Italian pre-Renaissance halls. Cool air hits my skin. Agathe strides ahead. Long, light blouse, fine striped satin, butter-soft. Buttoned high, modest V-neck hidden by fiery red hair. Mini denim skirt, Kaporal buttons gleaming, all fastened. For now. Chic top, shocking bottom. Her boots click on marble, long legs flexing. I trail, casual, heart pounding already.
Quiet rooms, midweek calm. Elderly art lovers scattered. Her fresh energy cuts through. She pauses at paintings, glances back. Ensures I’m hooked. Long strides resume, feigned indifference. Fingers toy with glossy sleeves near frolicking putti. Eyes distant, but heat builds.
The Fever
Dimmer room, charcoals and crayons. She fiddles with skirt buttons. Amused glance my way. I close in. Delicate faces surround us. Nude sketches: hands, legs, backs, torses. Headless bodies, muscled, posed. Wish I could draw her like that. Skin flushes hot.
Next room empty. Virgins on walls. She stands before ‘Green Cushion.’ Mary nurses, breast oddly high, face tender. Child chubby, spontaneous. Agathe’s hair tossed back. Blouse unbuttoned, gaping open. No bra. Small breasts bare to pink nipples, hard. Hand plays collar. Mischievous smile locks eyes. Her pale throat glows milky. Virgin’s amber waves echo hers. Guardian looms distant through door. Pulse races. Danger spikes desire.
She spins, buttons up. Old couple shuffles in. We linger, smirks shared.
Central gallery buzzes. She sits, lowest skirt button undone. Visitors blind to her: red Venus escaped canvas, ethereal in synthetic blouse, jean skirt. I devour her.
She bolts again. Staircases, Denon wing exit. Corridor of classical sculptures. She hikes skirt rear. Perfect round ass flashes, flesh string peeking nude. Ghostly cheeks among stone nudes. Gone in steps. Cock twitches hard.
The Blaze
Pyramid hall, out to Carrousel. Tuileries garden. She pulls me to secluded bench, abandoned newspaper. Sits close. Unfolds it wide over knees. Hands slip under. Arm around neck, holds page.
“Go on,” she whispers.
My hand dives beneath. Skirt half-unbuttoned. Thigh presses mine. Legs part. Fingers graze string, then clit. Wetness blooms fast. Heart hammers. Stroke harder. She caresses my neck, pretends to read.
One finger, two. Shallow thrusts. Her breath quickens. Cyprine coats me. Kids’ distant screams. Joggers ignore. She moans softly, lips tight. Knows my tongue craves her pussy. Frustration burns. Fingers slick, deeper. Newspaper shakes over Trump photos. I lick her juice. Apricot tang lingers. She buttons up, kisses soft. We leave paper behind.
Mocking, she offers ice cream. I decline, savoring her taste. Metro station. I claim bench between cars. She sits opposite. Skirt buttons loose. Legs cross, uncross, spread. Eyes dare mine. Heavy guy beside blocks view sometimes. String damp, dark trace from my fingers. Train fills. Lycéens swarm. She’s gone from sight. Crowd crushes. My cock strains, throbbing. Sweat beads. Urgency claws. Possession screams silent.
Skin still fever-hot. Heart slows to heavy beats. Her game’s echo pulses in veins. Unique burn, unquenched. Ashes smolder, ready to ignite again.