Last Samba in Paris

In a narrow street in the Latin Quarter on the left bank of the Seine is a small door where a redoubtable middle aged lady sits taking the entrance fee of ten euros from the customers.

The Caveau de Paris is not a well publicised establishment. It is for afficianados only. The tourists don't go there.

If we pay our money and go in, we will find ourselves going down some narrow steps into an underground room. In the middle of the room is a dance floor, round the floor girls sit on chairs waiting to be asked to dance. Behind the chairs are trestle tables where men sit and drink wine.

If we look on the dance floor we will see two figures dancing the samba. Together.

"Jean-Claude," says Big Jean-Claude gyrating his hips in time to the music, for latin dancing was his one great love in life, "why is it that the girls do not dance with us as they did before?"

"I fear," replies Little Jean-Claude, his foot work the equal of any, "it is because they have danced with us before that they do not dance with us now."

"Ah," says Big Jean-Claude, "for the reason of the incident at the surprise-partie."

"Truly," replies Little Jean-Claude, "for the reason of the incident."

********

Five weeks earlier...

"What shall we do for the birthday of Jean-Claude," Little Jean-Claude was addressing his secretary Mme Latour.

"Is it necessary that we do anything to celebrate the birthday of Monsieur Legrand," replied that redoubtable lady, "it is not normal that we do such things."

"But it is a very special birthday this birthday. Jean-Claude he reaches a certain age."

"A certain age! Zut alors! Then it is you who must do something M. Petit!"

Little Jean-Claude thought long and hard. Big-Jean Claude lived a sober life with his sober sister in their sober little apartment in Montparnasse. But every Friday he took his leave of his sister explaining that he was going to the little art cinema just off the Boulevard St Michel, but instead he walked past the cinema, down to the Latin Quarter and made his way to the little subterranean dance floor where he soberly requested the pleasure of dancing with the girls. He danced with each of them in turn.

Despite the bulk which he retained from his days as a pilon de melee for the rugby club he was amazingly light on his feet and polite in an old fashioned way. The girls enjoyed dancing with him.

That was it! The perfect birthday for Jean-Claude.

Little Jean-Claude beamed with pleasure. He would invite their colleagues at the ministry to an evening of dancing. This would need to be accomplished in secret for the evening was to take the form of a surprise-partie.

The arrangements however did not go well. It appeared that Mme Latour had her sister staying with her, a lady to whom the very notion of latin dancing was anathema. M. Bonetti, the chef de service, was washing his hair that night; a strange notion as the gentleman in question appeared indeed to be possessed of only one hair and it could not require washing that often. M'mselle Schmalz checked her 'agenda' and found that it was her evening for reading Les Miserables. She explained that she had already reached page 1,647 and had nearly finished the life story of the Bishop of Digne, a long exposition on the causes and results of the French Revolution and a treatise on the tactics of the Battle of Waterloo. The story, she felt, was bound to start soon.

It was the same throughout the office. There was no-one without an important engagement for the evening in question.

Little Jean-Claude sighed. Then he had an idea. He would ask the girls in the cafe. Young girls loved to dance. They would surely accept.

Every day Little Jean-Claude and Big Jean-Claude took breakfast in the little cafe in the Place de la Sorbonne where the three most beautiful girls in Paris, as Little Jean-Claude always told them, served coffee and croissants at the little tables set out on the pavement.

Solange was the dusky maiden who hailed from Martinique, tall, slim and perfectly formed; Sylvie, a dark haired, haughty and fiery tempered Corsican and Nathalie the blonde and busty Belgian from Bruges. They were indeed all great beauties in their own way.

There was one person in the office he hadn't asked yet - Jo-Jo (the French seemed incapable of just calling him 'Joe'). Little Jean-Claude had been in two minds whether to ask Jo-Jo. He was after all English and everybody knew Englishmen couldn't dance. Little Jean-Claude had once been to Edinburgh and seen those strange Englishmen who came from Scotland dancing in checked skirts. They had jumped about a lot. If he asked Jo-Jo would he come in a checked skirt and jump about a lot? It would not be appropriate for the Caveau de Paris. On the other hand he needed another guest, Jo-Jo would feel left out if he wasn't asked and he needed three partners for the three girls.

Jo-Jo of course accepted. An English person would never turn down an invitation no matter what previous engagement he had. He had done so however with a degree of trepidation. He couldn't dance (except for the St Bernard's Waltz), he was nervous of French girls, and the girls from the cafe! Well Jean-Claude said they were all strikingly beautiful, extraordinarily sexy and that, to Jo-Jo, meant totally intimidating.

All the same he said yes. He couldn't think of an excuse. It was not as if he could say he was washing his hair or reading Victor Hugo (although he was indeed doing both).

As for Solange and the other girls. Of course they said yes. It was not that they knew anything about the Caveau de Paris, a place where they had never set foot; it was not that they were afficionados of the samba, a dance of which they knew little; It was not that Big Jean-Claude, despite his bulk was as light on his feet as a veritable fairy, or that Little Jean-Claude's footwork had to be seen to be believed. It was a chance to meet 'Ze Englishman'!

They meant Jo-Jo! They had never met him but he was English so...

"Like ze 'Ugh Grant!" said Solange, "wiz ze 'air and ze smile like ze Coup de Foudre a Notting 'Ill," like many girls from the Antilles she felt she could speak English!

For the imagined Hugh Grant a new outfit was needed. One that was both 'Hypersexy' and suitable for the samba.

The obvious source was M. Aboubala. M. Aboubala could provide anything in the way of 'hypersexy' and at a very reasonable price.

