I rang Paul’s bell at 4 PM sharp. His tiny company apartment: salon-kitchen mashup, no entry hall. Short Scottish kilt skirt, white blouse hugging my small tits, mocassins, socks. Little Red Riding Hood heading to the wolf’s den. He opens in T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Casual. My ‘Hello’ timid. He waves me in silently.
He offers a cold drink. Tea-time for him later. Tension thick. I’m awkward in my kilt—did I fuck up? Air heavy. He finally speaks: ‘Let’s sit on the sofa comfortably.’ It’s a sagging beast between kitchen table and stool. I sink in, skirt rides up short. Almost falling backward, I laugh. He smiles fleetingly.
The Fever
Skirt hikes higher. He notices my panties? I tug futilely. He sits close. Knows this sofa. Hands me Edgar Poe text from class. Hate it. Struggle reading aloud, translating. His thigh presses mine. Tremble starts. Heart races. His arm drapes behind me. Breath shortens. Skin heats. I falter on words.
His hand lands on my thigh. Sudden. I freeze mid-sentence. Silence screams. Hearts hammer. I resume reading, pretending. He knows he won. I part thighs slightly. Invitation. His hand climbs under kilt, slow with my stutters. Fingers tease over soaked panties. Clit swells. I drop the page. Moans escape: ‘Haaa.’ He presses, circles. Pure fire.
I slide down, head on his chest, legs splayed. His finger probes my ass crack. Tease. I crave more. Won’t go under panties yet. Torment. My hand finds his jean bulge. Hard. Fumble buttons—fucking English style. He helps briefly. I shove his hand back. Cock out: long, thin, pale Anglo-Saxon, pink head, neat balls.
Grip it firm, slow strokes. He groans. I lean, tongue flicks gland. He arches. Suck deep. Balls too. Lick shaft pressing hard. He babbles English filth—I don’t care, love it. ‘French cumslut,’ whatever. Lips tight, suck up, breathe down. He swells, pre-cum floods. Hand on my head, fearing I’ll stop. Wrong bitch.
The Blaze
His hand stalls on my pussy. Dripping. But I devour. Full throat fucks. Nibble gland. He erupts. First spurt hits cheek. Then mouth full—gulp British seed. Salty-French with accent. Swallows slow, savoring. ‘Oh my God!’ Heart pounds against me.
Now me. Eyes beg. He restarts over panties. Enough. I jam his fingers inside shaved, gushing cunt. Two deep. Thumb on clit. ‘Hooo.’ Tit out, nipple pinched. Waves build. Finger in ass—first ever. Explode. Scream inside: ‘Fuck yes, own this French slut!’ Orgasms rip. Legs quake. Eyes roll.
We laugh. Absurd. I’m sprawled, blouse open, skirt up, pussy bare. His gaze devours. Rehardens. I straddle. He pushes away: ‘No, too far. Sorry.’ Stunned. Fuming. English conscience? Picks up panties, wet. Tea-time. Handshake. ‘See Tuesday.’ Down stairs, confused, unsatisfied. Brits.
Monday, overhear boss: ‘She’s good FOR an Englishman.’ Blush. Passed exam sans Poe. Paul back to Albion. Memory burns.