Sex trip to Paris - Chapter 2

The wheels of the airliner screeched against the runway, bounced and then screeched again. The sudden pressure of the stop tightened the seatbelts against the waists of the travelers. 

Mrs. Mower startled awake in the cramped seat, her hips aching where the armrests had pressed into them throughout the flight. As the plane stopped at its gate, Mrs. Mower shook her mind awake. She pushed her son’s wobbly head from her shoulder. The boy was still deep in sleep. He and his classmates had been rambunctious before and after takeoff, but in a few hours over the Atlantic Ocean, most of them had collapsed. Mrs. Mower dreaded them waking up full of energy and excitement. 

She knew the kids would be pumped, and there would be no break as a chaperone of twenty-five young teenagers. This was just the start of a five-day, whirlwind trip to Paris and back. 

She checked her smartwatch. 5 in the evening, Paris time. 

Twisting to stretch, she immediately glanced toward Orlando. He was already standing to get his bags. This was the first time she had seen him and he had seen her in real life. For weeks, she had enjoyed reminiscing about their one-time, midnight rendezvous. A dirty thought crossed her mind. Knowing men, after sleep, they can wake up happy. Was he stiff after his sleep? 

Glancing, nothing was detectable at the moment. Mrs. Mower’s mind meandered further. She wondered if she could coax his cock from several rows away. She reached higher than necessary into the overhead compartment. She hoped his eyes would outline her contours. From her shoulders to her heavy breasts, along her waist and to the ass she had been toning. In her position, however, she thought about all the male eyes on the plane. Makes of all ages. She straightened herself. She had packed her ass into workout pants, leaving little more than a color as covering. The students didn’t need to see that. 

However, her bag hadn’t loosened from the overhead compartment. She daintily tried to wiggle the bag free from the tight space. 

“Let me help you with that,” a man said. 

She turned to him. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Greg. Darren’s my son.” He pulled down her bag. 

He had a cute butt. “I’m Mrs. …” 

“Mower, yes. It’s nice to meet you in person. I’ve heard you’re a great teacher. You know your calculus.” He smiled. 

“An important subject.” 

She noticed his sly eyes, making her wonder about this trip to Paris. This would be an aching weekend, on several fronts. She might be in need sooner than she planned. 

On the bus, the students had their noses pressed against the windows as the Eiffel Tower came closer and became brighter in the dark sky. Soon the twenty-five students and the chaperones arrived at the Hôtel de la Tour Eiffel. She didn’t expect to be so close to the centerpiece of Paris. 

The bus was barely able to drive down Rue de l’Exposition to the hotel, because the road was so tight. When getting off the bus, students essentially flooded from the bottom step of the bus directly into the lobby. 

After unloading bags and divvying out suitcases, the students went to their assigned rooms. Mrs. Mower was assigned to Room No. 6, on the floor with all the girls. 

She corralled the young ladies onto their floor. But before unpacking her things, she had to grab some personal items for several absent-minded girls. 

The bell on the elevator pinged, and her pulse suddenly rushed when she saw Orlando standing in the elevator. She was befuddled and couldn’t think of anything to say. 

He eased her. “Got a few forgetful kids who need more supplies?” 

“Many of them.”

He was twisting Mrs. Mower’s thoughts. This man had thrilled her that one midnight. She had watched him stroke his dick. It was lusciously thick and long. It had been deep, dark red with intensity and stimulation. She recalled seeing his taut waist and a thick patch of dark hair. A full-blooded man. 

“These kids are so unprepared, but that’s Paris for you.” He glanced up at the elevator’s antique hand that was moving. “Paris twists minds, makes people punch-drunk. They do things here, all sorts of things.” 

Mrs. Mower gulped. Orlando had read perfectly what Paris was doing to her. She tried to steady herself, as her mind and body continued to be twisted. 

He winked cunningly at her. His lips stretched into a grin. “The City of Love is conducive to love-making.” 

A heat wave rushed up and down her spine, making her stiff. Her cheeks flushed. A familiar warmth flooded down to the base of her neck. It tightened her throat. The feeling was the same when Mr. and Mrs. Simon and her husband were climbing over her body and kissing everywhere. Mrs. Mower wanted to say more, but she still couldn’t think of anything witty. Orlando was so easy to talk to through Zoom. She never expected it to be so when they first met in person. 

The elevator’s soft ping broke Mrs. Mower’s haze. To her surprise, Orlando took her hand. He placed a key in her hand and closed it with a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, come see me. No. 12.” 

He leaned to her ear, and said, “I’ll be up.” He stepped off the elevator. 

