The French Shop Keeper

The French Shop Keeper

After finishing a delicious lunch of soupe à l'oignon gratinée, crusty baguette and pâté de canard, I considered remaining at my sidewalk table to people-watch while sipping a second glass of the exquisite wine for which Bordeaux is renowned. It was an unseasonably warm afternoon in late spring and the idea of basking in the warm sunshine as I became pleasantly tipsy had much appeal. But I wanted to make the most of my brief port of call visit to the lovely old city so I signalled the server—a pretty young woman wearing a pleated tuxedo shirt and bow tie—to bring me the bill. Glancing at the total, I handed over a sheaf of Euros and waved away my change.

"Merci!" she said, a sunny smile lighting up her face. "Vous êtes très gentille, madame. Merci beaucoup!"

She looked so adorable that I had an impulse to tell her that I was not a 'madame' but rather a quite single 'mademoiselle' who was available to meet for a drink when her shift ended. But even if I'd had the audacity to flirt so outrageously, I knew it was unlikely that a girl of her tender years—about the age of my college freshman students, I guessed—would appreciate such an invitation from a silver-haired woman on the far side of fifty, however well she tipped. So I let the moment pass, told her she was most welcome and rose from the table to join the stream of passers-by on the sidewalk.

For the past fifteen years, I had vacationed in the company of my partner Anna, a woman who held strong opinions on many things including the best method to explore new environs as a tourist. Before we visited any destination, Anna would spend hours drawing up an itinerary of must-sees and planning a strategy that allowed us to take in every touristic highlight on her list in the shortest time possible. Checking off all the entries on her list within the allotted time, I often suspected, was more gratifying for her then actually seeing the landmarks themselves. I never objected but often found her approach to sightseeing tedious and unfulfilling.

Anna had abruptly ended our relationship ten months earlier and I was missing her terribly on this trip. But I took some consolation in knowing that I could now be a tourist on my own terms and do exactly as I pleased with my day. And, I decided, what would please me most was wandering aimlessly through the city guided only by intuition and serendipity with no particular destination in mind. In that spirit, I set out to explore the historic section of Bordeaux.

I drifted along the cobblestone sidewalks past the windows of small shops displaying coils of sausage and blocks of cheese, old books with scuffed leather covers, fine vintage bottles of the region's celebrated wine, and sundry other goods. It was all quite charming but while I occasionally stopped to glance at some curiousity or other through dusty glass, nothing I saw compelled me to enter any of the shops.

Instead I continued to meander without thought through the quarter. The old French architecture brought to mind the settings of novels I taught as a Professor of 19th Century Literature: the works of Balzac, Hugo, Flaubert and other brilliant French authors of that era who with great insight wrote of unrequited love and passionate romance ending in crushing sorrow. Those themes had dominated the narrative of my own life for many months and I still struggled under their burden. But that afternoon I was determined to forget my woes and lose myself in my surroundings so I pushed aside my gloomy thoughts and continued my trek.

On a whim, I turned into a street no wider than an alley-way and followed its twists and turns to its terminus in a small square or cul-de-sac with store fronts on each of its three sides. Two stores were vacant and boarded up but the third—a shop with quaint leaded bay windows on either side of its wrought iron and glass door—appeared open for business. A sign hanging from a bracket above the door read

Le Colibri

Une Boutique Extraordinaire Pour Des Femmes Particulières

I hadn't a clue what 'Le Colibri' meant, but my command of French was sufficient to translate the second phrase on the sign as 'An Extraordinary Shop for Particular Women'. Did 'particular' mean 'discriminating' in this context, I wondered, or did it refer to a specific type of woman? Perhaps both? And what sort of extraordinary goods did the store offer these particular women?

The sign's grandiose claim and the questions it raised intrigued me and I decided to investigate further. As I pushed open the door and stepped inside, a bell jingled above my head. From the back of the dimly lit space, a woman's voice called out merrily, "Bonjour! Un instant, s'il vous plaît !"

"Rien n'est pressé," I replied, telling her not to rush.

I saw at a glance that the establishment I'd entered was a second-hand clothing store. The interior, far more spacious than it appeared from the outside, was crammed with racks and mannequins displaying a wide array of used attire for women—blouses, dresses, skirts, coats and various accessories. A glass-topped oak case containing watches, pins, broaches and all manner of costume jewelry ran the entire length of one wall.

But this was no ordinary thrift store.

The stock was in impeccable condition, uniformly high-end, and of a vintage that ranged from early to late 20th century although much of it had a timeless character that made its precise decade of origin difficult to pinpoint. One mannequin wore a blue leopard-skin silk blouse that would have been equally de rigueur in a pre-WW II Berlin cabaret or a late 1970s discotheque. Another was draped in a full-length, fur-trimmed Afghan coat, a staple of 1960s haute couture that a contemporary fashion-conscious woman might have worn with elan on a winter's day in Paris. In the glass case, I spied an intricately carved tortoise shell hair clip with silver trim, a classic example of the 1920s Art Deco aesthetic that would have perfectly complemented many a modern-day hair style.

