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La Petite Mort

When you have a burning need ...

There you are again. It’s Friday evening.

You’ve gone out with the office crowd.

Those numpties, delinquents, and losers that think they are the bee’s knees.

You’re aching. You want cock. No, not just cock but a good fuck.

Certainly not the sort you could have ten times a day from ‘Great Dave’, ‘Always score Ian’, or any of the rest of them. You want a man who knows how to please a woman! Is it that hard? 'Did I say hard?'

But does he exist? Since you moved to London you've done it how many times? You’ve had your head forced into the pillow while he slams into you. Part strangled. Hundred and twenty kilos of blubber on top of you when you wanted to show him how well you can work a cock. ‘You’ll love it darling’ – ‘well maybe if I could feel anything was in me.’ ‘Do you like my hair?’ asks Slickback ‘No it’s greasy!’ covered in ‘brilcum’ – that’s what it’s called isn’t it?

You have a fantastic, multi-orgasmic, ambrosia flooding pussy that will sing and dance if treated right and, yes, OK, sometimes, late on in a session does need to be shagged hard, but not from the get-go! Give her time. Yes, she likes big, good girth more than long, but then a gentle start has got you to heaven and back on a cock that you didn’t think would touch the edges – well not until his tongue made all of you quiver… well, enough of that. Well not enough.

You also love to suck cock, reverently, gently, delicately. Build him up to close to a burst, back off, then do it again until his balls ache to cum. And then you make him cum, that special suck that pushes him over the top, and you drain every last drop out of him into your greedy mouth. You’re that sort of a girl. Sucking and shagging.

It’s time to go.

You go to the station, the mid evening service is good and you’re on a train home. People seem happy, happy with what they are taking home, happy it’s Friday, happy to be not working tomorrow. You start to look around. He looks good, and him. A vision of him naked forms in your mind. Well endowed, of course. But before you get up close you see another one. And oh, he looks fantas… so why is he shouting into his phone? Ah well, maybe not so fantastic. That one, quiet, in the corner seat. The picture in your mind is of him slipping his boxers down and his cock flicking up. He’s talking and smiling, you can’t hear a word but get the feeling they are soft, gentle, loving. All loved up. Not what you wish for at the moment. Life.

You’re off the train and are walking home. ‘I’ll warm up that… no, I’ll slip into this new restaurant and see what happens.’ You know a mindless fuck with a stranger would be just what you need.

“Table for one,” you say and the waiter takes you to a corner table that could seat two, that overlooks most of the restaurant. You sit, order a glass of wine, look around and feel you want to touch yourself. ‘You can’t do that!’ Just a gentle brush on your lips. Maybe the brush of a well-trimmed moustache?

The main course is ordered and maybe a dessert will follow. You look around, couples, a few fours, a noisy six in the window. One gives you that look, the look only given to a woman on her own. The ‘I know what you are’ look. The ‘Come on darling, come to daddy’ look. Tosser.

Then in he comes. Polite, casually dressed, talks with the waiter, is shown to the table for two next to you. He chooses to sit in the chair that part faces you. He has a paper, a tablet, a serious air and a well-trimmed moustache. In your mind his shirt is opened, his belt undone, his trousers are being pulled down by your hands.

He orders, your wine arrives and it seems wrong not to raise your glass to him, so you do, mouthing ‘cheers’. He looks surprised, but smiles and drinks from an imaginary glass in reply, then goes back to his tablet, still looking very serious. Oh well, you tried! Your hand is on the bulge in his Y fronts.

Then his wine arrives and he talks to the waiter, a glance to you.

The waiter returns with another glass of your wine, well the first one was almost gone.

“From the gentleman,” he says with a slight bow.

“Thank you for being a welcoming face on a bleak night,” he says and raises his glass to you. Two tables for two with one on each become a table for two with two.

Chatter flows easily. He is articulate, with bright and lively conversation, and he listens to you. He’s here to solve a computer problem for a local company, on duty at seven tomorrow, yes seven, and on a Saturday. You sympathise. His eyes, they are fluid and concentrate on you, not the blonde in the table for six. His lips, no it’s not his lips, it’s his tongue. He licks the centre of his lips now and again. A lizard-like lick. There, he did it again.

Main courses arrive and you are still happily chatting. He’s married. What! But the subject passes quickly, no pictures of children, wife, grandparents, just a statement so you know.

You are sharing your travels, your like for cooking, your anger at current politics, his eyes…. And another flick of that tongue

The plates are cleared.

“Where are you staying?” you ask, innocent like.

“The hotel across the road.”

“Ah! Best you’ve ever stayed in?”

“Not quite, hence escaping here.”

