I flew into Paris from New York in the spring of '68, arriving first thing in the morning. I was hoping to enrol in a summer French immersion course hosted by the Sorbonne. My grasp on foreign languages at that time was abysmal. I had forgotten all I had learned of high-school French.

I should not have been flying at all. Somewhere along the line from Vancouver to New York, I had caught cold, which had travelled to my chest, now worsened to the point where I was constantly coughing, and wanting nothing more than to go to bed and stay there. I ached all over.

With help of the French Government Tourist Office center at Orly I managed to book a room in a pension - boarding house - in the Latin Quarter of Paris, close to the university. I was too sick to trust myself on public transport, so i splurged on a taxi, which took me almost right to the front steps of the pension Gagnon — or as close as a taxi could get. It was just as well, because I might never have found it. It was on the Place des poissons, a tiny square hidden away in the between two major streets. It was reached only by a narrow, covered lane at each end, almost a lost world of its own.

I don't know what has become of that hidden little treasure. I can't find it on Google Maps, so I am guessing maybe a steel and glass office building has swallowed it up. Back then, there were several shops at ground level around the square - a bakery, a fish shop, a butchers, a greengrocers, and a pharmacy - with living quarters above them, and apartment buildings or pensions taking up the rest of the square. There was no car through-traffic, because a waist-high iron pylon was set into the roadway of the alley at the other end.

In the front hallway of the pension there was a small desk with a bell upon it. I rang the bell and the propriétaire came out from the room behind the desk. Madame Gagnon was a very stern-faced woman in her sixties wearing far too much make-up. She spoke only French to me, and was quite impatient that I spoke none. However, with much difficulty we managed to communicate. She had been phoned about my arrival by the Tourist Bureau, and was expecting me. I was too late for breakfast. How long would I be staying? I managed to tell her 3 days for now, but I would know for sure later. Would I be wanting all three meals, or just breakfast? I told her just breakfast. I paid her for the three days. She told me breakfast would be brought to my door each morning, then led me upstairs to my second-floor room, pointing out the bathroom for that floor on the way, never once cracking a smile.

My room was small, with a single window looking out onto the square, a narrow bed, a small wash-stand with a Jug of water, two glasses on top, and a towel on its lower shelf. There was also a sink with hot and cold taps.

All the time we had been negotiating, I had been coughing like mad, trying not to cough all over her. My eyes were sore, my nose was sore, my chest was sore, my stomach was sore. Even my balls were sore from the stress of coughing.

As soon as the old battle-ax had gone, I made my way to the bathroom, took a leak, then climbed into my narrow bed in that small room, even though it was only ten am. Enrollment and sight-seeing could wait for another day - if I survived.

I spent the day trying to sleep, but coughing and spitting kept me from sleeping well. My coughing must have reverberated through the whole building. I was sure I would die!

Late in the afternoon, I did manage to doze off for quite some time. I was awoken by a light knocking at the door. I glanced at my watch. It was going on eight pm.

"'allo!" I heard a male voice call, along with more knocking.

I had been sleeping naked. I wrapped the rather small white towel around me and opened the door. There stood a handsome young man in his early twenties, maybe five years younger than myself, bearing a tray covered with a cloth. I saw his eyes drop to the bulge of my cock under the brief towel, but I was too sick to care.

"Bonsoir," he said. "Ma grand-mère a entendu votre toux. Elle vous envoie cette soupe et du pain."

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I don't speak French."

He smiled. "That's OK," he told me. "I speak some English - not great, per'aps, but enough. I said My grand-mother 'eard you coughing all day. She 'as sent you this bread and soup. I am Pierre, 'er grandson." He proffered the tray to me. My opinion of the old battle-ax altered drastically.

"Merci," I said, practically exhausting my French.

