Drifting through the air, a muted jazz singer lamented the loss of her lover. Alone in the dining room, Antoine sat back in his chair, beguiled by the monochrome photographic print of Madame Bonheur. As the centrepiece on a wall, younger as a Mademoiselle, she conveyed an unknown emotion. Her eyes were so vivid with possibility, her strong jawline poised, tilting her delicate nose with closed painted lips. She exuded confidence.
Sitting amidst the stylish élan of its décor and furnishings, it was nothing like Antoine’s apartment. Polished chrome and smoked glass, mahogany woods and cream leather were all subdued by moody lighting. The intimate setting was unmistakable, permeating his naiveté, and the wine had loosened his tongue. Pondering those rumours again, he put them out of his mind; an unguarded remark could still ruin the evening.
Gliding back to the table, in light and shadow, Lucky smiled, more beautiful tonight than in the picture. Delicately painted, it accentuated her mesmerising features, and her wavy blonde hair swayed like meandering smoke. The sleek black dress revealed her beauty and personality. Demure, trimmed in chantilly lace, sensual in how it shimmered over her hourglass figure, Antoine was beguiled all over again. Smoothing the fabric as she sat, she leaned forward, and flickering candlelight danced over her flawless, ivory cleavage.
He managed to avert his eyes just in time.
Antoine sipped at his wine, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, ask anything, however,” she held up a finger, “it has been an excellent evening so far. Do not spoil that.”
He understood her dry sense of humour and grinned with her.
“This picture of you? Were you a model?”
Tinkling laughter followed, revealing the tiny lines in the corners of her eyes.
“No, my husband was an outstanding photographer.”
“He was a photographer?”
“Yes. He passed away two years ago. Suicide.”
Her nonchalance was a false friend. Realising his fears of a blundering faux pas, Antoine could not hide his sense of horror.
“Oh God... forgive me. I am so sorry. I should not have asked.”
“Oh, no, it is okay.” Her nonplussed tone reassured him, “He was very successful and made a lot of money. But inside, there was a fragile and secretive man. Too secretive even to those who loved him most.”
He fidgeted with his glass, “I am still sorry, though.”
“Thank you. I miss him, of course, and it is true,” Lucky muttered, swirling the wine in her glass. “Time is a great healer.”
Her motives for this evening were no longer shrouded in mystery. This act of kindness had nothing to do with those ridiculous rumours.
He took more than a sip of wine, “I know why you invited me to dinner.”
“Perhaps.” Lucky leaned forward with interest, “But tell me anyway.”
“Because my mother tried to kill herself, and you are trying to cheer me up.”
Tilting her head, she mused on his assertion, “Do you need cheering up?”
“If I said I did not, would that be a bad thing to say?”
“No, but do you find everyone says the same things to you? It will be okay. You will get through it.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled.
“No one says that life must go on. Seize the day. Be selfish, and do what you must.”
Antoine mulled over her words, “This is how I feel.”
“You came here tonight, so I know you understand.”
“I do,” he stated quickly and reciprocated her smile.
“And regardless of the rumours about me?”
Peering up from his glass, her playful smile prickled his face with heat.
“Erm…”
“Antoine,” she tutted, “I know what they are. I have spies everywhere.” Her grin widened, “Do you think any of them are true?”
“No.” Antoine spluttered, burning red hot.
Lucky recharged their glasses and sniggered, “Not even the salacious ones?”
He considered his answer twice, “Okay, maybe I did.”
“Antoine?”
Helpless, he looked up and latched onto her determined gaze, “Yes?”
Rising from her chair, she offered her hand, “Bring your wine, and I will show you which rumours are true.”
Led upstairs, she peered back with a wicked grin, and hot blood surged through his pounding chest. From doubt to certainty, back to doubt, and then to hope, Antoine was undone. This was her boudoir, and placing their glasses on a pedestal, she returned to him. With a hypnotic gait and sultry eyes, this is what a woman looked like with that on her mind.
Just like the photograph on the wall.
Sliding her hands over his shoulders, there was no electricity in her touch but magnetism in her eyes. Held by a tender squeeze of her waist, the distance between them narrowed. Dark, depriving one sense, he placed his lips upon hers and illuminated another. Months of tenuous hope poured into this simple act, and Lucky purred with appreciation. Boosting his confidence, Antoine squeezed her hip to bring her close, and his fierce erection pressed against the slight flare of her stomach.
He did not yield as they folded into a tight clinch, strong and muscular against her; the situation overwhelmed Lucky by degrees. Demonstrating his inexperience toyed with her long-held fantasy. Taking his hand, she placed it on her breast. Soft and broad in his hand, its span could not constrain it. The ebb and flow of her lips upon his quickened. Unable to resist the temptation, she opened his mouth, fuelling a stifled groan as her tongue played with his. Deeper and deeper into passion, Lucky peddled backwards towards the bed. Captured in his embrace, Antoine’s strength broke her fall.
She did not count the weeks, months… or years since she had a man in her bedroom. Yes, she had been attracted to Antoine for a long time. Yes, this would be a special memory for him… and her.
Lucky would make a man of him, and he would reawaken her need for sexual fulfilment: a gift for a gift.
-=-
The thin wooden wall thudded as Celine pushed him against it. As a flurry of wet, hungry kisses, she pulled his jacket off his shoulders, trapping his arms. Aggressive, pulling his hair, she exposed his thick, stubbly neck, dark as burnt umber. Sucking on it, her hands ranged over his rugged chest, down his side to the bulge in his jeans, kneading its rigidity.