The quality and bohemian panache of the clothing impressed me but I found most of it too flamboyant for my conservative tastes. Yes, I thought as I took a last look around me, the store was certainly extraordinary but not every particular woman would find something to her liking among its wares. I was turning towards the door when I heard a woman's voice behind me.

"Bonjour, madame. Puis-je vous aider aujourd'hui?"

I turned to thank the speaker and politely decline her offer of help. But when I faced her, my voice failed me.

The tall, middle-aged woman who stood before me was breath-taking.

High, sculpted cheekbones and a strong jawline gave her round, pale-complected face striking definition. Her short, spiked hair was jet black with subtle red highlights, and her deep-set brown eyes were large and luminous beneath brows plucked into narrow arches. She emphasised her strong features with minimal make-up: a thin line of mascara around her eyes and red gloss on her full, sensuous lips. In one nostril of her slightly upturned nose, a tiny diamond caught the shop's subdued light and earrings of multi-coloured opaque glass dangled from her ears.

A knee-length red dress edged in black piping with a low neckline and long fluted sleeves clung to her curvaceous frame, provocatively accentuating her wide hips and full, prominent bust. Black patterned silk stockings covered her legs and she wore red, high heeled pumps on her feet.

On another woman and in other circumstances, I would have viewed such garb as cheap and tawdry. But the statuesque shopkeeper managed to imbue the outfit with regal dignity and she looked absolutely stunning in it.

I am rarely at a loss for words but the powerful combination of vibrant elegance, beauty and raw sensuality that the woman exuded blindsided me. I found myself unable to speak and simply gawked at the shop keeper. She saw my flustration and cocked her head to one side as though puzzled. After scrutinizing me with frank curiousity, a knowing smile formed on her lips and she nodded slowly as though in dawning recognition. In that instant, something palpable but beyond language passed between us, something I can only describe as a visceral, almost incendiary charge and it sparked a warm glow low in my belly.

"Tout va bien, madame?" she asked.

I snapped out of my trance and managed to find my voice. "Yes, yes, everything is fine, thank you," I said, forgetting to translate my words into French.

"Ah, you are American?"

"Canadian actually," I replied, still rattled. "My apologies. Somehow I seem to have suddenly forgotten all of my French."

"Pas de problème, madame," she said. "My English is not good but I like to, uh, practice if you do not mind."

When I said that her command of English was excellent, she modestly waved away my compliment.

"Do you visit Bordeaux alone?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm here by myself," I replied, "on a cruise ship stop-over just for the day. We left La Havre yesterday and this is our first port of call. Unfortunately, I have to be back on board by seven o'clock this evening but I wish I could stay longer. This is such a beautiful city."

"Ah oui. Bordeaux est une ville magnifique! A shame you leave so soon."

"It is a shame, yes. But at least I found your store, which is absolutely lovely, by the way.

"Ah, merci," she said, smiling. "I am very glad you find it. Bonne chance for both of us, no?"

"Yes, very good luck indeed," I said, feeling the heat in my groin grow and spread.

"Do you look for something special?" she asked. "To wear, I mean."

"Well, nothing in particular," I said, "but I'm always on the lookout for anything unique and unusual."

The shop keeper tried to hide a smile as she perused my burgundy Angora sweater, tailored, cream-coloured slacks and black walking shoes, an outfit typical of my tastes and not in any way unusual or unique. She reached out to run her hand along my forearm and I trembled when her fingers brushed my wrist.

"This material feel so nice and the colour look tres beau with your hair," she said, "but maybe it is too warm for today, no? Come, I show you something more... confortable."

Taking my arm, the shop keeper led me to a circular floor rack and searched through the blouses hanging from it until she found what she was seeking.

"This one look very good on you, I think," she said, holding up the blouse for my inspection.

It was my turn to hide a smile. The garment she'd chosen for my appraisal was known in the 'Swinging 60s' as a peek-a-boo blouse, so named because its translucent material revealed everything beneath it. The crass top was the very antithesis of my sartorial tastes but I played along.

"It is very nice," I said, "but perhaps I'm, well... a little too old for this, don't you think?"

"Oh no, madame!" she exclaimed. "You are not so young in years, maybe, but your body is tres belle and slim like the young girl."

I felt my face redden as she held the blouse up to my torso and pressed it to my chest just above my breasts. Her touch further stirred the thick hormonal soup simmering in my loins.

"Well, I suppose I can at least try it on," I said. "Should I change here or...?"

She grinned mischievously. "Ah, I would not mind, but maybe you feel more comfortable in le vestiaire... how you say in English... the room for changing. It is more private for us—for you, I mean."

