I didn’t have long to get ready. Straight after work he’d said. I already had one of the favourite lingerie sets on. I selected the trompe l’oeil tights that look like suspenders. Knee high boots again. A black silk shirt, undone. A quick top up of make up, lipstick and scent. I feel like a hooker, which is part of my turn on.He arrived, towering above me and bundled up in a scarf, sniffing from the cold. He started to grab me and kiss me, I told him to get upstairs. I followed him, tottering on my heels. 

I stood in the doorway, craving approval. I think I even put my hand on my hips. “You like?” I asked.

“Oh yes” he said, pulling off his jacket.

His hands ran up and down my legs, over my breasts. I sat on the bed and waited for him to take his shoes off. He pulled apart my legs and buried his face in my crotch. His tongue licked over my tights, his thumb pressing my clit through the fabric. I moaned, he moaned.

I had missed this. 

What followed is best described as a fight. We had discussed what I wanted and what he was keen to explore with me. We grappled with each other. He teased my pussy, brushing his fingers lightly over the gusset of the tights and occasionally licking. After a while I told him to rip my tights and he pulled them apart for the prize inside. I swung around to hang off the edge of the bed and he thrust into my mouth. His lips and tongue teased my pussy, he slapped it and groaned in that accent of his.

The next two hours were spent in pursuit of lust; pure and simple. His body was smoother than I remembered, his cock much larger.

He spat and rubbed at my pussy, his fingers close to triggering my orgasm. We thrust in unison; him in my mouth, his fingers in my cunt.

He threw me across the bed and fucked me until my head hung off the edge and I couldn’t get up. His mouth starts suckling on my nipple until one breast is almost completely inside it, his hands squeezing it tight. His sweat dripped over me from his head but his feet were stone cold.I came on top of him, at the same time as him. He cried out more than I did. We stopped for a while then picked up the pace again. He’s telling me about his recent swinging adventures with a couple, which could never fail to get me hot. The thought of him fucking someone else is hotter than anything I can think of right now. I cannot tell you how much I love hearing about other people’s sex lives in great detail.
I go to the loo and on the way back I see him picking up his trousers.

I hear myself saying ” You’re not going are you?” and instantly tell myself off. Of course he has to go at some point.

“No, not yet” he replies. “Come here – I want to try something”.
——–

I am practically upside down and his hands are still slapping my pussy as he alternates between spitting, slapping, rubbing and coaxing it into submission. Like a potter at the wheel he moulds me into my finest form. He grabs my legs and manoevers me into a position that he likes. I have lost my shit by this point, all I can think of is how has no-one else brought me to this crescendo before? His fingers are triggering all kinds of things, maybe it’s the length, maybe his touch. I am utterly his and as I hear the wet sound of his hand slapping my clit and the lusciousness of his lips on mine something happens which has not happened for a long time. He is crying out with pleasure too and lapping up my juices.

Something feels different. 

“Ah someone has not touched your G-spot before?” he says softly in my ear.

“Is that what happened?” I ask, shocked.

“A little, look at the bed” he gestures.

I look and the bed is wet. “That was me?” I blush.

“Mais oui” he grins from ear to ear.
———

I lay beside him as his cock slipped in and out of my mouth; hitting the back of my throat as I gagged. On purpose each time I came up for air I made sure a string of drool was left on his shaft because I knew he loved it. I can feel him stiffen in my mouth, my lips close around the base of his shaft and marvel at the smoothness there. He has no hair anywhere and the thrill of him slamming his cock into my mouth is addictive.

 “Putain, Putain” he cries and I think he’s said something else. His juice flows straight down my throat.
Later I ask what he said. Putain can mean anything from bitch, prostitute or “damn it”. 
What a fabulous word.