Day Six: 4/10/18
Era: The Black Album
A riveting echo rang through her head from the banging bass of the giant speakers. She'd always heard that France liked to get nasty. You don't know nasty until you're practically in the center of a dancing orgy. Her lips did not touch a single soul but her behind ground up against any guy or girl within her hip's radius.
Grind! Grind! Grind!
The entire club had got into one of two chants. One in particular left Paris. "Ce soir, la chantez, all night long! Ce soir, la chantez, all night long!" The club would not let the chant die down. After a tispy– not drunk, just tipsy– Paris had lost her friends and went roaming the French nightlife in search of the five women, she, too could not stop the chant.
Paris takes a break. She sits down on a park bench in bright lighting, trying to regain touch with her senses. "Ce soir, la chantez, all night long.... Ce soir, la chantez–" The sight of another person near her cuts off her second half of the chant.
"All night long?"
She stands up, balance slightly off, "Who are you?"
A special kind of look is carried in his eyes. The kind of look that'll make you tell a stranger you're whole life the story. The look of a man who only tells you his name when he knows you'll forget. The look of a man who does not go by his name at all. The look of a man who gives unconditional love. The look of a man who understands the importance of the surprise. The look of a man who can lead you to infamous light. The look of a man that she is almost sure she has seen before.
"You look like you're lost."
"I kinda' am," She laughs looking around. "I can with my friends here for my birthday. You'd think being named Paris that I would have been here."
He nods, he does nothing except nod.
Paris awkwardly scans her surroundings once more. "Well, you look like a Bob, can I call you Bob?" She jokes, earning a laugh from Bob. "Bob George." His eyes widen with a quickness as he slowly steps away from her. "No? Okay, Bob George isn't it, I guess."
"Stop saying that."
A tipsy Paris squints her eyes. "Stop saying what? I'm confused. Do you want me to stop saying the word what, no, okay, or the name Bob Georg–" His hand latches itself over her mouth. Her equilibrium already being set in the negative range, Paris stumbles back as Prince pulls her body close to his own.
He turns her around, her bottom presses deeply against his crotch, making her face the water fountain between them and the Eiffel Tower that is near. His lips press against her ear as he prepares his speech, unknowingly leaving her hormones to rise at only the most rapid of all rates. A smooth coat of cream formulates between her thigh with a slight trip. His hand immediately reaches between her legs, cupping her core to keep the leakage from its fate.
"He can smell you."
Unable to fight against her own arousal, a perplexed Paris stands in his arms utterly confused and obliviously helpless.
"He can smell your pheromones."
Paris thinks, Who is he? Who are you?
"He is the black one, I am the purple one. The forces of evil are lurking and they want you. Tell me, baby, did you just come from Le Grind?" Paris nods her hand, he is still covering her mouth. "I know, I heard you're chant. Don't you ever say it again."
Why, her brain says. She'd caught onto the fact that he is not normal quickly. He obviously has the ability to hear her thoughts as if they were his own.
He says, "Look at the fountain and tell me what color it is. What color is that water, Paris?"
The fountain is your standard French fountain that is the typical color of water with a small yellow tint from the lights meant to brighten the water for an extra entertainment factor. Paris being beneath a spell she has no control over, can see every color except the true color. Neon reds, blues, yellows, greens, pinks, and oranges all spew out of the fountain at a rapid rate. She doesn't see a fountain. She sees a broken psychedelic lava lamp.
"Everything."
There's the sound of a small crack with her words as her hormones leak out of his full hand. He sighs as she gasps, feeling an orgasm approaching. He knows exactly what will happen if he does not make the first move. Paris, reaching her peak, grabs on to the stranger's wrist as her weak legs begin to give out where she stands. He has to act immediately before it is far too late. He jumps out on a limb to save her life.
"My name is Prince, come with me if you want to live to see twenty-five."