It was at that moment I understood that what was taking place between us was not mere flirtation. No, the stunning shopkeeper had initiated the first steps in the dance of seduction and, I realized, I was not only willing but eager to join in and follow her lead.

"Come, I show you le vestiaire, madame," she said. A pleasant shiver ran up my spine when she placed her hand on the small of my back and directed me towards the rear of the store.

"It is here, madame," she said, nodding towards an open door. "The room for changing."

"And will you be outside if I need help?" I asked coyly.

"Ah, of course!" she answered. "But first I must do something. Then I come back to help."

"Lovely," I said as I stepped into the change room. "Please don't rush on my account."

The room in which I found myself was considerably larger and more lavish than the generic, cramped cubicles that are standard in most clothing stores. Perhaps four paces square, its walls were papered in red and blue Damask and a plush Persian rug of similar hues entirely covered the floor. An antique, single-armed divan upholstered in crimson velveteen was pushed up against one wall and above it hung a large mirror with beveled edges and a gilt Rococo frame. A waist-high, black-lacquered Japanese cabinet decorated with images of golden flora and fauna hugged the opposite wall. On its ebony surface stood a tall Tiffany table lamp that provided the room's subdued lighting.

In contrast to the room's colourful palette, a fin de siècle, sepia-tone photo in a circular wooden frame hung from the wall facing the room's entrance. A comely young woman from a long vanished era, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders and naked from the waist up, smiled provocatively from the frame as though enticing the onlooker into her boudoir, a chamber, I thought, that might well have resembled the lurid vestiaire in which I stood.

The room and its exotic furnishings heightened the heady excitement fizzing inside of me. But suddenly I was seized with doubt. What was I thinking? Even considering the possibility of a sexual liaison with a stranger in the changing room of a second-hand clothing store was wildly out of character for me. And what if I were imagining her attraction to me and projecting my own long unsatisfied urges onto her? For all I knew, I was mistaking the woman's natural and quite innocent bonhomie for a carnal attraction to me.

But I quickly dismissed these doubts. When I embarked on my trip, I had vowed to open myself to any novel situation that might present itself, however challenging. And as a gay women. I'd had volumes of experience over the years deciphering the discreet signs of sexual interest other lesbians directed at me, indicators far more subtle and veiled than the shopkeeper's overt signals. Although not infallible, I had become reasonably skilled in their interpretation, and I knew with certainty that this woman desired me as much as I did her. I pushed aside my doubts and decided that I was going to trust my instincts and act on them, however nervous I might be.

Pulling my sweater off over my head, I folded it neatly and placed it atop the cabinet. I considered removing my slacks and shoes but decided this might appear too brazen. Inspired by the enigmatic woman in the picture, I undid the bun at the back of my head and let my hair fall and fan out over my shoulders. Seconds later, I heard a soft knock on the door.

"Ca va, madame?" the shop keeper asked. "Do you need help?"

"Yes, I think I do, thank you," I said, plucking up my courage, "if you would be so kind."

The door opened and the woman entered. I stood with my back to her, arms hanging loosely at my sides.

"How can I help you?" she said.

"I'd like to try on the blouse without my brassiere for full effect but I'm having a little trouble unhooking it for some reason," I answered. "Could you...?"

"Of course," she said. "Mon plaisir."

She lifted my hair away from the clasp securing the halter and I thrilled to the touch of her fingers on my skin. "Ah, your beautiful hair look so nice loose like this," she said as she slowly and deliberately unfastened each hook from its eye. When she'd finished, my bra hung loosely from my shoulders. The shop keeper brought her mouth close to my ear and said in a hushed tone, "Do you want I take it off all the way for you, madame?"

"Please," I answered, my voice quavering, "if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh no, ma belle," she said softly. "I do not mind."

Slipping her hands under the straps, she slid them off of my shoulders and down my arms in one graceful movement. She tossed the brassiere onto the divan and whispered, "Is there something else you like me to do for you, madame?"

But she knew precisely what I wanted and without waiting for my reply, she slid her hands under my arms and around my torso to cup my breasts. The sudden rush of pleasure I experienced when her fingers splayed out over my bust was compounded by the delightful surprise of her bare, pillowy breasts nestling against my back. I realized that she had removed her dress and bra before entering the change room and a side-long glance in the mirror revealed that she now wore only stockings, a garter belt and black panties stretched tightly across her stout, rounded buttocks. In the mirror's reflection, I thought my body appeared waifish and unwomanly next to the shopkeeper's voluptuous frame, and I suddenly felt terribly self-conscious and shy. But my seducer appraised me quite differently.

"Ah, you are so petit and sexy, ma belle fille," she purred in my ear as she gently squeezed my breasts. "Et tes seins sont incroyable."

