It was 6 AM in my cozy Paris apartment. I woke up soaked, pussy throbbing. Not tired—fucking horny. Stretched like a cat, nuisette hiked up over my belly. Quick breakfast, then shower. Hot water hit my skin, nipples hardening. Thought of him. My baker boy. Sylvain. That lean 19-year-old with hazel eyes and a cheeky grin. Took over the shop after old man died. First time I saw him, 7 AM, streets empty. Stammered hello, drowned in his gaze. He didn’t flirt. Just served. But I was hooked. Petite, perky tits, tight ass, ginger hair, freckles. Guys usually drool. Not him. Teased me daily with the fluffiest pain au chocolat. ‘Morning, Anaïs.’ God, that smile. Heart raced. Fantasized nonstop. He’s younger. Innocent. My dirty secret thrill.
Months of morning rituals. Chit-chat. Learned he starts at 5 AM, lives close, single. Windy February night, post-work coffee. Crossed the street—tires screech. Blackout. Woke in hospital. His hand in mine. ‘I hit you. So sorry.’ Stayed all night. Skipped work. Leg broken, bruises. He called my job, family. Whispered, ‘You looked stunning crossing. Recognized you after. Never saw you that way before. Clients off-limits. But you’re gorgeous.’ Heart exploded. Parents met him—blushed calling him ‘boyfriend.’ Discharged soon. Home on crutches. No more bakery runs. Depressed. Then—knock. 6:15 AM. Him with my pastry. ‘Delivery service.’ Kissed his cheek. He grabbed my hand. ‘Anaïs, you’re stunning. Can’t stop thinking.’ Wanted to fuck him on the table. Dinner invite. Italian spot. Foot on his hard cock under table. Groaned. Home. Couch. Guided his hands—face, belly, tits. Unzipped me. Sucked nipples wild. Freed his thick cock. Soft, hot. Jerked him slow. He fingered my wet slit clumsily. Stripped. Ate my pussy. Found my clit. Came hard. Watched him stroke furiously. Told him keep going—loved it. Fingered myself deep. We exploded—cum on my tits.
Waking Up Aching for Him
Next mornings, same. Hesitant. ‘Did I take advantage?’ Tears. ‘I’m a virgin. Never loved before.’ Jackpot. Taught him slow—licking, fingering. No fucking yet. Crutches off. Surprise bakery visit pre-open. Backroom heat. Carried me to flour-dusted table. Stripped me. Licked everywhere. Farina handfuls—smeared my body. Ass cheeks massaged. Tongue on my asshole. First time. Shocked, wet. Fingers in, clit rubbed. Came silent on all fours. Sucked him deep—throat-fucked till he spurted. Ready now. Condom on. Missionary slow. Filled me perfect. Eyes locked. We were one. Came together. Pure.
That night, bed marathon. Every position. Then anal—tongue-prepped, fingers, then his cock splitting me. Hurt good, then bliss. Pounded hard. Anal clench milked his load. Moved in days later. Four years on—bought the bakery. No customers? Backroom romps. Flour fights, ass fucks, cum everywhere. My secret thrill: corrupting my boy into a sex god. Society’d judge. But this forbidden fire? Mine alone.