Our one-time workplace fling’s reached its third adultiversary. She's addictive.

I ensured I was in her city for meetings. Anonymous hotel on the Parisian outskirts where recognition is unlikely. Cash room. Physical key. We're suited and booted ready for the night out, and plan on coming back here after dinner to fuck until we can't stay awake.

Now? This is the amuse bouche. The prelude. Warmup.

Léa has such perfect lips. The lower one’s full. Kissable. The upper forms twin slopes that sweep outward from the tantalising central peak above front teeth that are momentarily exposed when she gasps.

“Merde.”

I smile and lower the wand vibrator I’d dabbed against her exposed clit. Wait for her to settle back against the wall, legs shoulder-width apart.

The hoop at the leather collar's centre quivers. Then rattles as she shakes her head and recomposes herself. She keeps her dress raised at the front like a good girl.

“More?”

She takes a lengthy breath. Clearly stalling, but I let her. “Oui.”

The buzz makes contact with her clit and I hold it for several seconds as she twists, wriggles and thrashes her head against the plaster, almost braying with the effort required not to cum without permission. It's been nearly half an hour of sexual torment and I've not had to whip her pretty cunt with my belt.

Yet.

I pull the toy away. The buzzing continues, a reminder, while she hisses and rocks her pert ass against the wall, glistening thighs squeezed together.

Her cleavage nestles in a delightful 'U', formed between the shoulder straps. Lifting the wand, I dab each erect nipple through the dress fabric, and she jerks like she's been shot in the ribs at each touch.

“Putain, eh,” she spits.

I tuck a few stray, inky hairs behind her ear from the pinned-up mane. “Such a dirty mouth on something so très, très belle. Submit?”

We need to leave soon. It's a short walk to the Metro. Six stops to Montparnasse. Dinner’s at 8.

She slowly raises her head from where it had been lolling. Fixes me a stare. Nobody would dream that behind those beautiful, brown eyes, a caged slut hides. She's like a panther wrapped in Crepe de Chine.

A playful smirk crosses those perfect lips. “C'est tout?”

I shake my head in wonder. “No, Léa. That is definitely not,” I jam the device against her pussy lips and she wails, “All.”

Her groans rise with the sustained pressure, turning feral as she snarls, trying to keep a lid on her climax. “Merde-merde, Christian. Arrête… arrête!”

She twists her hips to disengage and I drag the toy across her clit, making her scream before I pull away, as requested.

With my free hand, I cup her mound. Pat the dripping, thick thatch. Slip a pair of fingers inside and fuck her with them as she moans, rolling her head. “You’re soaked. The restaurant chair’s going to be such a mess without your panties.”

“Mmmm, je sais.”

I know.

My tone changes. “I saw Arnaud sniffing around you in the office. He likes you. Do you give him this?”

I withdraw. Rub her pussy lips.

“Non.”

“What about Didier? He’s quite the ladies man.”

She screws up her face. “Non! Je suis à toi.”

I'm yours.

I chuckle. Bring the wet digits to my lips, smearing her arousal. Inhaling. Licking. “All mine?”

“Oui.”

“Not your husband's?”

She falters. “Uhh oui… non. Uhhm.” She shrugs. Chews her lip. “C’est compliqué.”

I click the button up a speed and lodge it against her clit. She wails. Twists, the dress hem swaying in her grip.

“Wrong answer, kitten. And there was me thinking you wanted to cum.”

Her legs quake, whole body quivering as she starts to sob and beg. “S'il te plâit.” Please. Then hollower: “Ohh, s'il te plâit.”

Clicking the wand another notch, I slide my free hand to her throat around the collar. It’s purely symbolic, but she moans as the more intense vibrations bite and swamp her.

“Who do you belong to?”

She says nothing. Just pants and shakes. Drips.

“Who. Do. You. Bel—”

“Toi!” She gasps. “Toi seul.” A whimper escapes. “S'il te plâit.”

Yanking the toy free, I release her throat and slap her cunt. Just once, the wet splat filling the room alongside her anguished groan. “Non… non.”

I hold the device up between us, the smooth head glimmering with her juices. Click it off, bring it to her mouth and have her lap it clean before tossing it to the bed with a thud.

“Good girl.”

Unbuttoning my dark slacks, I free my prick, fully engorged, its tip glistening with pre-cum. Jacking the thick shaft under her watchful stare, our arousal's unified. “You say you're solely mine?” I pick up speed, breath quickening. “Let's mark you. Make sure.”

I wank faster, breaths becoming uneven. Deeper. With a final flourish, teeth gritted, groans rising, I fire laces of spunk to snag, loop and dangle from her pubes. Some spurts skim her thigh or bounce to the carpet. Most hit the mark and cling.

As my breath stabilises, I catch her eye. “Let go of the dress.”

It flutters to rest around her thighs and I trail a fingertip from its hem up over her hips, her side, skim the edge of a breast, across her flushed décolletage, and tilt her chin up with the tip.

My lips descend to hers. She responds, whimpering into my mouth as stubble scuffs her cheek and our tongues swirl.

When I break the kiss, I stroke her chin. Continue up to circle her ear. “You may cum at the restaurant, soumise.”

Her horror is short-lived, steely resolve replacing it when my hand finds hers. I whisper, “Happy anniversary,” lead us from the room, along the plush corridor to the elevator and out into the oppressive Parisian air with its perpetual undercurrent of heat and lust, her lace panties in my pocket.

The night’s our plaything.