As I took the tray from Pierre, my towel undid itself from around my waist and dropped to the floor, leaving me standing naked before him. Holding the tray with both hands, I could do nothing about it. I smiled weakly at Pierre, who, ever the gentleman, took a good look at my dick, then bent to pick up the towel at my feet. I'm not so sure it was accidental when he brushed my dick with his face or hand when bending to pick up the towel, and again as he stood up. Or again as he wrapped the towel around me once more and tucked it into place.

Accidental or not, I was too sick to care at that point. I placed the tray on the wash-stand. Pierre had followed me into the room. I thought he wanted a tip, and picked up my pants where I had dropped them and found some French coins in my pocket. I offered them to him.

"No, no," he exclaimed. "It is my pleasure."

He lifted the cover off the tray. There was a very large bowl of steaming chicken soup and a small loaf of French bread.

"Thank your grandmother for me," I told him. "And thank you for bringing it."

"Do you need any medicine?" Pierre asked me. "There is a pharmacie just across the square. I can get you anything you need."

"But it must be closed," I said.

"That is not a problem, " Pierre told me. "On Place des Poissons we are all family. The proprietor will open for me."

I gave Pierre a fifty franc note to buy me some cough syrup, and he went to get me the medicine while I attacked the soup. By the time he arrived back, I had finished the soup and bread and felt much better for it.

Pierre gave me the medicine and my change, I thanked him once more, and he took the tray and departed.

I took a good swig of the cough mixture, went down the hall for another leak, just my jeans pulled on, then went back to bed.

Some time during the night I must have taken a turn for the better, because toward morning I had a wet-dream involving Pierre, the handsome young Frenchman.

I thought it was déjà vu when I was again woken to light knocking at the door and Pierre's voice calling softly, "'allo!"

This time I didn't bother with the towel. The young man had already seen all I had to offer, anyway — and I was feeling a little better — and a little horny.

I opened the door, and there stood Pierre, once again with a tray.

"Your breakfast, monsieur," he grinned, looking not at me, but at my semi-hard cock. "You are looking much better today," he added.

The sun was streaming through the window.

"yes, I feel better," I said. "I think I might go to the University to enrol in a course today," I said, taking the tray from him.

"The Sorbonne?" he asked, and his face darkened.

"Yes," I replied/ "Why?"

"It is not a good time to go near there," he said, ominously. "There are many protesters, many picketers. There is going to be bad trouble."

"Why," I asked.

"The students are protesting increases in fees. The workers are protesting the lack of jobs. The unions are protesting foreign workers. The employers are protesting the unions. Everyone is protesting. All are protesting near the university.

"Go visit Notre Dame, instead," he suggested. "It is only a few blocks from 'ere on the Île de la Cité. It is a nice day. Climb the south tower if you are not coughing too much. It 'as a wonderful view. And you can sit in the sun on the roof and soak up the 'ealing rays."

"That sounds good," I said, and thanked him for his advice.

"You are welcome, monsieur," he replied.

"Robert," I told him. "My name is Robert, but you can call me Bob."

"Then you are welcome, Bob. And you can call me Pepi, my grand-mother's name for me.

"I must go now," he added, "and deliver some more breakfasts. Just leave the tray outside your door. Bonjour." He glanced once more at my cock, smiled, and left.

The breakfast he had brought me consisted of fresh croissants, obviously from the pâtisserie across the square, butter, jam, orange juice, and cafe au lait, plenty of everything.

As Pepi had said, the cathedral was not far from the pension, just a few blocks to the Seine and over the bridge to the island on which the building stood. I was there by about 11 am. I joined a tour to visit the interior first, and marvelled at the magnificent structure, but my cough, resounding through the church, embarrassed me. I went out, bought a bunwich and a pop from a street cart nearby and joined the line to climb the south tower. The attendants only allowed about 10 visitors in to make the climb at a time, spacing them out about 20 minutes apart, but it was a slow day, so I didn't have to wait long.

The climb up the inside of the tower consists of close to 400 stone steps spiralling round and round the inside of the tower. Part the way up is a landing to view the bell housing before the climb continues up to the roof.