Your hand is on your lap but it's not resting there. You are struggling to stop it. That urge to feel a touch on your lips is back.

Your foot has slipped out of your shoe and you are struggling to stop it ….

“Dessert?” asks the waiter.

“You choose,” he says.

You look. Lover’s chocolate fool for two leaps out. You point, the waiter grins and walks off.

“Would you like another glass of wine?” he asks.

“Maybe something that goes with the dessert I’ve ordered.” You beckon the waiter back and ask for to two Monbazillacs, too sweet to drink unless with a dessert. That foot almost slipped between his thighs before you stopped it.

The meal is done. The coffees are done. The tables have thinned to yours and the six. The night beckons. It’s decision time. You want him. Not forever. But his caring manner, his politeness, his eyes, those long fingers, and that tongue that flits across the centre of his lips make you want him for now.

You should go home. He is married. He could be a psychopath. No, to the last, he won’t be a psychopath.

Your hand has just liberated his cock from his Y fronts. It looks magnificent when you are up close to it. What does it taste like? He is so caring. Reality returns.

He offers to pay. The waiter brings the card machine. Simpson, Mr Mike Simpson.

The evening ends with much thanks for the great relief from hotel boredom. It’s started to drizzle so you reluctantly part. He wasn’t pushy, no ‘Can I have a coffee at yours’, just a sincere thank you, a formal peck and he is walking away. Was he phoning his wife? Cooing to his children?

You walk toward home. Drizzle and no umbrella. Thank you!

It’s a short walk and you are home. Your key goes to the lock but, try as you can, it won’t go in it. No problem, just you don’t want to be home alone tonight.

Can I do this?

What if he says ‘Go away’? He had been charming, but was there even a flirt? Yes, there was a bit.

I should have slipped my foot between his legs, tested him out. Why were you so reserved when you were simmering for sex?

You are at the hotel reception. Simpson. Brother, colleague, friend? Why wouldn't you have their mobile number?

“You have a guest here tonight, name of Simpson. He left his credit card in the restaurant, I’d like to get it back to him before he cancels it!” What lies fall out of your mouth when you want cock.

The receptionist looks uncertain, but checks the system, then goes into the office.

“Mr Simpson will be down in a moment so you can return his card,” she says.

And he is.

He takes you into the empty bar area.

“I know I didn’t leave my card in the restaurant, is there a problem?”


“I know too, but I enjoyed your company,” suck my pussy, “so much,” fuck me hard, “I wondered if we could share a nightcap?” you say with your best, sweetest, smile and tits pushed up. “Didn’t like to think of you being stuck here, alone … “

He looks uncomfortable.

“This might sound incorrect but this hotel bar is rather naff. Would you be willing for us to go to my room?”

'Yes please!' shouts your inner voice.

Is that a bulge?

“I’m fine with that.”

He ordered two brandies and you go up with him.

In his room, he sits in the chair and you perch on the end of the bed, your choice.

He looks at you, clear and straight.

“You came back and found me, I’m guessing that you feel we have more to do?”

“I hope we have a lot to do,” you hear yourself reply. ‘God, who am I? Who put that naughty grin on my face?’

He looks again, searchingly.

There is a deafening silence.

That continues.

“I’ll be honest. I’m single, surrounded by pricks who think they are sex gods. I’ve tried them and they are useless. Fucking useless.” ‘Ops, shouldn’t have said that.’ “You can talk, understand conversation, make me smile and laugh, and I think you'll be a good fuck."

‘Who said that? Don’t talk for me, Oh, it was me.’

Of all the expressions he could have had, his wasn’t shock or even surprise. He holds out his hand and you take it. He pulls, gently, until you stand. He closes his arms around your head, pulls you next to his body and whispers, “Very honest and open and I’m cool with all of that. And up for it.” ‘Did he stress up?’ “Any preferences to begin with?” he asks.

“Whatever you fancy.” You exhale.

His hands slip down your back, cup your cheeks, hold you tight against him. You open your mouth and bite, not too hard, into his neck. Your hands go in two directions, one up his back, to keep your bodies pressed together, the other between you, finding his cock, ensuring he knows what is to come. Cum.

“I want you to know that despite being a computer engineer I’m also a linguist.”


“Er, OK.”

“A man who understands the tongue…”

“Show me…”

It is one fluid motion. Holding your shoulders, he pushes you gently back to the bed, then lowers you until you lie flat on the bed. His hands slip up the outside of your thighs, find your panties and slip back down. You lie there, skirt up, bare pussy, him standing over you. He kneels, head between your thighs, a kiss on the lips, the touch of a moustache. He lifts your legs, a thigh on each shoulder. Then the licking and swirling begins.