Illuminated by grotty striplights, she tilted her head to scrutinise the beast of a man with his balls in her grasp. It gave him time to recover; his eyes narrowed as she goaded the animal within. Throwing off his jacket, he pulled her loose top down. Exposing her breasts, she felt the warmth of his squeezing hands. Urgent mouths competed for supremacy, their tongues sliding as snorted air betrayed their need. Pinching her nipple, it brought a fiery spice to her churning loins.
Who went to this kind of sleazy bar in the worst part of Paris? An establishment that provided bored-looking table dancers and was almost empty. A place that needed doormen like this? She wanted him as soon as she saw him. The thump-thump of incessant bass was the invasive sound that concealed their passion.
Last night was not enough. He showed such promise but failed to quench her needs.
Lifting the hem of her dress, the tiles were cold and leeched through her boots. The belt buckle slipped open easily, as did his jeans. Revealing who had the upper hand, Celine leered into his maniacal eyes, yanking at the rough denim, pulling it down over his sturdy thighs. She marvelled at the thick outline in his tight briefs, nuzzling on the constrained shaft with her playful eyes locked on his. He pulled them down, freeing the ebony beast and narrowly missing her face.
Celine rewarded his eagerness, taken in both hands, and its rigid weight promised much. Licking at the plump glans, she revealed her delight at his predicament. His deflated groan met with her muffled purr, pulling on his thighs as her mouth provided a facsimile of her broiling hot cunt.
She found his thick fingers through her hair disappointing. Using his thighs for leverage, she impaled herself onto his fat shaft, the corpulent head grazing the roof of her mouth. Taking him deeper, her throat spasmed around it, and he bellowed like a wounded animal.
Gripping fistfuls of her hair, it began, and the shuffling of his hips fed it to her. Celine plunged for it, throwing out his rhythm, pressing the tip of her nose against the soft down of his pubic bone. Groaning louder, he asserted himself and took charge, urgently rifling her mouth. Drooling heavily, saliva ran down her chin and dripped over her breasts.
Lost in the musk of his loins, snorting for air, her mind sang for more. This was what she was, and the sense of danger was an addiction greater than the act itself.
His strength surprised Celine. The limited space in this toilet cubicle was no obstacle as his rough, dark hands span her around. Pulling up her mini skirt, she pushed out her behind. Held against the thin wall, he kicked her legs apart and rubbed his cock against her drenched sex. Taunting her, she whimpered in frustration. She had to have him; she wanted its superior dimensions and the pleasure it could provide.
“Go on then,” she hissed, “stick it in me.”
He gave out a derisory snort, “Yeah, you sure?”
“Fuck me… fucking do…”
The determined invasion stole her breath and scorched her body. He was big, squeezed tight inside her drenched box. Instantly panting, he sawed it deeper and deeper into her nubile sex. The first thrust slapped her pert behind against his loins and made her yelp. Fully impaled, both shovel hands gripped her waist, and the second thrust dissolved all strength from her, fusing her mind. The third emptied her mind, and the fourth hammer blow amplified the insane pleasure.
“Fuck me…” she whimpered, “fuck me like a slut.”
His slow booming laughter followed, “Oh, I will.”
Igniting all her lust at once, he clattered against her, smothered in a bear-hug. Pulling on her nipples, he nailed her like a machine gun. Struggling to breathe, interrupted by involuntary yelps, he overloaded her body. Shaking her lithe frame, the spontaneity and how he sullied her pristine body exploded as flashbulbs in her mind. This was the dirty thrill she yearned for. The snug friction fed the swelling tension, encouraging his stout shoves.
“Yes… yes… oh fuck, yes!”
“Harder… fuck me… fuck me…,” she squealed, “fuck me!”
“Oh, you are getting that,” gruffly spoken, and clearly amused, he redoubled his efforts.
Clamping on his thick cock, the rising waves of ecstasy overwhelmed her. Pounding at her, this spicy orgasm lacked the potency she craved.
“Huh… Huh…”
Ploughed hard, there was no more yelping, just this forced expulsion of air. The rich timbre of his booming laughter followed. Celine plumbed the taboo depths of her mind, igniting her body in reply. Pressed against the wall by his bulk and lifted on tiptoes, her entire body shook. Every shove stung her behind, and his stout girth stoked the raging inferno within.
“Cum inside me, you bastard,” she spat, “Make me your cumslut.”
“Yeah, you want it?” His calm composure undid her.
“Fuck!” she reeled, skewered deep, “Yes! Yes! Creampie me, you bastard!”
Celine whimpered her plea incessantly.
“Dirty fucking bitch!” he barked, slamming into her.
Granted the pornographic ending she dared to imagine, the crest of a second wave rose. Crammed tight inside, swelling to the point of no return, she let go. Wailing through the seizures, helplessly convulsing, he showed no mercy. Her body shuddered, aflame with severe aftershocks and his deep, stabbing lunges. With snatched short breaths, he slowed. Lifting her onto her toes one last time, her stranger pulsed hard.
“Yeah,” he boomed, “there it is.”
His muted plosive grunts signalled how much he gave her.
Suddenly empty, with a hot glow of relief for company, her panted gasps mixed with the muffled thump-thump of lazy bass. Peering down, his cum splattered onto the grubby terracotta tiles. Celine heard him dress, and the cubicle door creaked open.
