no dress code per se.”

“Hey, if I need to look elegant,” came his reply. “You’d better be ready to give the bouncers a blow-job, ’cause there’s no other way we’re getting in tonight.”

“Um… all right,” I wrote back uncertainly. “Or I could just explain that you’re English, I suppose…”


It seemed so unlikely that this was even going to happen. That, on the banks of the canal where I used to go running with Saturday Night so many years ago, there was a club where people went to drink, dance and fuck each other in public. And that, you know, someone like me could find myself in a place like this.

But he didn’t seem to grasp the complete absurdity of this idea, and so we were in an Uber heading East.

The bouncer waved us in without a word, and we were only briefly berated by the curmudgeonly cloakroom attendant for attempting to saunter past him without checking anything, and, more importantly, without collecting the pass which we would need to keep track of our consommations at the bar. Naturally, then, we headed straight for the bar, where a chesty girl served us our drinks.

It was certainly strange to sit there, at a low table, looking at the two or three other couples perched just as awkwardly on the edge of their seats.

“How do we get this party started?” I wondered, aloud.

“Well, you’re not looking slutty enough, for one thing,” he mused.

“I’m not?”

“No. But this should help,” he said, yanking at one of my fish-net stockings and ripping it down the middle.

“What the hell?!” I shrieked. “Uncle Sweetheart!! These are brand new!! It’s literally the first time I’ve worn them!”

“How much did they cost you?”

“Ten euros.”

“Here,” he handed me a 10-euro note, and then ripped a large hole in the other one too. “You’re looking pretty fucking slutty now…”

I couldn’t bear to look up and see who was watching, so I just slouched back on the sofa and downed another flute of champagne, humiliated, and secretly, of course, hugely turned on.

Several flutes later, completely drunk, I needed to go to the bathroom.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I told him.

“It’s over there,” he gestured vaguely towards a doorway, where a bunch of lecherous-looking men stood milling about. “And turn left.”

“What, you’re going to make me go there alone, in this drunken state?” I demanded. “And potentially get raped?”

“Yea,” he said. “I need to check something on my phone.”

“What the hell…” I grumbled, standing up unsteadily and making my way to the doorway, stumbling drunkenly down a narrow corridor to the right, giggling apologetically as I pushed past a horde of men, all grinning lasciviously and reaching out their hands to touch my exposed thighs through the rents in my ripped stockings.

“I said LEFT!!!” I heard Uncle Sweetheart shout from the distance, and hurriedly back-tracked to the bathroom, leaving the men leering disappointedly at me from the corridor. Luckily, they had dissipated somewhat by the time I emerged, and made my way through a drunken fog back to the bar, where the music was blaring and a few brave (or obviously hired-by-establishment) souls had finally taken to the dance floor. I stared at them, entranced.

“But they are just not sexy enough,” complained Uncle Sweetheart.

“Well, we can’t all be smoking hot 19-year-olds like the nubile nymphets you normally hang out with,” I told him, huffily. “Really! Here we are in a sex club, and all you can do is – “

“Fine, then, let’s go look for some action,” he decided, grabbing my arm and dragging me off down the right-hand corridor which, although still lined with men, didn’t seem quite so intimidating now that I was being pulled along by one. We found ourselves soon in a room which had been fashioned to resemble a small movie theatre, with a pornographic film showing on the screen, and about a dozen seats arranged in three rows, upon which a mysterious couple sat, hand in hand, engrossed in the film. The man was dressed in black, while the girl wore a figure-hugging white dress, barely enveloping her rather generous poitrine, and as their eyes turned towards me, a slow smile spread across her rapacious face.

“Let’s sit here,” I told Uncle Sweetheart, flopping down into the seat beside them, and pretending to concentrate on the movie screen.

