6 AM. My tiny Parisian apartment. Heart pounding already. No fatigue, just fire between my thighs. I stretch, nuisette hikes up, exposing my belly. Shower steam clings to skin, nipples harden under hot jets. Thoughts devour me: him. Sylvain. That lean 19-year-old baker with hazel eyes and a wicked grin. First sight at 7 AM, streets empty. He replaced old Monsieur Pernon. Tall, fresh from school, innocent yet teasing. I stammer ‘Bonjour,’ lost in his gaze. He doesn’t flirt. But my body screams for him. Petite, 5’5″, perky tits perfect for hands, slim waist, round ass, trimmed bush. Copper hair, green eyes, freckles. Cute, not stunning. But men stare. Not him. Yet. Daily ritual: pain au chocolat. He saves the biggest, moelleux. ‘Bonjour Anaïs.’ Smile hits like lightning. I babble nonsense. 25, independent, yet timid around this boy. His youth ignites me. Months pass. Chats deepen. He arrives 5 AM, leaves 11:30. Lives nearby. Single? I chicken out. Accident changes it. February chill. Crossing street. Tires screech. Blackout. Wake in hospital. His hand in mine. He hit me. Stayed all night. ‘You were so beautiful, carefree.’ Admits seeing me anew. Not just client. Conversations flow. Parents meet him. ‘Cute boyfriend!’ He blushes. I lie to shield him. Discharge day: his number. Home on crutches. Rage replaces morning thrill. Then—knock. 6:15 AM. Him with delivery. ‘I’ll bring it daily.’ Kiss on cheek. He grabs my hand. ‘Anaïs, you’re magnificent. Can’t stop thinking.’ Urge to fuck him on table surges. Dinner invite. Italian spot. Leg presses his. Foot teases cock—rock hard. Groan escapes. Back home. Sofa. Hands roam. Unzip dress, free tits. Tongue devours. I grip his thick, hot shaft. Stroke. He fingers sloppy but eager. Strip. He stares at my pussy. Licks clit. I explode. He jerks furiously. I urge him on. Masturbate together. Fingers plunge deep. We cum hard—his load splatters my belly, tits. Sweat-soaked embrace. He leaves, promises more.
Next dawn. Kiss deepens. Tears when he fears profiting. ‘Never been in love. Virgin.’ My heart races. Teach him slow. No penetration yet. Fingers, tongue masterclass. Crutches gone. Surprise bakery pre-open. Heat blasts from ovens. He carries me to back table. Strips me. Farine everywhere. Hands knead ass, flour-dusted. Tongue rims asshole—first time. Fingers invade, clit rubbed. Quadruped, I shatter silently. His turn. Suck deep, throat-fuck. Cum floods mouth. Condom on. Missionary. Virgin cock sinks in. Eyes lock. Hearts thunder. Pace builds. Shared orgasm rips us. United. Evening: bed marathon. Every position. Doggy, cowgirl. Anal next. Tongue preps hole. Fingers stretch. Cock breaches. Pain flares, then brutal bliss. He pounds. Anus clenches. Cum trapped in rubber. Possessed.
The Fever
Dawn breaks. Bodies ache, slick with sweat. Skin glows, marked. He moves in days later. Four years on: bakery ours. No customers? Back room frenzy. Flour fights turn fucks. Pulse still races at his touch. He’s my everything—raw, devouring fire.