8. Pascal

Watchingmy hunky American neighbor have an orgasm before my very eyes while standing in front of me in the middle of the pavement, fully dressed, without even touching himself, was without a doubt one of the most bizarre, unexpected, sexiest experiences of my entire life.

In fact, it was such a fucking turn-on that I had no choice but to race upstairs, turn on my shower and jerk myself off as fast as I could. Needless to say, my own road to pleasure was almost as short-lived as that of Monsieur Sanders… or should I say, Bud.

As I panted and gasped and released my load, letting water and cum trickle down my thighs, I shut my eyes tight and recalled the sight of him in his own shower: his perfect hairy pecs, his nipples being teased and squeezed by his fingers, his mouth open just enough to let out the groans of heavenly euphoria.

When my own cock was drained of cum and my body was drained of energy, I stumbled out of the shower, wrapped a towel around me and flopped onto my bed.

There was no denying now that my infatuation with my neighbor had grown even more intense. Not only was he one of the most attractive men I'd ever laid eyes on—not only was he charming and utterly adorable in a sexy, simple, parochial sort of way—but now he had clearly displayed an uncontrollable desire to be dominated. Any man who could achieve an orgasm on the spot just by being told to ‘fuck off' was truly a submissive creature… and one I needed to know better.

The next morning, I was up early. While Bud and his masturbatory mishap refused to leave my mind, as did the whereabouts of my uncle's hidden recipe, I reluctantly acknowledged to myself that both obsessions needed to take a back seat to the task of getting the patisserie up and running.

On the recommendation of Monsieur Harry Dalton, proprietor of the local hardware store, I had hired a man with the almost unbearably kitsch business name of Handy Andy to paint the entire building in the colors of the French flag.

"So let me get this straight. You want the whole thing red, white and blue." Andy was staring up at the building from out front, sizing up the job. He was a silver-fox type, perhaps in his mid-forties, handsome but not so bright. Just watching him scratch the pepper-gray beard on his chin was enough to confirm that this tradesperson was not the sharpest tool in the shed. "So, are we talking stars and stripes here?"

"What? No. Why would I want my patisserie covered in stars and stripes?"

"You said you wanted it red, white and blue."

"Oh, for God's sake! You Americans are all the same. Always thinking your country is the center of the Universe. There are other things in the world that are red, white and blue aside from your flag."

"Like what?"

"Like the French flag. Do you even know what the French flag looks like?"

"Does it have stars on it?"

"No! Do not under any circumstances paint stars anywhere. Do you understand?"

"So, what exactly do you want?"

"Gah! I already told you. The French flag. Paint these walls red. Paint the awning in blue and white stripes. Paint the window trims blue, the door frame white, and here at the entrance to the patisserie—where I plan to set tables to create an al fresco café experience—paint a third of it blue, one third white, and one third red. Understood? Comprends?"

"Yeah, understood. Everything except that last word."

"That's good enough."

As Andy trudged off to begin prepping for his day of painting, I heard the shuffling of pots next door. I turned to see my neighbor moving flowers onto stands and arranging bouquets in buckets out the front of his shop, getting ready for his second day of trading.

When he glanced up at me, I gave him a knowing grin.

He blushed instantly and gave a nervous wave, then hurried back into his shop.

The temptation to taunt him proved too much to resist.

Confidently I strutted down to his shop front and waltzed inside. For such a simple, small-town boy, my neighbor had done an unexpectedly chic fit-out on his store, with impressive urns standing tall and proud in the corners, an Italian fountain in the middle of the room, and what looked like an original Baccarat chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Sanders," I announced cheerily.

"Oh. Hello Mister… I mean, Monsieur Dupont." He busied himself with his jars of flowers on the counter, barely looking up at me.

"I think you can probably call me Pascal now… if you wish."

"I thought you said that first names implied too much familiarity."

I couldn't stop the smirk from spreading across my face. "Oh, I do believe after last night we've well and truly crossed the line of familiarity. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh geez. God, I'm so embarrassed. I don't know what came over me."

"I think you came over you."

"Oh God. I'm so sorry."

"There's really nothing to apologize for." I stepped up to the counter and he busied himself even more, dusting down the register with a rag and fiddling with the ribbons and wrapping paper for the bouquets. "To be honest, I was rather amused… if not extremely impressed. You know, I don't say this very often, but I think I was wrong about you."

"You were?"

I nodded. "When we first met, I called you a fake. But I don't think you were faking anything at all last night."

He stopped fussing and gave a defeated sigh, and I realized I was going to have to be careful how far I pushed him. The taunting—his squirming—was beginning to make my own cock stiffen again. I didn't want to be the one to cream my jeans this time.

"I… I… I honestly don't know what to say to you," he said, his shoulders slumped. "What happened last night… I've never done that before. I've never met anyone who can do that to me."

"Oh really?" His admission—so honest, so bare, so damn vulnerable—made me somewhat breathless.

"Yes, really."

Quickly he walked away from the counter, as though I was too close to him, as though sparks might ignite if he didn't separate himself from me. He walked over to a jukebox standing in the corner and began dusting that down too.

Naturally I followed, refusing to give him any room to breathe. In fact, this time I moved even closer to him, intentionally invading his space, intentionally making him feel as uncomfortable as possible. I leaned against the machine he was cleaning, my face inches from his. I glanced down and saw not just mine, but both of our crotches straining once again.

"What exactly are you saying… Bud?" My words were little more than a whisper in his ear.

"I'm saying…" His voice quivering. "I'm saying, when I see you, there's something in me that I… I…"

"Just can't control yourself?" I finished for him.

He shook his head. "It's more than that. There's something in me that I don't want to control."

"Oh really? How thrilling. It's almost as if…" I let my words trail off before reaching toward the buttons on the jukebox.

As I did so, my hand brushed lightly over his throbbing bulge and his breath tremored.

"It's almost as if what?" he asked in a whisper.

I pressed a button on the jukebox, and on cue Nina Simone's I Put a Spell on You began playing.

I let the song speak for me, as I slowly stepped backward, smiling mischievously, and exited the store.

If I had put a spell on Monsieur Bud, then he had put a spell on me too.

I wasn't entirely sure who I had become since meeting him.

In Paris I was a workaholic, a chef too busy focusing on my career to bother with a sex life. I pushed myself and my staff to the limits. I demanded nothing less than excellence in every éclaire, perfection in every pain au chocolat. Perhaps I even got a thrill out of being such a hard taskmaster.

But since laying eyes on Bud, the thrill of being a tough boss had morphed into the tantalizing notion of dominating my hunky neighbor in every explicit way imaginable.

I wanted to possess him.

I wanted to control him.

I wanted to own him.

And if his spontaneous orgasm the night before was anything to go by, then I firmly believed that he wanted the same.

That day as I cleaned the chairs and tables—as I made a thorough list of supplies that needed to be ordered, as I polished the cutlery and the light fittings and the glass of the display cases in the patisserie, as I looked inside every cake tin and through every kitchen drawer for that missing recipe—all I could think about was my studly neighbor.

And I hoped—no, I knew—that all he could think about was me.