After long years of being afraid to commit I've finally met someone who charmed me enough to become his girlfriend. The boy has all the advantages except of the extremely difficult character, especially if he loses a bet in tennis (for most of the times he's winning - fortunately). He's Russian, so all those moodswings they call a "Russian soul." I'm a petite brunette from Poland, with a nice set of boobies, and I'm famous of being a tough cookie as well. Though, my darling is worth to fight for and I have already agreed on some of his commands. In the story you'll find some pro tennis related words, because I'm a journalist and work on the tour.


The early days of January in Paris characterized with the grayness of the forever melting snow during the day and a million of darkness brightening lights at the twilight. Couples holding hands exhaled in awe anytime the long like Beyonce's legs Eiffel Tower sparkled at the full hours. Somewhere between the Catholic and Orthodox New Year celebrations the shop windows dressed red in advance for the Valentines. In the mesmerizing atmosphere of the commercially catalyzed happiness the three of us walked in silence. Me, Stan, and the vastly overrated French tennis mug Guillaume Rufin on Stan's iPhone. It's been five hours we haven't talked with the exception of a few short clauses about the place to go for a dinner. I could barely keep up with the pace in my black knee-length boots and a short golden dress which the more I rushed, the more it scrolled up.

Whatever wouldn't we choose, one gets assured about the approaching Portuguese waiter prone to mix each existing language of the world and to name the whole thing "English" with his casual gaucho's accent. Our inn turned out to be a seafood restaurant. I scanned the menu in my research for anything edible enough, because the Polish stomachs can throw an octopus up quicker than vodka.

"Shrimps? Would think of District 9... no heart to eat them," I acted cheerful as I observed with the corner of my eye how my partner is agitated about the match.

In consequence, when the waiter came, I only stammered,

"A mug, please. Yes, with coffee."

He ordered something I'd heard for the first time and rolled his eyes on me.

"Good choice. You're too fat anyway."

I bit my tongue to catch on time the risky question about one of the seventeen breakpoints the next big hope of tennis failed to convert. Gypsy kids wandered around in an attempt of selling any of their cheesy red roses and, more likely, to grab some wallets if left unattended. I kept admiring the table-cloth aware of the fact any warmth I could get tonight would be the evening hot shower. Still I couldn't handle the fifty centimeters of a hail cloud sparing us to the other sides of the furniture.

"I wish you talked to me," I saddened.

"Just please deprive me of all this habitual female hysteria!"

A bunch of perky pumpkins from the neighbourhood tables suddenly turned all ears in our direction, probably used to living with other people's life. I put my head down so the hair would cover a couple a tears that sneaked out of my eyes and I managed to grasp with my tongue and hide from the world in my mouth's cave.

"If there was something I could do to make you satisfied..."

He gave me a puzzled look for a couple of seconds before the interest in the match in progress took over. On our way out we bumped into some low level French journeymen usually polluting the draws of the Polish low level tennis events. They seemed to have recognized me, so I faked a smile, despite I felt anything but jolly. As soon as we left Stan grabbed my wrist between his thumb and an index finger, which was nowhere close to the cold-saving adorable hand holding in his jacket's pocket.

"Why won't you join your obscure friends from the lowest sort of the satellite tour you clearly seemed to be obsessed about?"

I grimaced in pain. I was trained enough to realize a defensive statement about never planning to touch any of those random guys with a tip of my nail wouldn't be believed. At the hotel room I took off my coat and shoes and expected to have a shower while Stan would turn on the TV to watch for the next few hours on CNN what has Carla Bruni claimed and how Michelle Obama reacted to that. I hated evenings like that. Too early to go sleep, too much negative emotion to talk. Suddenly something distracted me from creating a glorious plan for the rest of the night. It was my darling's voice.

"On your knees, you bitch."

I wasn't anybody's bitch. I wasn't a bitch at all. I'm a lady full of class and honour, and who has always been treated with the proper manners and who knew how to execute respect from men. No sperm swallowing, no hands or especially bigger attributes in the closest surrounding of my asshole, and no excessive vocabulary, which is understood per se. I looked in the brown eyes hung forty centimeters above mine and... I obediently kneeled.

I was too shy to gaze at him getting undressed, but I caught the glimpses of that fascinating action in a big mirror on the wall. I thought I'd need pillows to lift me higher up for a blowjob. I could reach his balls to suck, but no way for a dick stiff so much that it stuck to his belly and the blue veins peaked out of the impressive shaft. I moisturized his testicles with a musk of my tongue. The cock's base was the highest I could go. I pushed my arms forward for the saviour, but Stan caught my both hands to block them over my head.

"With your mouth. No help."

He bent his knees a bit to ram all the package straight inside my luscious lips. I could only pull my head back and accept at full length. A reflex I instantly encountered squeezed my tears out. I had nowhere to escape with my head; needed to be gagged and to moan with a tune of despair and a dirty pleasure. The dick began to swell as my inner cheeks rubbed him and a tongue attempted to tease in several techniques - either with the whole area, either with a tip, or from the reverse side. I was more and more desperate for breathing. The shallow breaths-in I could grasp in hurry with my nose weren't revealing enough. I closed my eyes. The tears started to smear my lower eyeliner's line. At least Lancome's mascara might be the best at the market, so it stayed firm on the lashes giving me hopes for not looking awfully pitiful.

"No eyes closing. Look at me. I want to see the joy of getting pounded."

In response another hot stream of water ran down my face, because the bits of make-up got inside my eyes to bother them. The world darkened and started to twist around for me. Stan put a finger next to his cock into my already stretched to infinity mouth. The corners of my lips were on the edge of breaking. I groaned, afraid, but felt at the same time how my vagina squirted in elation. He let my hands go. They fell down limp from keeping tense for several minutes. The dick withdrew from my lips a bit, but only to prepare space for a waterfall of the well-known thick substance. I gathered all the fountain in the mouth and sucked off the drops. There was so much of it some dripped out onto my chin. I landed on my ass catching a breath and I planned to go to the bathroom to send the semen into the "jizz-heaven" which obviously is the sink's pipe.

"Now, swallow," he ordered.

Really, what could be sexy in an exhausted Natalia with blackened tears tossing with the white sperm on her red-cheeked face swollen of crying?

But I listened to him.

to be continued :)))