She watched him walk away. His back was to her, but she gave him a twinkle of a wave as the doors closed. 

More than three hours later, the teenage girls had settled as much as they would for the night, so Mrs. Mower slipped away to her room. She was sharing the room with Misty McGuire, a history teacher who was cute and young. Silvery-green eyes and blond hair. Word was that Misty was a “TILF.” It was a term Mrs. Mower had recently heard gossiped in the hallways of school. She didn’t know Misty well but was looking for the right opportunity to bring up the subject. Mrs. Mower was unsure if other teachers liked being a bonified TILF, like she did, or if they thought it was humiliating and degrading to them and all women. 

Misty was in bed reading Gone With The Wind when Mrs. Mower came in. 

“Ready for this trip? It’s going to be a wild ride,” Mrs. Mower said. 

“I am as ready as I’ll ever be.” 

Just then, they heard a screech next door. 

“I was hoping to be a tourist with some kids to watch. Now though, I think I’m doomed to be a nanny,” Mrs. Mower said. 

“Let me nanny for a moment.” Misty giggled, and set down her book. She slid her feet into slippers and headed to the door. Mrs. Mower liked her quiet body, soft, small. A body that would make innocence shine in the night. 

Mrs. Mower slipped into a gray knit sweater dress—easy access—and a pair of gray Nikes. Before leaving, she undid her bra and tossed it on her bed. One less hindrance for Orlando. 

Stepping into the hallway, Misty was still settling the girls, so Mrs. Mower opted to offer a little help, despite the agitation inside her that Orlando had already quelled and could quench. 

However, the girls were talking and yelling, giggling and dancing. That night, the bubbly ones kept Mrs. Mower from visiting Orlando’s room. 

The next day, while sailing down the River Seine, Mrs. Mower’s mind was lost in the alluring sights and sounds of the capital of France. She felt a soft pat on her butt. She spun, ready to slap someone. But she saw Orlando. 

“Missed you last night.” He rested his elbows on the railing of the boat, barely touching her arm. 

She saw his eyes drawing the contours of the Victorian era buildings. Her eyes contoured the breeze ruffling his black hair, heavy eyebrows, arched nose, chin, his thick neck that was lost in the shirt’s sharp white collar. 

She fumbled out the reason for missing it. “The girls, they didn’t settle down until late. I fell asleep before they did—at least I think I did.” 

Orlando didn’t turn to her. “I had to alleviate myself but I had to wait until Greg, my roommate, dozed off.” 

“Did it take long?” 

“For him to get to sleep or me to get off?” 

Mrs. Mower was not expecting that response. She stifled a sudden giggle, which turned into an uncontrollable laugh. 

“Didn’t take me long. We’re both Americans in Paris.” 

After settling the laughter, she felt giddy and proud at once, knowing she had such sway over him. As much sway, maybe, as the City of Love. Orlando noticed two boys readying themselves to jump to see if they touch the bridge their boat was about to cruise under. 

“Time to nanny,” he said. “Come by tonight. Be ready with a reason though. In case Greg answers.” He patted her hand. 

She gave that same twinkle of a wave as she had the night before in the elevator. 

The group went to the Montparnasse Tower for a panoramic view of Paris, and the day of sightseeing ended by visiting Notre Dame and Sacré-Cœur. 

In the Paris Metro car, Greg sat down next to Mrs. Mower. 

“My feet hurt,” he said, leaning back on the seat. “Paris has already worn me out. How about you? Got enough stamina for Paris?” 

She smiled back but put on her more formal teacher front. She had noticed his cute butt on the plane but still he was Darren’s dad, first and foremost. 

“This has been a very informative trip. The city is more than I anticipated.” 

“Coming from a math teacher, I am impressed.” 

“From a math teacher, what do you mean?” She could easily have allowed herself to be offended. But she had learned being and staying offended is hard work. 

“Trigonometry, the study of the angles of triangles. Calculus, the mathematics of continuous change. Geometry, shapes, distances, size. And algebra, arranging life in an intelligible equation. Paris may be the city of mathematics.” 

“Very well put. You broke down Paris in an understandable form.” 

“X plus Y equals …” 

She was confused as to what to say. “Not very sure in terms of Parisian lights and sounds.” 

“Then we should talk about it together while we’re here. Mathematics and philosophy and art. No chaperoning.” 

She took a more intricate look-see at Darren’s dad. Maybe the teacher façade could be hung up. She was a chaperone now, not so much a teacher. Indeed, she thought this could be more than a school trip. “That would be nice.”