The view at the top makes the arduous climb - which nearly killed me with my coughing - worth every painful step. You can look out in all directions over Paris from the rampart walkway which circles the tower at roof lever.

As stunning as it all was, but that time, after the climb, all I was really interested in was resting, and took the example of several others and climbed up the couple of feet onto the gently sloping slate roof of the tower. These days there are bars preventing people from doing this any more, but at that time it was a favorite resting spot for climbers.

It was a warm, sunny, spring day, and I spent a good two hours just laying there, shirt off, soaking up the sun. I ate the sandwich lunch and drank the pop, but eventually, even in the weak spring sunshine, I could feel myself getting burned, so called it a day and made the long climb back down.

By the time I found my way back to the pension Gagnon I was exhausted, and went back to bed, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

By the time I woke again, it was after seven, and the square below was completely in the evening shadows. I was hungry, so I dressed, left the Place des poissons through the little ally into the broader boulevard beyond. I walked a few blocks east before I found a found a sidewalk restaurant and bar which appealed to me. These little street eateries advertised their daily menus on blackboards on the street. This one had a 4-course dîner à prix fixe of soup, roast chicken, dessert, and coffee for around five dollars. I must have been getting better, because not only was I hungry, but I had day-dreams about a naked Pepi while I waited for my food, choosing to sit at a table right on the sidewalk rather than inside. Dusk turned slowly to the dark of night, but pole lights still illuminated the area.

I first became aware of some sort of problem while I was eating the simple dessert of orange sherbet. I could hear the sounds of French police sirens and klaxons further down the boulevard, but it was still distant, so I put it out of my mind.

It was right after my waiter served the coffee that I realized it was getting louder and closer. Right about that time I noticed a man who was obviously the owner or manager call the three male waiters to him at the door of the cafe. He spoke rapidly to them in French, gesturing wildly. The waiters then dispersed to the other tables and guests on the sidewalk.

My waiter spoke to me in English. "Pardon, monsieur, could you be so kind to pay the bill. There is a problem down the street. We are closing the restaurant."

"What is it?" I asked as I gave the man the necessary amount and a generous tip.

"The students and the police are fighting,' he told me. "It may be bad. You should leave the street."

Even as he spoke the street erupted with dozens of young men running past us, shouting, hurling rocks and bottles back the way they had come. The police klaxons were blaring a little way down the boulevard, and the cries and shouts were coming closer, as were the sounds of physical conflict of some sort.

"Go," the waiter exhorted me, pointing in the direction the people were running.

So I found myself caught up in the flow westward along the dark street, with the tumult all around me.

I got the first whiff of tear gas, and saw a molotov cocktail being hurled by a student. I could hear the pops of guns, presumably firing rubber bullets - at least I hoped that's what they were firing.

Moving with the flow, I was worried that I might be thought to be one of the rioters, that I might be hurt or arrested by the police.

Just then, the westward flow of people slowed. Police cars and their klaxons and their flashing blue lights were coming from that direction, too. We were caught between two fronts of police. I saw a fire-truck coming down the boulevard toward us. The police directed it into position, and its water canons were directed at the running crowd. Many of the men around me were armed with clubs and baseball bats; others with bricks and bottles.

I was bumped and jostled by others trying to find shelter. It was a nightmare.

Now I saw gendarmes with shields and billy-clubs battering their way through the crowd, grabbing some protesters and hustling them into paddy-wagons, beating others viciously. I was panicky.

Just then a hand grasped my shoulder. I thought I was being taken by the gendarmes. I swung around.

In the dark, I made out the anxious face of Pepi.

"Come with me," he ordered. He practically dragged me into the darkened doorway of a shop. He battered on the door and shouted something I didn't catch. A female voice answered from within, the door opened, we pushed in, past the woman who opened it, who locked the door behind us. She pointed toward the back of the shop.