While still quite firm for my years and of a reasonable size, my 'seins' were certainly not as 'incroyable' as they once may have been. But, accurate or not, her words reassured me and my shyness evaporated.

As her soft lips nuzzled my neck, she relinquished one breast and moved her hand down across my belly to the buckle of the narrow belt encircling my waist. Only someone as experienced with clothing as she was could have unbuckled my belt and undone the fastener and zipper of my slacks so adeptly with only one hand. When my slacks had fallen to my ankles, her fingertips dipped down just inside the waist band of my panties. My body stiffened and I sucked in my breath loudly through gritted teeth as her hand approached that part of my anatomy no fingers but mine had visited for many lonely months.

"Est-ce que tu vas bien?" she asked, concern in her voice. "Do I go too fast for you, cherie?"

In truth, I was slightly overwhelmed but I found her assertiveness thrilling and did not want her to slow down.

"No, madame," I answered breathlessly. "No, not too fast at all." The words had barely left my lips when she lowered her hand and spread her fingers over my pubic bulge.

"Ah, ta chatte est très poilue,"she said approvingly, raking her fingers lightly through my bush. "Furry and soft like the little kitten."

Her touch felt sublime and I opened my legs slightly, hoping that she might lower her hand to the tender, moistening flesh between my thighs. But after combing her fingers through my 'fur' a few times, she removed her hands from my panties and breast.

"Tourne-toi, ma belle fille," she said, as she freed me from her embrace. I was mildly disappointed but did as she asked and we stood tete a tete.

The shopkeeper's pale cheeks were flushed now and her limpid eyes shone with lust. She'd removed her earrings but the small, clear stone still sparkled in her nostril. I started to tell her how beautiful she was but she covered my mouth with hers and slid her tongue between my lips. Our breasts crushed together as our tongues met and explored each other's mouths. When our lips finally parted, she stepped back to appraise my body and again complimented me.

"Tu es une femme tellement et sexy," she said appreciatively.

"Toi aussi," I replied, eyeing her buxom body. I must confess here that I share with many CIS gender males a salacious fascination with large breasts and my eyes were riveted to hers. Naturally enough for a woman well into middle-age, her heavy bosoms sagged slightly but they were remarkably full and well-shaped with coral-pink areolas the diameter of a tea cup. In their rounded centers, thick nipples were beginning to harden.

"Ah, cherie, I think you like mon nichons, uh... my tits, no?" she said with a grin, registering my fixation with her out-sized cleavage.

"Oh yes. They're glorious, absolutely glorious!"

"Ah, merci, ma douce femme," she said. "You are very kind!" She cupped her breasts and held them up towards me in a silent invitation that I wasted no time accepting. Dipping my head, I kissed the soft orbs, loving the feel of her pliant flesh against my face as I moved my lips from one to the other. I circled her nipples with my tongue , sucking and nibbling them gently. Soon, they were fully erect and close in length and width to the first joint of my little finger.

The shop keeper sighed contentedly and stroked my hair as I feasted on her breasts. They were shiny with my saliva by the time she lifted my head away from them.

"Ah," she said," so nice, cherie. You make me feel so good and now I want to make you feel tres bien aussi. Sit, s'il vous plait. On the divan."

When I'd done as the shop keeper asked, she knelt in front of me and took my foot In her hands.

"Your chaussures, they are very... uh, how you say it... very sensible," she said with an amused grin as she unlaced and removed my sturdy walking shoes. Setting them aside, she tugged my slacks off over my feet and tossed them on the divan. After taking off my socks, she held my bare right foot in both hands and raised it level with her face.

My feet are highly erogenous and I welcomed her attention to them. Still, I was concerned that walking the streets of Bordeaux on that hot afternoon in heavy shoes and socks might have rendered my feet unpleasantly odiferous. But if they were, the woman didn't seem to mind. She lavished the soles of my feet with warm kisses before sucking each of my toes and licking the spaces between them. After giving my other foot the same sensual treatment, she placed it back on the carpet and turned her attention to another even more sensitive area of my anatomy.

Parting my knees, she kissed her way slowly along my inner thigh until her open mouth was against my crotch. Even through my panties the sensation of her hot breath on my hyper-aroused pubis was exquisite. She nuzzled my mound until the sheer material covering it was damp and then raised her hands to the waistband of my panties. I guessed her intention and cooperated by lifting my buttocks from the divan just enough to allow her to slip them over my hips and thighs and down my legs. Now I sat before her with my legs spread and my womanhood fully exposed. She gazed at my vagina through narrowed eyes and ran her tongue along the underside of her upper lip as she raised her hand to stroke my vulva lightly.

"La fourrure de ta chatte est de la même couleur que les cheveux de ta tête," she said, gently twisting a sprig of my pubic hair between her fingers.