“Oh my God… is he… he can’t really…”

Surely my eyes deceived me. Or could the stranger beside me really be stroking his exposed erection right in front of me? Watching me intently, while his girlfriend smiled at me from the other side. Who would have thought such things could happen? Strange as it seemed, I felt that I was the centre of some kind of irrepressible sexual vortex developing around me, and enveloping me, and somehow, without being prompted, I suddenly knew my part, and so quickly leaning down I took him in my mouth, and that was like a signal, or a trigger, because before I could wonder what I was doing, I was swept into the storm, as he grabbed my hair in his hands and pushed me down hard, thrusting his hips upwards to fill my mouth with cock, and at the same time, as I was gagging and choking so ignominiously, I felt Uncle Sweetheart’s hands behind me, hiking up my dress and pulling my underwear aside to plunge his fingers into my pussy. It was hard to even know what was happening any more, it was all happening so quickly. And then the stranger was pulling me up by my hair and telling me to open my mouth. I parted my lips, trembling with excitement and humiliation, and at the same time shut my eyes, because I just couldn’t bear it or believe it, it was too incredible, after this had just happened to me for the first time, surely he wasn’t just about to… I shuddered with the shock of it, and there were so many people standing around us, watching a complete stranger subject me to this, and then he pressed me down on to his cock again and slid into my throat, and before I could even begin to struggle, I tasted a slight bitterness at the back of my tongue… mmmm, he had come.

Merci,” I thanked them, licking my lips and grinning fatuously at them. “Now let’s get out of here, Uncle Sweetheart!”

I grabbed his hand and dashed out of the cinema, ducking past the gaping crowds. When we were finally alone, or as alone as one can be in a sex club, I turned to him in excitement – “Wasn’t that amazing??” “Glad you had fun. But the film was so incredibly boring. Worst porn I’ve seen in my life.” “The film?? You were watching the FILM????” – and then all of a sudden I noticed for the first time the rather peculiar décor of the room we were in, for he stood in front of a St Andrew’s Cross, and I was leaning against what was unmistakably a spanking bench. And, well, of course, one knows only too well what to do with one of those…

I slithered onto it, with my skirt hiked up again – a very flimsy and feathery skirt, I must remember to wear this more often – and Uncle Sweetheart obligingly removed his belt and began to swing – “plus fort, plus fort!” I heard the men mutter behind him, for they had managed to follow us there, after all, but he didn’t really need any encouragement, as the belt came cracking down onto my ass with a tremendous peal of thunder, and I squealed and screamed in pain, clinging onto the bar of the spanking bench trying to endure it, and then inevitably begging him to relent, and practically falling off the bench in my haste to escape, shame-facedly rubbing my stinging backside and feeling thoroughly disgraced!

We made our way back to the bar, where I sat while Uncle Sweetheart went to order some desperately-needed drinks. All of a sudden I noticed the stranger from the cinema sitting beside me, now alone, and gazing at me intensely.

Tu es soumise?” he asked. I have always loved this word, because unlike the English word “submissive”, which implies an action on the part of the subject – “to submit” – it is, in French, a participle adjective – like “subjugated”, say – which implies that the subject doesn’t actively submit but is made to submit. Which is so perfect, really…

Ouais,” I answered diffidently.

Ca se voit.


The conversation, surprisingly, didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Perhaps because we had already gone there? But no, not quite – “Shall we find a private room?” “What?? What about your girlfriend?” “She’s not my girlfriend…” – and then the girl I had imagined to be his girlfriend reappeared and asked me to dance, so I hurried onto the dance floor with her, glancing over at Uncle Sweetheart, who had returned from the bar, to see if he was watching. He seemed at first engaged in conversation with the Cinema Guy, and then poring over his telephone, with Cinema Guy slouched despondently on the sofa beside him, so there seemed no point trying to make a pass at the Not-Girlfriend, even though her large breasts were swaying in front of me so tantalisingly.

And there was something just so serious about the two of them. I couldn’t quite figure it out. Perhaps it was just that total lack of cynicism which comes from being young.

At any rate, we decided it was time to leave. After just one last drink, so he could bend me over at the bar and finger-fuck me hard until I came, moaning with my head on the bar, while sleazy men watched and licked their lips in avid desire.

Oooh baby you want me?
Well you can get this lap dance here for free…

But all good things come to an end, and soon we were back at the cloakroom to settle our bill.


C’est la madame qui paie?” the cantankerous cloakroom attendant raised a scornful eyebrow as I typed in my PIN.

Faut pas être macho comme ça, mon gars,” I tore my lips from Uncle Sweetheart’s just long enough to drunkenly retort.

But he just shrugged disapprovingly, and waved us on by.


One thought on “Quai 17

  1. Your posts are becoming increasingly hot, as you seem to be descending into a whirlpool of wantonness and it most definitely looks like you are relishing every moment of it.
    Two associates and I will be in Paris for a few day at the end of September, could we ask you to be our guide?


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