Crowded vernissage at the ‘Waste of Works’ sculpture expo in this big central French city. Recycled junk turned art. Not Paris—more intimate, folks clump by cliques. Plump bodies everywhere, good regional eats showing. I weave through, eyeing curves and sculptures. Salty local meats melt on my tongue.
Freeze. There she is. Tall bitch, 1.80m plus heels. Wavy brunette hair, fine features, sad-black eyes that light up smiling. Slim but stacked perfect—long legs in leather pants, angora cardigan gaping open, tits teasing. No bra? Fuck, that wool screams ‘touch me,’ shedding everywhere, old-school sexy.
Igniting the Flame
She’s chatting the bishop, who’s sweating apoplexy under his robe. He approached; she’s dodging confession. They drift my way to the buffet. I play cool, munch Roquefort canapé. Hands brush grabbing the same snack.
“Please, this one’s yours,” I say. She smiles—pure fire. Not local. American housewife vibe? Nah, too bold.
“Stranger with manners. Not from here. What brings you?”
“Anthropology study on bourgeois sex habits in central France highlands.”
She laughs. “Perfect. I’m in the know—bourgeoise anesthesiologist. Call me Fernande.”
“You look more life-giver than sleeper. Fernande a fake name?”
“Real deal. Chose it arriving in France, wrong century. Back home Romania, Doina.”
“You’ll stick without the pun.” She grabs my arm, tours the crowd like old lovers. Gossips dirt: cheating notary, horny shopkeepers, bishop perving moms, nudist farmers with more cocks than cunts, cop inquisitor, sinful mechanic nurse duo. Surgeon I wanna deck for groping—his bitch called me slutty. Tennis coach heartbroken. Pharmacist chick eats pussy like a champ—I tested.
Dizzy. “Air—now.” Terrace empty. Fresh night hits. Her eyes say yes. Spot ladder below. Dash, climb, grab her hand: “On love’s light wings I flew over these walls. Stone fences can’t stop it.”
Juliette-Fernande leans, kisses my forehead, flashes cleavage—bra confirmed. “Meet me downstairs.”
Close now. Kiss her hands, slip to lips. “What’re you doing?” But she yields. Soft taste, pheromones swap. Pact sealed. Crowd nears—we part.
Surrender to Ecstasy
“My place tonight?” Arm in arm, avenue stroll, hand squeeze electric. Dark alley—devour her mouth. Steps echo; we bolt to her 18th-century mansion. Up grand stairs, her ass swaying. Rococo luxe meets modern chic.
She yanks my collar—crash onto couch, me on top. Fingers in hair, kiss cheeks, neck arches offered. Carotid pulse under silk skin, angora tease. Nibble ear, unclip earring. She moans, clutches tight.
Caresses blaze. To bedroom: massive four-poster bed, swapper-sized. Unbutton angora—slips off shoulders. Natural tits, barely sagged. “Put the wool back, unbuttoned. So fucking sensual.”
She does. I strip, kneel, peel heels—painted toes. Leather pants down, lacy thong. Bushy mound, plump ass. Soon thighs spread, pussy begging.
Mirror corner: naked embrace. She strokes my rock-hard cock. Behind her, hands roam—tits, ass, hips via wool. Thighs part, fingers find sopping slit, clit swollen.
Bed. Her on back. Lick her left finger, guide to clit. She rubs, writhing like wind-swept wheat. I stroke slow—two hours hard, edging.
“Come!” Cock at gates, slick dive in. Hot velvet grips. Bottom out, pin her. Slow pumps build. She circles clit, bucks. Explodes—eyes shut, body limp, whimpers.
Angora tits vision triggers me. Cum blasts, collapse neck-nuzzled. Hold some back.
Roll side, still in. Kiss, stir. She scoops our juice, feeds me taste. Sucks finger. “Your pleasure?”
“Yours first.” Reverse cowgirl to mirror. Ass perfection, swallows cock. Spread cheeks—winking rosebud later. Waves ripple flesh. Hands on wool-hips. She balls-cups, clit-rubs.
Peak nears—then shoulders shake. Slaps sting. Eyes snap: infirmier. “Finally! Op went fine, but hate slow wakings.”