"Yes, they are exactly the same colour," I answered, "regrettably."

For reasons I could not explain, watching the colour of my bush lighten and fade as I aged was far more disconcerting than witnessing the same process transform my head of black hair strand by silvery strand.

"Oh, no, no!" she replied. "Do not say 'regrettably'! It is beautiful, this colour of hair on your head and your cunt!"

My circle of friends and colleagues viewed the use of slang to describe the sexual parts of the female body as highly offensive and considered the C-word by far the most vulgar and degrading descriptor of the pudendum. But when the earthy shop keeper uttered the word in her sultry French accent as she admired and caressed my vagina so lovingly, it sounded deliciously erotic and sensual.

She looked up at me with an impish smile. "I think my tit would feel very nice in your fur, ma belle."

Not quite comprehending what she had in mind, I watched her lift a ponderous breast to her mouth and suckle its elongated nipple. When it was wet with saliva, she held her mammary in both hands, brought it close to my vagina and aligned her teat with the center of my vulva.

"Maintenant, ma belle, écarte les lèvres de ta chatte pour moi, "she said huskily. Not only had no woman done to me what she appeared about to do, I had never even heard of this erotic maneuver. But I did as she asked. I opened my legs as wide as possible, put a hand on either side of my vagina and using the sides of my index fingers, spread my labia.

"Ah, tres bien, cherie," she said. Holding her breast firmly in both hands, she leaned forward and nestled her taut nipple in the slippery furrow between my vaginal lips. Applying slightly more pressure, she began raising and lowering her breast so her nipple slid up and down the slick crevice. The sensation was divine, particularly when her nipple contacted my swelling clitoris at the upper arc of her motion. At one point her teat slid fractionally inside my vaginal port. It felt lovely and I pressed my hips towards her breast to take it deeper. She noted my pleasure and continued to squeeze her nipple into my labial entrance.

After masturbating me in this fashion for several moments, she lifted her breast away from my crotch and raised it to her mouth. As I watched in fascination, she sucked the nipple with lewd gusto.

"Ummmm, cherie, your cunt, it is so delicious," she said when she'd removed it from her mouth. "It is a very nice aperitif but now it is time for ... how you say it?... la plat principal, uh, the main course, no?"

Before I could reply, she plunged her face into my vulva, which I still held spread wide with my fingers. She flicked her tongue over its damp surface until my pudendum was soaked in a mixture of my feminine juices and her saliva. She mouthed and sucked the folds of my inner labia and darted her tongue deep into my vaginal opening. Her oral onslaught covered virtually every centimetre of my vulva with one exception. Although she occasionally brushed my clitoris with her lips and tongue, she never directly contacted it. I found her teasing both wonderful and frustrating and had to resist the urge to seize her head and firmly guide her lips to my neglected button of flesh.

But then, as if reading my mind, she placed her open mouth over my clitoris and began flicking at it with her point of her tongue. The sensation was so intense that my entire body jerked as though jolted by an electrical shock. She raised her face from the junction of my thighs and smiled up at me.

"You bonbon is very sensitive, no?" she asked.

Without waiting for a response, she dipped her head again and continued to suck and tongue my "bonbon" furiously. The pleasure was sublime and to my astonishment, I felt the first stirrings of an orgasm deep in my groin. I usually struggled to climax even with long-term partners such as Anna who knew—or should have known—my vagina's orgasmic triggers well. It seemed impossible that this stranger had brought me to the brink of orgasm so quickly. I was tempted to let the climax sweep over me but while my body craved this release, I had a sudden yen to please this woman as she had pleased me. Mustering all of my will power, I deferred the rapture she offered and touched the crown of her head.

"Madame?" I said.

She lifted her face from my vagina and looked up at me quizzically. I had never been comfortable expressing my sexual wants to a partner but I forged ahead awkwardly.

"Madame," I continued, "what you're doing to me is lovely but I... I want to make you feel lovely too. I want to pleasure your... your cunt."

"Ah, yes, precious?" she said. "That sound very nice! I like very much for you to, uh, pleasure my cunt. But how we do it? Maybe on the carpet will be best."

She rose and pulled open a cabinet drawer from which she removed a folded coverlet. After spreading it on the floor, she took a cushion from the divan and put it in the center of the blanket.

Sitting on the cushion, she leaned back and took her weight on her elbows before bending and parting her knees. Once in position, she smiled lasciviously up at me.

"Come now, cherie," she said languorously, "I am ready for you to, uh, what you say? Pleasure my cunt."

I needed no prompting and slid to the floor to kneel between her legs. Grasping the waistband of her black panties, I began to slide them off her hips. But when I'd pulled them down just enough to reveal her lower groin, I stopped and gazed in astonishment at what I saw below me.

On her plump, meticulously waxed pubic mound was a tattooed image of a bird adroitly rendered in fine, graceful swirls of red, yellow, black and blue!

