Thursday, July 9, 2009. Restaurant terrace by the Agout. Sun beats down. Bernadette sits close, her linen pants hugging curves. Rosé chills our glasses. She spills secrets—her husband’s affair with Maria Pelosa, her neglected cravings. Heart hammers. Her hand in mine. Skin hot. I slide mine up her thigh. Fabric thin. She freezes, cheeks flush crimson. No pull away. Fear in eyes, desire deeper. Zipper whispers down. Fingers breach panties. Bush soft, trimmed. Clit swells under touch. Wet heat grips. Pulse races through her. She bites lip, thighs part slight. Confessions fuel fire. She’s délaissée, ripe. Mine now.
Fingers circle clit slow. Her breath hitches. Server nears—hand out, casual. Back in post-coffee. Deeper now. Two fingers plunge pussy, slick walls clench. Thumb teases ass. She tenses, yields. Body quivers. Toasts to her coming pleasure. Contractions build. I control rhythm. Eyes lock—hers glaze. Thighs crush hand. Orgasm hits silent, elegant. Juices flood. Skin burns against mine. She’s mine, broken open.
The Fever
Car to abandoned factory. Bosquet shadows us. Lips crash. Furious kiss. Hands under blouse, bra snaps. Breasts heavy, nipples hard peaks. Pinch, suck. Pants down. Ass cheeks firm, full quadra perfection. Spank hard—crack echoes. Red handprints bloom. She gasps, pushes back. “Harder.” Fingers invade—thumb in ass, three in cunt. She drops to knees, cries out. Clit rubs fierce. Body shakes, screams pierce air. Floods again. Sweat beads spine.
Car backseat. Pants mid-thigh. Legs splay. Tongue dives pussy. Salty nectar. Clit sucks, teeth graze. Thighs clamp face. Hips buck. Third cum rips her—howls muffled. She’s fountain. I rise. Her hand frees cock. Strokes firm. Jets arc to bush. Relief pulses.