Chef Michael

You lean over me, the heat of your body, lips close entwined. Hair matted up and damp, faces touching. Cheek to cheek. I run my tongue along your neck, the sinew and the pulse and the jut of your bones, and the contrast to my soft and padded flesh. Its intense. The light is soft, evocative of some cheap french movie, where desire only comes in grande tailles.

Those sort of curves that women have. You run your lips against my décolletage, and your mouth finds my breasts and the sounds I make are sweet and breathless and desired.

I can feel how hard you are against my cunt and thighs, an insistent rub. It takes every ounce of will power not to grab at you and push you into me. The heat, the skin it would be bliss.

You taste me, devour me, appear to desire my pleasure. Your fingers stretch me out and its good. The first orgasm is easy and sweet and overdue. Yours follows. I take satisfaction in being taught to make it happen, how you want it to. You pull my hair, fuck my throat, moan as I spit on to your flesh, come in a burst of release, curled toes, you grip my skull. Fuck me, fuck my mouth.

We roll around in some post coital bliss, chatting about sex, philosophising, warm and safe. You stroke my body, some electric wave. I want more. Can I have more? Give me more. No need to ask really, c'est la vie.

You wrap your hand around my neck, a tight restricting hold and you use your other calloused thick fingers to roughly fuck and stretch me out. You twist, push around inside me, releasing white streams of fluid, pleasure, discomfort, strange sensation. My eyes are wide, voice aloud and intrigued. Im enjoying myself. The pain and the pleasure and the pressure of your hand and you're telling me to come, somewhere between a command and begging desire. I ache to come. You twist, push, fuck with your hand, faster, more aggressive, tweaking strands of internal muscle, until I burst.

Fracture, white out, le son de la mer, the smell of sweet ocean. Intoxicating fluid cascading from me, into your palm and down you wrist, female, volcanic. My voice echos in pleasure and pain and release. The room blurs.

You push me until I beg you to stop touching me, the smile on your face says it all really. I clutch at your arm, spent and unmoving, eyes wide and breathing. The intensity pulsing and swelling; my chest, my heart, my cunt, my neck, beat, beat. Its a wipe out. Fuck. I grin at you, wild and fragrant and somewhere near happy. You smile at me back, bon, tres bien.