Paris. 2 AM. Quais de la Seine. Fog rolls off the water, thick and cold. I’ve been parked an hour, engine off, cig burning low. Waiting for Mr. B. That balding insurance prick in his provincial suit. Forty-something. Shifty eyes. Perfect cuck material, my client said. His wife, Mme B., showed up two days ago. Brunette bombshell, bored face, killer ass. Doubts about his late nights. Paid me to tail him. Not for cash. For the hate. Guys like him disgust me. Too lucky.
What’s he doing out here? Sordid spots like this—drunks, junkies, freaks. Probably banging a tranny in an alley. Cops catch him, life’s wrecked. Hers, anyway. His? Worthless. Smoke curls from my cracked window. October chill bites. Last drag. Then he appears. Sweaty face. Hair plastered. Stressed. Guilty buzz?
The Awakening Rush
He hits the bench. Fidgety. Glances around. Misses me. Minutes drag. Heart picks up. Something filthy’s brewing. Tough guy rolls up. Scarred mug, slick hair. B-movie thug. Forty. Slaps Mr. B.’s shoulder. Loser jumps. No tranny in sight. I know pussy. This ain’t it. They talk. Thug yells. Odd pair shuffles off to a dive bar in knife-alley.
I wait. Then follow. Push in. Stale air hits like a fist. Gangster extras at the bar. Vulgar barmaid, hundred kilos, makeup caked. Order a drink. Sidle close.
“Listen, Mr. Corvez, I—”
“Shut your fucking mouth, puta. You owe me big.”
“I think—”
“Don’t think, asshole. You played, you lost. How you paying? No cash. Never.”
“But we could—”
“SHUT IT. Game over.”
Corvez means business. Might end up in a ditch. Then:
“Got an idea, hijo. Knew you’d fuck up. Photo in your wallet—your wife?”
“How—”
“Thought I’d work blind? Take me home. Give me her for the night.”
“No… she won’t.”
“Choice?”
Vicious grin. Mr. B. caves. Whimpers OK. Pimp’s handing over his wife to this pig. Lowest scum. They bolt. I tail fast. Park down the street. Their ride in the drive. Kitchen window cracked. Squeeze through. Old bones creak. Pain. Inside.
Mr. B. paces. Corvez sprawls on couch, eyes cruel. Keys jingle.
“Honey?”
“Yeah… come here. Talk.”
“You okay? Who’s this?”
“Friend. Call me Vincente.” Smirk.
She’s stunning. Black dress. Heels. Chignon. Ripe.
“Explain, puce. Messed up…”
The Visceral Surrender
“Your hubby’s in deep,” Vincente cuts. “Gambling. Lost my money. Offers you instead.”
“What?! You bastard!” Tears. Rage.
“Prettier crying, Claudia.”
“Sorry, do it for me.”
Her eyes blaze. “Vincente, pleasure to fuck you. But he watches. Every bit. Suffers like I did. Last time he sees me.”
“Chérie!”
She stalks between his legs. Manicured hands rub his crotch. “Looks big. Wanna taste a real cock in my mouth.”
Zipper down. Pulls out thick, soft meat. Red knob like ripe plum. Strokes slow. “See, Georges? Man’s cock. Not your baby dick. This excites me.”
Licks. Sucks. Swallows. Grows huge. Tongue races shaft, frenulum, balls. Festival.
“Your wife’s a queen, Georges. Draining me… fuck…”
Pumps hard. Tongue out. Cum blasts. Gulps it down.
She stands. Backs up. Hikes dress. “Like my ass, Vincente? Taste it.”
He dives. Yanks silk panties. Tongue in wet crack. Laps rosebud. She moans. Leg over shoulder. Pussy heaven—pink, tender lips, neat black bush.
He freezes. Awe.
“Eat me. Tongue in. Make me cum.” He kneads tits—full, milky, pink tips firm.
“Can’t wait. Fuck my belly. All in.”
Sits her. Shaft at slick hole. Too small? No. Slides deep. She bounces. He sucks toes off her heel. Screams rise.
“Yes! Fills me! Be your slut! Wreck my ass! Cum inside!”
Doggy on couch. Gland at pucker. Sucks him in. Howls. “Georges! So good! Thanks, cuck! Ha!”
He floods her guts. Pulls out. Slurp. She scoops cum. Licks fingers. Smirks at hubby. He flees, head down.
Vincente dresses. “Back soon?” “Yes.” Grin.
She flops in chair. Legs wide. Messy cunt exposed. “Detective, we’re alone. Come taste.” Heart pounds. Forbidden fire ignites. I step out. Dive in. Tongue laps her cream. Her moans mix with mine. Thrill explodes. This secret—mine forever.