"Oh my God, that's beautiful!" I exclaimed. "It's a hummingbird, isn't it?"

"Oui," she confirmed." La colibri en Francais."

"La colibri!" I echoed. "The name of your store! Oh, that is so wonderful!"

"Yes," she said. "I love les petits colibris so much I name my store and my pussy for them." She laughed and brushed her fingers over the artwork on her mound. "J'ai beaucoup en commun avec les colibris."

"Really? How so?" I asked, wondering what qualities this robust woman could possibly have in common with such a tiny, delicate bird.

"We love the bright colours, le colibri et moi," she said," and we are so busy every day from the morning to the night." Then she added with a wink ,"And we love to suck the sweet juice from deep in la belle fleur. Maybe you like that too, cherie?"

"Oh yes, madame," I agreed with a smile. "I like that very much!"

I finished pulling off her panties and tossed them aside. Positioned as she was with her buttocks elevated on the cushion and legs spread wide, every detail of the shop keeper's vagina was clearly displayed. Below the curve of her tattooed mons, thick, pudgy outer labia framed a pair of more dainty, almost petal-like inner lips that were a lurid pink and already glazed with the sheen of her feminine nectar. Nestled in the glistening folds of flesh at the top of her labial arch, her clitoris protruded like a miniature flower bulb. As with everything else about the shop keeper, her vulva radiated fecundity and erotic feminine opulence and I lowered my head to sample its richness.

As soon as my lips touched her smooth mound, the musk of her womanhood enveloped me, a potent fragrance with the tang of a sharp French cheese. The aroma of her vagina was bracingly strong in comparison to that off my ex-lover, who always insisted we both douche before sex, but I was not put off by its pungent aroma. On the contrary, I found her vaginal bouquet an intoxicating aphrodisiacal tonic.

I planted kisses all over her splendiferous hummingbird and then lowered my mouth to her labia. My tongue delved into the slippery trench separating her nether lips and licked her juicy crevice from top to bottom. Her clitoris was fully swollen now, projecting out from beneath its sheltering hood. I brushed my tongue around it in circles, avoiding direct contact at first as the shop keeper had done with me. But she wasn't having any of my teasing. She took strands of my hair in both hands and gently tugged my face against her vulva. I did not resist and took her pulsing nub between my lips, lapping at it furiously.

"Ah, oui, like that! " she said breathlessly. "Now put your finger in me. Dans mon trou de chatte!"

I extended my index finger between her inner lips and slid my digit slowly into her wet and surprisingly tight 'pussy hole', as she called it. When the entire length of my finger was inside her, I searched the spongy roof of her vagina for her G-spot. I knew I'd found it when she moaned and snapped her knees together, softly clamping my head between her thighs. I continued to lick and suck her clitoris while wriggling my finger inside her, intent on pushing the shop keeper over the edge into orgasm. But my lover had other ideas.

Releasing me from her clamped thighs, she said, " Arrête, précieux, s'il te plaît."

Startled, I raised my head my head from her groin and looked to her for an explanation.

"Is something wrong?" I said with some alarm.

"Oh no, cherie," she said, "what you do is merveilleuse but soon I have the orgasme and I want... uh, I do not know how to say it in English... je veux qu'on jouisse ensemble. Avec la soixante neuf. Comprende?"

"Ah, oui, je comprends," I said, noting how much more erotic the term 'sixty nine' sounded in French. "Yes, it would be lovely to orgasm together."

She smiled and stretched out on her back and I positioned myself on all fours above her, my head facing her feet and my vagina inches from her face. She put her hands on my hips and kissed my vulva as I lowered my head to her musky cleft.

As we tongued one another, gentle probing giving way to frantic lashing. I sucked her gossamer labia between my lips and drew hieroglyphics on her clitoris as she burrowed into my vulva with her tongue and eased one and then two fingers into my vaginal canal to stimulate that sensitive spot inside me.

And then she surprised me with a detour I had not expected.

Placing her palms on my buttocks, she gently prized them apart with her thumbs and I felt her tongue touch my anus. I had only experienced analingus once in my life during a brief, half drunken tryst with a girl back in my student days. No other woman had purposefully gone near my fundament since so the touch of the shop keeper's tongue on my sphincter felt strange and unfamiliar. But as she swirled her tongue around its surface I began to relish the sensation and the lewdness and crude intimacy of the act augmented my pleasure. I had a sudden feral urge to reciprocate and lowered my head. She intuited my intention and lifted her knees back towards her chest. Her puckered sphincter was a light mocha brown that contrasted sharply with the pale skin of her substantial cheeks and when I touched my tongue directly to her raisin-like anus it had a metallic taste not unlike copper.

Initially, I applied my tongue to her fundament delicately, brushing it as lightly as the wings of a butterfly. But the shopkeeper wanted more verve from me.

