Billionaires in ParisBy: Cynthia Dane
A Dom Vs. Domme Story
Paris. City of lights, city of love. A city with a rich and detailed history going back thousands of years. Something about Normans and the English language… conquering… revolutions… Napoleon… free and kinky love…
Fuck it. I’m here in this spot for one thing.
I stand on a Parisian sidewalk, gawking like a total tourist at the simple display in the shop window. Most people wouldn’t look at it twice, regardless of the heavy gold writing and the black, feathery dress in the single-mannequin window. But if you’re me, then you know that this is one of the greatest boutiques in all of France. Maybe Europe.
The whole fucking world!
I’m not usually big on fashion. I grew up in New England, where anyone with means wore the latest styles and then pitched them in the garbage as soon as the season changed. Schoolgirls from the nicest public schools would rummage through our trash looking for designers they had heard about online. Givenchy who? Dolce & Gabbana who? Anna Wintour could eat our hearts out!
When my boyfriend asked me to go to Paris with him for a week, I thought, oh, how nice. Some elegant meals and maybe a gratuitous selfie by the Eiffel Tower. Ha. Ha.
The moment we stepped off the private jet, he went off to a dinner meeting, leaving me to my own devices. I checked into our historic hotel suite.
Then I came here, drawn by the call of beautiful, mind-blowing clothes.
I love couture. I never wear it, but I love to stare at it, admire its craftsmanship, and maybe drool. I can’t pull off extravagant styles. I’m as Boston chic as it gets. (Or is it called Autumn in New York now?) I wear simple dresses when appropriate. Otherwise, I’m in pants, sweaters, scarves, boots…
Fuck it! Let me in!
A man in tailored tails approaches the window from the other side. He has a tiny spray bottle in one gloved hand. Doubtlessly, I am a rutting cat in need of spritzing. “Get away, vermin! These aren’t for you!” He’s joined by a dowdy middle-aged woman with curly red hair and a floral sweater dress. Not exactly the types you expect to be working at a couture shop that processes hundreds of thousands of dollars a day.
They look at me. I gape at them. Me, in my brown cashmere sweater and $700 jeans. I’ve got a Prada bag, but is it enough?
No. It’s not enough for these fuddy-duddies. The French invented fuddy-duddies! (Sorry, Britain.) Their judgment is scathing. I’m gonna need burn treatments later on. That’s just from the searing looks both man and woman send me. Soon enough, security will arrive, scraping my fashion-desecrated body off the street.
I open my Prada bag and pull out my leather wallet. Do I go for my ID? No. Are you fucking kidding me? Like I’m gonna slap an American driver’s license against a haute couture window! Did you not get the memo where I’m trying to get in to this boutique and be treated like the spoiled princess I damn well am?
Instead, I slap my black credit card against the window. Greasy fingers leave marks on the glass. My grin announces my victory.
Their sudden, kind smiles flash back at me. The woman scuttles away, and the man makes a welcoming motion. By the time the woman pops out of an intimidating door below street level, I’m hopping up and down like a girl on her sixth birthday.
My phone starts buzzing. I ignore it. Pfft. It’s only my boyfriend asking if I want to meet him at the restaurant. As soon as I pick up some new threads, babe!
I don’t know where the hell Kathryn is (answer my texts, damnit,) but I hope she’s having a better time than I am.
Don’t get me wrong. Paris is a great city. I’ve been here many times in my life, and every time I always find something to amuse myself with. Last time it was a busty brunette named Simone. Ahem. This time I’m sure it’s going to be my lovely girlfriend, Kathryn, whom I’ve been with for over a year now. Could we call this an anniversary trip? Maybe. It’s sort of a mulligan from a botched getaway to Vegas a few months ago.
Yet when my father, the always meddling and plotting Dominic Mathers, heard I was coming to Paris, the first thing he did was arrange a meeting between myself and Damon Monroe, one of the richest fuckers in America. Also one of the most intimidating. Not that I am ever intimidated, mind you.
What’s funny is that this guy actually lives in the same city as me back in America. Yet we have to meet in Paris if we’re going to meet at all. That’s the life of the rich, folks.
“The portfolio should be substantial enough to please my father,” Monroe says, casually sitting with his legs crossed and hands in his lap. A half-eaten plate of luxurious French food grows cold on the table. One of the most celebrated French chefs in the world owns this restaurant, and neither Monroe nor I can be too impressed anymore. At least I’m eating all my food, though. My mother taught me some manners. “I’ll have one of my assistants do a more thorough investigation into your family’s holdings, but I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”