What he provided was a pair of high cut gold lame and blue spangled panties with matching top and a pair of ridiculously high stiletto heeled shoes.

Solange put them on. An awful lot of bare flesh was exposed - in fact just about everything that wouldn't get her arrested, but M. Aboubala had been insistent. This was what girls wore for the samba. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her olive skin glistened; in her high cut panties her long shapely legs seemed to go on for ever; under the skimpy top the golden orbs of her 'balcon' jutted forwards fit to put someone's eye out. Hypersexy! Ze Englizhman would not know what 'ad 'it 'im! She determined to wear it.

M. Aboubala smiled. He had been stuck with those three old carnival costumes for months and now he had sold three all in one day.

Six people sat round the wood trestle table of the caveau on the evening of the day on which Big Jean-Claude reached a certain age.

Two of them were dressed appropriately. The Jean-Claudes wore attire which could best be described as casual smart, their lightweight jackets slung over the backs of their chairs as jackets always are in France; Jo-Jo was dressed in a pin stripe suit, white shirt and dark tie, suitable attire for a funeral but not really for Latin American dancing, and three girls were dressed identically as if about to take part in the Rio carnival.

The other girls, who sat demurely round the dancing floor waiting to partner anyone who asked them to dance, were not dressed like that. Needless to say.

It was that, perhaps, that had put the girls in a bad mood. If it hadn't been for the costumes, the incident, perhaps, would never have happened.

Big Jean-Claude looked at the girls opposite him. He loved to dance but with girls dressed in those strange costumes he was not quite sure that he would cut quite the elegant figure that he had hoped.

The surprise-partie had not of course come as a surprise. They never did in France. A surprise-partie was what was expected. He was however pleased with the venue. Oh well, he had better ask a girl to dance.

“Would you do me the pleasure?” he held out his hand to Nathalie. She looked the most likely to be able to dance well.

Nathalie gracefully accepted and he led her out onto the dance floor, where, it must be admitted, they caused somewhat of a stir.

Little Jean-Claude held out his hand to Sylvie and Jo-Jo was left with Solange. He had never been so nervous in all his life. Oh dear! He was confronted by what appeared to him to be acres of bare flesh and he was expected to dance! He had absolutely no idea how to do any of these funny foreign dances. They didn’t look anything like the St Bernard’s Waltz. On the other hand, he thought, if he just did a St Bernard’s Waltz to the music (which sounded like nothing on earth) he couldn’t really go wrong. He asked Solange up to dance.

That was perhaps the bIg mistake.

On and two and stamp your feet. That was how you did the St Bernard's waltz. It is not however how you do the samba. Jo-Jo's foot came down heavily on Solange's stiletto heeled shoe. Solange shrieked and fell over over grabbing the nearest bit of support she could find. It was Sylvie's sequined top. With a loud ripping sound it came tearing off.

Jo-Jo's eyes nearly popped out. Each of Sylvie's perfectly formed breasts was on public display, her large dark nipples erect and each pierced with a silver ring. Oh heck. The fiery Corsican girl had pierced nipples! It made Jo-Jo's eyes water just to look at them.

What it did to Sylvie's eyes was something to behold. She looked at Solange and her eyes flashed. Pull off her top would she! Expose her bosoms to the world would she! Well she'd soon see what happened to girls who did that!

All of a sudden she leapt on Solange. The world would have the treat of a sight of her beauties and no mistake. Solange toppled on her back and Sylvie leapt on top of her.

Nathalie looked on and shrugged her shoulders. The girls were fighting. Again. They were always fighting. Still this was in public. She'd better put a stop to it. She looked down at the writhing mass of bare arms and legs flailing about on the floor and jumped on top of them. Four flailing arms and legs became six. A hand triumphantly appeared bearing a samba dancer's top and Solange felt her own breasts bared. She redoubled her efforts. She had to get somebody else's top to cover herself.

Nathalie suddenly felt herself stuck at the bottom of the heap of flailing bodies and the next thing she knew her breasts were bare.

Jo-Jo's mouth dropped open. A pair of magnificent creamy white bosoms had somehow appeared from amongst the mass of bare skin. He watched fascinated as the little pink nipple suddenly stood up and a hand felt its way along the bosom and...

"Ooh!" A sudden shriek left Nathalie's lips. Somebody had tweaked her nipple. Somebody had bared her breasts and tweaked her nipple.

Solange got the fright of her life. She had been trying to get Nathalie's top to cover herself when somehow.... Oh dear she hadn't really got hold of... Yes she had. She'd inadvertently tweaked a nipple.

Somehow at that point she knew that it was now going to be two against one and that the chance of her keeping her panties on were diminishing by the minute.

Jo-Jo didn't know where to look. At least he did know where to look but knew full well he shouldn't be looking there. In spite of that he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight in front of him.

Nathalie, her bosoms shaking like wobbly jellies was sitting on the squirming Solange lying on her front on the ground kicking her legs while Sylvie, a look of triumph on her face, pulled those spangled panties down those long shapely legs.

Jo-Jo closed his eyes. The sight of Solange's perfectly rounded derriere was too much, although if truth be told most of it had been visible before her panties were lowered.

Solange stood up. She was completely nude apart from a pair of very high stiletto heels.

The music started up again. Solange shrugged. She wasn't going to miss a night's dancing. Not on Jean-Claude's birthday Her bare hips started gyrating in time to the music. The other girls shrugged as well and, disputes totally forgotten, together three girls, two bare breasted and one bare everythinged danced the samba together in the centre of the floor.

Big Jean-Claude smiled. It had been the best Surprise-partie ever.