"Ah, ma fille!" she panted. "Mange bien mon trou du cul!"

I heeded her lusty plea to 'eat her harder', lashing and prodding the wrinkled tan spot with the point of my tongue as my chin pressed against her sodden labial bun.

Continuing to tongue my anus, she placed the tip of her thumb against the entrance to my vaginal canal and slowly pushed it in. It felt divine and I lifted my head from her buttocks, arching my back as I sighed loudly.

"Ah, ma belle," she said, "this feel good for you, no?"

"Oh, god, yes!" I responded, "Yes, I love it!"

She pushed her thumb deep into me until it brushed the bumpy, highly erogenous patch on my vaginal wall. I pushed back against it and moaned. The woman repositioned her face and resumed her oral gymnastics on my clitoris. I followed her lead and strafed her 'bonbon' with my tongue as I returned my finger to her vagina and sought out her G-spot.

I knew I'd found it when she cried out unintelligibly in her native language. Her feet slammed down on the blanket and she arched her back, lifting her buttocks off the cushion. I felt the muscles of her vagina clench my around my fingers as her orgasm began. And then, I too was climaxing. A wave of pleasure rose in my groin and belly, cresting with such intensity that for an instant I thought my stomach muscles would cramp. A second even more intense orgasm followed on its heels and I pushed my inflamed vulva back against the shop keeper's mouth and thumb. Conjoined in an all-consuming euphoria, we rode our orgasms in unison, bodies straining and burning with sweet fire.

The almost unbearably excruciating pleasure rippling through me seemed to go on forever and then slowly dissipated and ebbed, and my taut body relaxed. The shop keeper had thrust her hips upwards and remained in that position during her climax. Now her buttocks settled back down on the cushion as her tensed thigh and calf muscles slackened.

When I'd caught my breath, I lifted myself from her body and sprawled out on the blanket beside her. She pulled the cushion out from under her hips, lay on her side and brought her mouth to mine. We shared a deep kiss, tasting each other's juices on our lips.

"That was just... amazing," I said, unable to find adequate words to express how astonishing the experience had been for me.

"Oui, pour moi aussi, "she said. "You make me orgasm very very good."

"I'm so glad," I replied, pleased by her praise. "I honestly can't remember the last time I climaxed like that, madame."

The shop keeper giggled.

"Did I say something funny?" I asked, wondering what had prompted her laughter.

"We make love so savage and still you call me 'madame', " she said. "It is so... ah, what is the English word?... formal for lovers to speak like this, no?"

I saw her point and laughed. "Yes, I suppose it is but then I don't know your name," I replied.

"I am Sandrine. Et vous?"

"What a lovely name. I'm Lilith."

"Ah, ton nom est très joli," she said approvingly. "Lily is a very good name for you. You are so beautiful and feminine like le fleur."

I'd never liked the diminutive form of my name but I loved the way it sounded on Sandrine's lips. I felt a surge of profound affection and fondness for her and rolled onto my side facing her. I nestled my body against hers, loving the feel of her warm, sweaty flesh against my skin.

"Mon colibri, she love to be in your furry nest, Lily," Sandrine whispered as she pushed her pubic bump against mine.

"Yes, I said, shyly. "It's lovely being here with you like this. But it also feels a little unreal. I've never..." I paused, wondering if revealing my thoughts was appropriate. But Sandrine looked at me quizzically, and I felt compelled to continue.

"I've never done anything like this, Sandrine. Not ever, I mean making love with a woman whose name I don't even know. And in a store, for god's sake! For you probably it's nothing out of the ordinary. I'm sure there are many women who come in your store who you find attractive and you, uh, flirt and seduce them. But for me, this is a real first. In every way."

"Pour moi aussi, Lily," she said.

"Really?" I said, genuinely surprised. "You've never...?

"Never. Oh, sometime when a woman come here who is tres jolie, I flirt with her maybe but not more. But when I see you in my store, it is... different. I want you so much when I see you. Not only with my pussy but with my heart aussi. Est-ce que tu comprends, Lily?

I nodded but the lump rising in my throat prohibited me from answering. When Anna had left me, I came to believe that no woman would ever desire me again. But now this extraordinary, beautiful female who had just brought me to the most powerful orgasm I'd ever experienced was telling me quite the opposite. Overcome by her words and the unabashed tenderness with which she spoke them, tears filled my eyes.

Sandrine frowned and stroked my cheek.

"Why are you sad, Lily? she asked. "Do I say something wrong?"

My display of emotion embarrassed me. I didn't want to dredge up the details of my grief over Anna or explain to Sandrine the elation I felt at her words. Instead, I attributed my tears to another cause.