We raced through, Pepi calling back to the woman as we went, and out the back door into a dark alley leading away from the conflict on the boulevard. "That was the store of my aunt," he explained breathlessly, as I followed behind my saviour, jogging down the alley.

Pepi led me by a circuitous route through other alleys which eventually took us to the other end of the Place des poissons. As we entered the square and ran to the pension, we got glimpses through the alley at the other end the conflict on the boulevard beyond, moving past, although some rioters had taken refuge in that end of the square.

Pepi led me into the hall. Madame had turned off the lights, and we stood together in the dark hallway, getting our breath back.

"How did you know I was there?" I puffed.

"I followed you," he whispered.

"Why?" I whispered back.

"Because you are un très bel homme," he whispered. Even my poor French told me that he was saying he thought me very handsome.

Before I could even protest that I was hardly what I would call handsome, he stepped closer to me in the dark hallway, put one hand round my waist and the other behind my head, pulled me to him, and kissed me passionately. I started to pull back, but quickly responded to his kiss, and opened my mouth to meet his.

In the dark hallway, with the sounds of the rioting on the nearby boulevard coming dimly to us, we kissed and kissed and kissed again, allowing our hands to run all over each other's bodies.

Eventually Pepi took my hand and led me down the dark hall toward the stairs. He put his finger to his lips, indicating I was w not to speak.

But his admonishment was in vain. As we passed the hall desk, his grandmother called from her rooms behind it.

Pepi answered her comfortingly. I don't know what was said, but I did catch the word "Anglais" so I figured that I was mentioned.

I heard her reply, "Ah, c'est bon."

Pepi led me upstairs to my room. We paused at the door while I found my key, and we kissed again. This time, I did the leading, and took his hand and led him inside, closing the door behind us.

The window to the square was open, and as we tore at each other's clothes, the clamor from the boulevard beyond still reached us, but we were deaf to everything but our passion. We did not turn on the room lights. The light through the window from the street-lamps below was enough.

Pepi threw himself back onto the bed. He pushed a pillow under his butt, lifted his legs and spread them, exposing his hole to me.

"baise-moi!" he cried. I didn't need a translator to tell me he was demanding that I fuck him. Smearing a little suntan oil which I kept in my toiletry bag onto my cock and his ass, I did as he begged. I kneeled on the edge of the bed which he was straddling, positioned my cock at his hole, and thrust it into him.

Pepi cried out, not in pain, but in joy, when I drove my shaft into him. Both of us wanted quick release that first time. I pounded at his ass furiously, while he cried out again and again, wanting more, wanting me inside him, wanting my cum inside him.

It did not take long. In no time at all, my pent-up cum was squirting into Pepi's bowels, filling his ass with my juices. Finished, but still deep in him, I flopped down on him, spent for the moment, and we kissed again, while he whispered again and again, "Mon amour! Mon bel amour!"

His whispers, to me, were far louder than the conflict on the streets outside our window.

After a short time, my dick softened to the point that it pulled out of Pepi, and I rolled onto my back and lay alongside him. But Pepi was not satisfied yet. He wanted more of my cock in him. He bent over me and took my knob in his mouth.

He put his tongue and lips to work on the sensitive areas of my cock, sucking and licking, and rubbing his soft beard over the underside. Soon he had me raging hard once more.

When he was satisfied that I was hard enough, he didn't wait for me to take the initiative, but climbed on top of me and lowered his ass down onto my hot dick. It sank into him easily, and he continued until he was flat down upon my shaft, unable to go any further. Then he leaned forward and we kissed eagerly while he rode my dick at his own pace.

Outside, the noises from the riots raged on, but they were so far from our little world of hot sex. We were completely absorbed with satisfying our lust. I could feel my dick rubbing against his insides and that became my whole universe for now. Pepi, too, was totally engaged with the ecstasy of having me inside him. The world could go on without us.

