“Where to?” I added.
“You ta’ the high road, an’ I’ll ta’ the low road.” She giggled. Then she became serious again. “Good Germans dinna ask questions, Karl. They just obey.” She winked solemnly. “Tha’ way they find wha’ they’re seekin’.”
“And besides, your people wouldn’t like my asking questions. Would they, Peggy?”
“My folk are not much for conversation,” she granted. “Come along now.”
She led me down the long staircase to the foot of the steep hill upon which Sacre Coeur stands. A block or so further along there was an entrance to Le Metro, Paris’s famed subway system. She led me down into it
I followed her through a turnstile. A moment later we boarded a departing train. It was a little bit crowded and we had to stand. We were pressed very tightly together. From the feel of things, there wasn’t much else beside the raincoat between Peggy’s soft, provocative flesh and me. We didn’t talk. But as the train pitched and tossed, picking up speed and swaying around sharp bends, the Braille body language between us was speaking volumes.
We changed trains. The second car we boarded was not so crowded. We were the only ones in it who had to stand. We weren’t pressed together now. Still we didn’t talk. And then Peggy made a wordless statement that took me by surprise.
She opened the raincoat, holding out the sides in front of her so that only I could see. She was wearing black net stockings, a black garter belt, and a strand of black pearls which hung down to her bosom. And that’s all she was wearing. Except for that, under the raincoat, Peggy was completely nude! And I mean completely because -
Item: Her groin, framed by the black garter belt, had been shaved and was absolutely devoid of pubic air.
Item: Her mons veneris was mounted high, her purplish clitty clearly visible and stiff in its nest.
Item: Her breasts were shaped like large gourds, the tips arching upward, the nipples dark red twangers set in wide, pink aureoles.
Another streaker? Is that what Peggy was? This must be my night for streakers all right! Or was it that the fad was reaching new heights in Paris.
Neither. Peggy wasn’t a streaker at all. She was a flasher!
What's a flasher? That’s the slang phrase, originated by big-city vice cops charged with apprehending them, used to describe the pervert (usually a male) in a buttoned-up black raincoat who rides the subways for the express purpose of unbuttoning the raincoat and quickly opening and closing it so that the other passengers can see that he is naked. The flasher gets his kicks out of exposing himself in this fashion. There are, I would submit, more heinous crimes. Still, the flasher is usually prosecuted vigorously.
Not, it seemed, in Paris. Peggy, as I said, was a flasher. Now she proceeded to prove it.
She closed her raincoat, turned away from me, and faced the subway car at large. She opened and closed the black raincoat several times in rapid succession, making sure that none of her potential audience missed her exposing herself. Then she turned to me.
I was taken by surprise. Before I realized what she was up to, she unzipped my fly and whipped out my pocket pool cuestick. It was semi-tumescent. Peggy grasped it firmly and shook it vigorously at the bug-eyed watchers in the subway car.
Then, as the train pulled into the station, she yanked hard and I found myself propelled along with her as we disembarked. She let go as we emerged on the subway platform. She belted her raincoat snugly about her. It took me a minute to pull myself together enough to realize that my staff of lust was still hanging out of my open fly.
A minute was too long. By the time I reached for it, a gendarme had spotted me and come up on the run. He passed Peggy walking briskly down the platform as he came.
“M’sieur! M’sieur!” He released a torrent of French which I couldn’t quite follow.
Still, I didn’t need an interpreter. It was obvious that he thought I should remove my mizzenmast below decks and batten down the hatches after it. Furthermore, he made it clear that he had by no means decided whether or not to let it go at that.
By this time Peggy had returned. She listened to the gendarme for a moment, and then interrupted him. She said something and he raised his eyebrows as if she had just clarified a point to him. Then she held her hands apart as if demonstrating the size of a particularly impressive fish she’d caught and added something else. The gendarme clapped his hands, spoke another French phrase, shook his head back and forth as if he now understood everything, waited while I crammed everything back into place and carefully zipped my pants closed. Then, with a gesture that was half a wagging finger of warning, and half a stiff finger of admiration and understanding, he left us.
“What did you say to him?” I asked Peggy.
“I told him you were a daft American.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said that you were impressively hung.”
“And then what did you say?”
“I told him tha’ your home village was Texas. Then he kenned everything.”
“My ‘home village’ is Manhattan,” I told her.
“He said I was a fortunate lassie, but tha’ you should heed his warnin’ to no show-off in public no matter what quaint customs might prevail in Texas.”
“They don’t have those customs in Texas,” I assured Peggy. “They don’t have the equipment for it.”
We emerged from Le Metro on the Rue de Rivoli just across from the Louvre. We walked to the Seine and strolled upstream on the Right Bank. We went past Notre Dame and crossed a bridge to a stone staircase leading down to the Ile de la Cité. I followed Peggy to a very old, but very exclusive looking and well cared for mansion located on the exclusive island city-within-a-city on the Seine.
There was a gatekeeper. He recognized Peggy. He admitted her, regarded me suspiciously, but finally decided that if I was with Peggy then it must be all right to let me enter. Peggy led the way around to the back of the house.
There was a large, walled-in area back there. A wide veranda looked out over the grounds. A section of the grounds, about a quarter of the area, was paved over. It had been set up as a playground.
The equipment was modeled after that of a children’s playground, but the sizes were more suited to adults. The monkey bars, for instance, were spaced widely apart, were quite intricately arranged, and stood about one story high. The swings were sturdy, held by stout chains, and spaced over sandpiles obviously large enough to absorb the shocks of tumbling adult bodies. The sliding ponds were high and intricate with unexpected turns and steep banking; indeed, they were quite like miniature toboggan slides. The seesaws were constructed to support two full-grown people at either end, and the way they were balanced in the middle (with large, active springs) was calculated to provide a vigorous and bouncy ride.
A large lazy Susan, capable of spinning perhaps a dozen adults together at any one time, stood off to one side of the playground.
There was a party in progress inside the house. I could see people dancing and clustered around a cocktail bar through the opened french windows leading out to the veranda. A few couples had spilled out over the veranda itself. One or two were strolling in the gardens, but no one was visible in the playground. It was only as we got closer that I saw that these couples were not quite so innocent as they appeared. Nor were all of them couples in the ordinary sense.
One was a threesome composed of two men and a girl who were not quite hidden by the shadows of the bushes. One of the men was a tall, slender Oriental. His hand was deep inside the opened trousers of the second man. This other man was short, pudgy, and Dutch looking. He was copping feels—there is no other phrase for the surreptitious way he was going about it—from the breasts of the girl, a very young and skinny nymphet with straight hair reaching almost to the hem of the mini-mini-skirt she was wearing. She seemed to be biting the Oriental about the neck and shoulders.