That bistro reeked of cheap wine and smoke, September 9, 1964. I sat alone, tailleur tight on my virgin body, eyes scanning the bar. Then I saw him. Back turned, broad shoulders. Heart slammed. Memories flooded: high school kisses, his miner hands gentle. He turned. Our eyes locked. Fred. My Fred. Eight years gone. Pussy clenched instant. Heat rushed thighs. I was soaked before he spoke.
He walked over, voice rough. ‘Flo?’ I nodded, mute, nipples hard under blouse. We laughed, but inside, fire raged. Forbidden. Me, the prude teacher from province. Him, rough Paris thug. That night alone in bed, fingers dove under skirt. Touched my ‘dirty place’ like he might. Rubbed clit raw. Came screaming, imagining his cock splitting me.
The Gaze That Ignited Me
Next day, dinner. His hand on thigh. Stopped me mid-caress, but night fingers finished job. By Friday, I craved it. He took me home. Elevator crush: tongues battled, his bulge ground my belly. Sofa. Skirt up, panties yanked. His thick cock loomed, veiny monster. Fear hit, but legs spread. He thrust. Ripped hymen. Pain burned like hellfire. I sobbed, but pussy gripped him. He pumped, grunted, flooded me with hot cum. Blood smeared his shaft. ‘Chaton, sorry.’ I pulled him back. Wanted more hurt, more fill.
Saturday, his flat. Mirror showed slut in black dress. His hands gripped hips, lips on neck. I fished cock from pants, stroked hard meat. Bent over, he slammed in. Balls slapped ass. Fucked me senseless, juices squirting. Dropped to rug. ‘Baise-moi!’ I begged, legs locked his waist. Rode waves, screamed orgasm. He whispered love. I mounted, tits bouncing. ‘I loved you ten years.’ Pussy milked him dry.
Surrender and Slaughter
Evening bistro fight. He decked punks protecting me. Outside, bruine wet my skin. He crossed street for car. Gunshots cracked. Two shadows, Fred crumpled. Blood pooled. Grabbed his Luger from belt. Dying eyes: ‘Tell Commissaire Simon. Zitouni bastards.’ Rage boiled hotter than sex. Pussy throbbed amid horror.
Tracked them. Marcel first, easy mark in alley. Heart pounded, clit buzzed. Aimed through door peephole trick like he taught whispers. Bang. Brain splatter. Thrust home, better than cock. Lucky Jo next, bar shadows. Close shot, two in head. His death twitch mirrored my spasms. Domé in shithole room. Bullet through wood, gore fest. Six shots, pure ecstasy. Each trigger pull, orgasmic rush. Forbidden power. Killer cum.
Quai des Orfèvres. Simon’s eyes soft, fatherly. Handed gun, confessed all. He stared, weighed lives. ‘Go home. Forget.’ Door shut. Back to books, classes. But nights? Fingers replay kills, Fred’s cock. Thrill lingers. Society blind. I’m alive, dripping secret sin.