When his legs and knees were tiring from the awkward cramped position and the exertion of bending and straightening again and again as he fucked himself with my cock, Pepi rolled off me, and lay on his side with his back to me.

"This way," he begged. I moved in behind him and he lifted one leg to give me better access. My cock entered his wonderful hole once more. I set to work on the pleasant task of bringing myself to another climax buried deep inside him.

I could feel Pepi flexing the muscles in his ass, milking my dick, helping me to come to a boiling point. It helped to build up the pressures inside me. In a few minutes I was ready once more, and felt the first spasms of my eruption. Pepi felt them, too, and pressed back onto my cock, forcing it deeper into him. My second load of cum for the evening squirted into him, joining the cum already there from our earlier fucking.

Spent, I pulled out of his ass and lay there, my arm across him.

"I need to go to the toilette, " he said

"Me, too," I agreed, and picked up my jeans and started to pull them on, but he waved his hand "no, no'" and opened the door and peeked out. There was no-one in the hall, so he beckoned me to follow him, and naked we ran down the hall to the bathroom two rooms along. Laughing, we went in, only to find another male guest just finishing up at the urinal. After his initial shock at seeing two naked young men burst into the bathroom, he regained his composure, winked at us and grinned broadly, washed his hands, and left.

While I took a much needed leak, Pepi divested himself of the two loads of cum in the commode, then we jogged naked back to my room. I thought Pepi would leave me now, but we climbed into my bed, and, spooned together, drifted off to sleep, the sounds of klaxons and sirens and explosions so distant from our comfortable world.

When Pepi woke me, it was already light. There were no riot noises any more, just some morning traffic on the boulevard, and the song of a bird in the square outside.

"Bonjour," he murmured as I opened my eyes and looked into his. His hard cock was pressed against me. I grasped it under the blanket.

"No, not now," he said, regretfully. "I must go. I 'ave to help with the petits-déjeuners - the breakfasts. My grand-mère needs me. I will be back soon, with your breakfast."

Pepi rose, dressed, and left me, and it was only then that I realized that I hadn't coughed since earlier the previous afternoon, and I drifted back to sleep, considering my situation and my options.

It was much later that Pepi returned. He let himself in, not having locked the door behind him when he left. I woke when he placed my breakfast tray on the wash-stand. He sat on the bed beside me. He also bought me a copy of the English-language newspaper The Herald-Tribune.

"It was a very bad night," he told me. "Much damage. Many arrests. The protesters say they will not give up. President De Gaulle says it is all the work of young 'ooligans and gangsters. 'e says 'e will wage war on them until peace is restored."

"And what do you think?" I asked him.

"I am a student," he said simply. "But I do not believe in violence. But is going to get worse before it gets better. I think you should be leaving Paris while you can. There is talk of a general strike."

While he talked, I was getting horny. I groped in his crotch, squeezing his cock though the cloth, but he objected.

"I want that very much," he told me, "but there is much work to do. I 'ave to collect the breakfast trays, and then I must help in the square. Our neighbors the store owners are boarding up their windows. There was much looting on the main boulevards last night. Tonight it may come to the side streets."

"Can I help?" I asked.

"That would be good," Pepi said, and bent and kissed me on the forehead. "Now I must go," he said. "You will find me in the square later."

I ate my croissants, drank my coffee, then decided to take a shower in the bathroom down the hall. By the time I came back to the room, the breakfast tray was gone from outside the door where I had left it, so I knew Pepi had been by. I regretted that I had missed him, and wondered had he been thinking of our night together when he collected it?

I read the Herald-Tribune report of last nights riots, and was not pleased to read that similar protests were held throughout France, and the protest movement was growing. As Pepi had said, there were rumors of a general strike, and De Gaulle was threatening martial law.

I heard hammering in the square, and looking out the window, saw Pepi helping the proprietor of the bakery board up his windows. I went down to help, too.