“How the fuc..”


Hip thrusts, he dips his finger in the brandy and coats your lips with it then licks and sucks it off.


“Jesus! Oh..”


You can’t control your body now. He has it. If he keeps doing that you’ll never be in control again.

“Stop, I love it, Stop.” You push his head away.

He looks at you. Straight into your mind.

“You sure you want me to stop?”

“Get your tongue back on my pussy now!

And he does, after adding a little more brandy. Immediately you are back up there. You writhe, twist, slam your thighs together on his head. But he keeps licking. You orgasm. Your stomach rolls, your legs quiver, and it keeps happening and happening. Your legs drop off his shoulders leaving you wide open, total surrender.

He leaves you be until the twitching stops and you open your eyes. He is kneeling between your thighs and as you watch he places the palm of his hand over your pussy, applying a gentle pressure then squeezing your lips together onto your swollen clit.

‘This man knows how to,’ you think.

You reach out, unbutton his shirt, tugging it from his trousers, tossing it away. He responds by opening your blouse. You help him and unclip your bra, throwing it after his shirt. You roll over and tell him to unzip your skirt. When he does you slide out of it, turn and approach him on all fours. You grip his shoulder and he falls easily, face up, on the bed, head towards you. You crawl over him, a brief kiss on the lips, tease his mouth with your erect nipples, then a final slide so your pussy is on his mouth. You undo his belt, unzip him, push his trousers down his legs. Y fronts! With a very big bulge. You hook your fingers under the waistband and pull hard, releasing his cock which slaps against your cheek.

You reach out for brandy glass and pour a little over the top of his cock, well what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander! As you hold his shaft, moving your mouth slowly towards his swollen tip he parts your pussy and sucks your clit into his mouth then repeatedly squeezes it, rapidly, between his lips. You force your lips around the head of his cock, taking more and more of it into your mouth. Once it’s in, you bob your head up and down, while sealing your lips onto his shaft. At last, he releases your clit and groans, but it is too late for you. Your mouth freezes but your hips shudder and you pound up and down on his face, but this time it won't stop and you fall off him to his left, eyes tight shut.

You open them only when you feel his arms hook under your knees, lift and spread your legs. He is smiling and you are beaming. Your hands reach out to hold his hard cock, pulling it towards your pussy, using it to stroke your swollen, wet lips, then a final pull causes him to kneel up, then cover you with his body and you guide his cock into your cunt in one smooth action.

You thrill at the feel, the fullness, and then he starts to move in and out, short movements and slowly at first. He is watching your face and you grin in return.

“Oh, Mr Simpson, fuck me, god, fuck me!” Your legs go around his waist and you lock your ankles behind him, using your lower legs to help push him down harder on the in-stroke.

And he does as you ask.

His cock pushes repeatedly into your cunt. You grip on to it, but it still pushes in right up to the hilt. You are so wet and with your legs adding force to the in-stroke you cum, cum, cum, eyes roll, cum, what, blackness wipes across your eyes...

Your eyes open, you are groggy, brain restarting. He is sitting there, between your legs, one of your legs is on his shoulder, the other widespread.

“You OK?” he asks.

You are not sure for a second, but another vaginal contraction sends pleasure through your body.

"Sorry, that's never happened to me before…..” Your voice trails away.

“No problem, it’s ‘La petite mort’, ‘The little death’ – my wife used to do it when we first got together.”

You are getting things together. You lift your leg off his shoulder. You’d been fucking and a violent series of orgasms had hit you.

“No man has ever done that to me before ..”

“Done that for you I think is the right way to say it.”

He has a raging hard on. The head of his cock is throbbing red, almost purple. He hasn’t cum yet. You shake your head to clear it.

You push up on your elbows, still a little muzzy.

“You haven’t cum.”

“No, I realised you’d checked out and stopped.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s emotional overload. If I’d known...”

You are moving toward him. Your cunt feels like it will explode any minute it anything goes inside it.

“Lie back, please don’t touch me.”

"OK," sounding serious.

You take his cock into your mouth. You suck, you play your head up and down, then you lick, every inch, especially the last inch. Time and time again, then enclose the end in your mouth, lips shut tight and tongue swirling across the hot, smooth, round head. He winces, groans and your hand closes around the base of his shaft and pumps, and pumps, and pumps.

A gusher of hot, silky, cum squirts into your mouth, once, twice, three times, and more. The taste is gorgeous. You choke a little as it floods down your throat, lift off and still another squirt flies into the air. But you swallow, swallow all you have in your mouth and smile at his anguished face...

At last, a man who can.



This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright of Rex Rouget 2019. All rights reserved.

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