"No, no, Sandrine, what you said was lovely," I told her. "It's just that I've enjoyed all this so much. It's been wonderful but I have to leave soon and go back to the ship. And as silly as it seems, that makes me a little bit sad because I... I wish I could stay longer—with you like this. "

"Ah, oui, your... uh, cruise," she said. "Where do you go on your ship now, Lily?"

I explained that our itinerary took us along the coastline of Portugal and Spain and then into the Mediterranean for a series of day long stop overs at several ports between Gibraltar and our final destination of Genoa, Italy. From there, I would fly to Paris and spend three days in the City of Light before catching my flight back to Toronto.

"It sound very wonderful," she said, "You must be very excited for your trip."

I opened my mouth to agree with her, but I couldn't summon the disingenuousness required.

"No, actually, I'm not excited at all," I replied glumly. "I know I should be but... I'm dreading it, to be honest. Three bloody weeks in a cramped cabin trying not be bored and lonely and pretending to enjoy wandering around by myself in the ports where we stop. I don't even know why I'm doing it really." Tears forced their way into my eyes again.

"But if you feel this way," she said softly, "why do you go, Lily?"

"I don't bloody well know. I really don't. Maybe just to prove something to myself, if that makes any sense. I almost cancelled at the last minute but... I would have felt like a coward."

"Oh, that is a terrible reason, cherie! You should not go if that is what you feel!"

"I can't cancel now. That's just not an option. It's all paid for and I probably wouldn't get a refund. And I'd feel like an idiot."

Sandrine shook her head. "You are not an idiot and I think you do not need this money, Lily."

"No, you're right. I don't really but... but what else would I do? I can't just turn around and go back to Toronto."

She put her hand on my cheek and gently turned my head towards hers. Her face was serious but her eyes were full of warmth.

"I know what you must do, cherie," she whispered. "Listen to Sandrine."

* * * *

A little more than a year has passed since that afternoon. To say that my life has changed would be a gross understatement. To put it more accurately, my old life has vanished and to some extent, so too has the staid, trapped and sad woman who stumbled on Sandrine's odd little shop that day.

I did return to the ship that evening but following Sandrine's sage advice, I went only to retrieve my bags and officially remove my name from the passenger list. Instead of spending nearly a month in a tiny cabin overlooking an endless gray expanse of ocean and feeling sorry for myself, I stayed with Sandrine in the apartment she inhabited above her store, making love before sleeping and upon waking, breakfasting on croissant and Turkish coffee at a nearby sidewalk café, exploring the beautiful old city arm in arm with my exuberant lover, helping her in her beloved shop and drinking wine, chatting and cuddling far into the evening as we listened to her old Musette and Fado recordings.

By the time I had to leave for Paris to catch my flight home, Sandrine and I were hopelessly in love with each other and the thought of parting was out of the question.

I returned to Toronto just long enough to sell my house and most of my worldly goods other than a few boxes of books and favourite objets de arte, which I shipped to Bordeaux. I asked the administration at York University for a year's sabbatical and when my request was denied I accepted a decent severance package and resigned my position as a tenured professor at the institution where I had taught for over twenty-five years. When my flight touched down at Roissy Airport in Paris a week later, Sandrine greeted me. After a celebratory dinner at an excellent Parisienne bistro, we took the train back to Bordeaux, drunk on Pernod, laughter and love.

I've lived a charmed life since then. Three afternoons a week, I teach English at a small language school and in the evenings I apply myself to writing creative non-fiction, an interest I had deferred for many years. Sandrine and I are taking Tango lessons and she is teaching me to bake French pastries in the apartment's ancient gas oven. We make love when the spirit moves us and often explore sensual realms that are still new to me.

Every day I reclaim more of the joy that had long been absent from my life. For years I stoically accepted that the massive tectonic plates that provided the foundation of my self-identity would remain immovable forever and rejected any possibility of change. But during this past year under the influence of Sandrine's joie de vivre and nurturing love, I have felt those plates shift and slide and old perspectives and taken for granted notions of who I was and what my life I could be have crumbled, much to my great relief.

As I write this, Sandrine is bathing in our over-sized claw foot bath tub, singing along passionately with a scratchy Edith Piaf record as she lathers and rinses her plush body.

The singing ceases and she emerges from the bathroom, fragrant, flushed and steaming in her damp silk robe "Do you come to bed now, mon amour?" she asks as she passes by my desk on her way to the bedroom. "Yes, in a minute, darling," I reply.

I save the document I'm working on, turn off my lap top and follow her. We pull back the quilt on our sway-backed brass bed and climb under the covers as the old springs squeak beneath our weight. Laying on our sides, we gaze into each other's eyes, still and always in the thrall of this miracle that somehow found and engulfed us. We press our bodies together and my nest of silver fur welcomes her multi-hued hummingbird as it did for the first time that distant afternoon in the extraordinary shop for particular women.

La Fin