Pepi welcomed me warmly and introduced me, in French, to his friend the baker. I caught the words mon très bon ami amongst what he said, and the baker laughed and winked at me, and made the universal sign for fuck - the forefinger of one hand rapidly poking the finger-and-thumb "o" of the other hand - and laughed again. Apparently Pepi's preference for man-sex was no secret in the square. There was no malice in his smile or gesture, making my relationship with Pepi seem completely natural and acceptable. The French have a different attitude to sex than we North Americans.

We finished boarding up the bakery and moved on to the other stores. A couple of the stores already had folding metal shutters of iron bars, but we put boards over the glass, anyway. Plate glass windows are expensive. We also boarded up the glass in any ground floor door with glass panels.

It took us most of the day to complete the fortifications. The baker and the butcher teamed together to provide the helpers with fresh ham buns, and the proprietress of the greengrocery provided wine for all workers.

In the late afternoon, Pepi and I ventured out onto the boulevard. There was considerable damage still obvious, although clean-up and repair crews had worked all day. Here, too, workers were boarding up windows that had already been broken and covering those which hadn't, just in case. The cafe where I had eaten the night before no longer had tables on the sidewalk.

When we returned to the pension, stony-faced Madame Gagnon greeted us. She spoke to us in rapid French, of which I understood nothing. Pepi translated for me:

"Grand-mére insists that you eat your evening meal with us tonight. I am to bring you to the dining-room when you have washed up."

"Merci," I told her.

Pepi and I went upstairs to my room, and kissed hungrily. I would have preferred to skip dinner and fuck, but we both washed up in the bathroom down the hall, kissed some more. then went down for dinner.

The dining room had three small round tables. The other house guests who were on the 3-meal plan were seated at two of them, five men in all, and Madame was waiting for us at the third. Pepi pulled out her chair for her, and she sat, and motioned for me to join the table. Pepi and I sat.

Two maids served us all our soup, and later the rest of the meal. Madame chatted endlessly at me in French, still without cracking a smile, with Pepi occasionally translating what she said, if he thought it important, but for the most, I just smiled and nodded, and said "oui" when I thought it fitted.

Only after the other guests had finished their meals and left, and the two maids had cleared most of the dishes, and pepi and I were taking our leave of her, did Madame shed her stony face.

She looked us up and down, smiled warmly, and said,

"You are an 'andsome couple!"

I was dumbfounded.

Outside in the hall, Pepi confided in me, "She speaks perfectly good English, when she wants."

We went out into the Place des poissons to help the denizens of the square erect barricades at the alley at either end of the square, in the hopes of keeping out or slowing down rioters or looters if there was a reprise of last night's riots. The locals brought all sorts of junk from their attics and basements to construct the make-shift barricades - old furniture, empty crates, beer barrels, even a broken-down piano. It was like a scene from Les Misérables twenty years before the musical was dreamed of. The builders left only a narrow space at each alley, which could be quickly blocked or unblocked, for the locals to enter and exit.

It was dark by the time we had finished, and with the darkness came the distant sounds of police klaxons. As predicted, the troubles were starting up again.

The pharmacist had taken names and drawn up a roster to keep watch through the night. Pepi drew the first watch, from nine till eleven. I chose to stay with him, rather than to go to my room alone.

By the time our watch was over, the rioting had again flowed down the boulevard outside to our area. From a vantage point part the way up the barricade we could see over the top into the boulevard beyond. The fighting moved back and forth before us as each side took supremacy for a short time, then gave ground once more.

Molotov cocktails were being used again tonight, and again the commandeered firetrucks' water cannons were unleashed against the fires and the throwers. It was an eerie, frightening scene, the helmeted, shield and billy-club wielding gendarmes looking like grotesque monsters from a science-fiction movie..

Eventually the fighting moved on down the boulevard a bit, and Pepi and I relinquished our station to our friend the baker and another man who I did not know. Together, we went up to my room in the pension.

In the light from the square we sat on my bed, kissing and slowly undressing ourselves and each other.

"What are your plans?" Pepi asked. "What will you do?"

"I would like to stay with you," I told him, "but this is not my fight. I think it is too dangerous to be here, especially as only likely to get worse."

"I would love to have you with me," he told me, "but you are right. Go home to Canada for now, or go south to Spain. Get out of France before the strikes come."

"Spain sounds good to me," I decided. "Maybe I can come back to you when this is all over."

"I will take you to the station tomorrow morning," Pepi told me, "but for now, let us make love. I want to put my cock inside you," he told me.

It struck me then that the previous night it had been I doing all the fucking, that Pepi had not even shot his load. I like to be fucked just as much as I like fucking, so I gladly submitted to what he asked.

I lay face down across the bed and he kneeled on the edge of it, between my spread legs. I had already gotten out my suntan oil and handed it to him, and he applied some to his rod.

Oiled up as it was, his cock entered me easily. I felt a little pain at the inner ring of muscle, for his dick, though not long, was thick, but then the head popped though and the shaft followed, sliding deep into me. He lowered his body down onto my back and kissed and nuzzled my neck and ears.

Turning my head we could just manage to kiss, but it was very awkward. We fucked that way for a while, but we both wanted to taste each others' mouths once more, so we broke apart and then lay cuddled together on the bed, kissing, until I wanted him in me again.

We tried the spooned together position once more, with me laying on my side and Pepi entering me from behind.

Although it makes it almost impossible to kiss, this is one of my favorite positions, because no-one bears the weight of the other, and both have plenty of control over the intercourse. Not only that, the person doing the fucking can reach deep inside the other, tucked in together like two spoons as you are.

So that is how e fucked, each of us demanding more of the other, speeding up or slowing down as the moment took us, me causing him to edge closer to cumming again and again, then backing off to allow him to regain control.

We fucked like this for maybe half an hour before we both decided it was time to bring it all to a climax - literally. I wanked my own cock, while I squeezed my sphincter rhythmically around his shaft and he pumped harder and faster. Then he has groaning and shivering as he ejaculated again and again deep inside me. Finally finished, he lay there, his cock still in my ass, one arm draped over me.

And that's how we fell asleep.

We woke in the early light. Pepi's cock had slipped out of me during the night, and there was a wet spot on the sheets where some of his cum had dribbled out of my ass.

He was now lying with his back to me and I couldn't resist. I probed at his hole with my already-hard pole. I couldn't find the oil, so I spat on my hand and applied it to his hole. Pepi wanted it as much as I did, and pushed back onto me, spearing his hole with my knob, pushing harder and harder till my cockhead burst through and my knob and shaft drove deep into him.

We both tried to make this one last, knowing that it may well be our last, but the pressures of breakfast to deliver for Pepi, of packing for me, and of walking to the train station, all conspired against us. As much as I didn't want it to end, my balls decided otherwise. In short minutes I was cumming again, shooting my seed deep into my French beauty.

Finished, we kissed desperately before Pepi had to leave to help with breakfast.

After I had eaten my breakfast and packed, I said adieu to the stern-faced Madame Gagnon, and Pepi walked me in the early morning sunshine through the wreckage of the Latin Quarter, and wandering policemen and soldiers, to the Gare d' Austerlitz, the station from where trains for Spain departed. It might have been quicker on the Metro, but it wasn't far, and it gave us a chance to say our goodbyes.

Of course, we promised to keep in touch, and I promised to return, as lovers do, but neither happened. When I did return to France later that year, I stayed on the Mediterranean Coast and did not return to Paris. When I finally came back to Paris, years later, it was with another lover. I did not visit the Place des poissons.

I wish there was a highly dramatic ending to my narrative, especially after the tumultuous two nights Pepi and I spent together, but there is not. To paraphrase the poet, this is how passion ends, "not with a bang, but a whimper."

How did you like this story? I really appreciate reading your comments about my stories. Please leave yours below.