From the Beach to my House

F. had come to kneel down to my towel on the sand and had begun to speak. Only a few minutes passed when he began to touch my arm, the few grains of sand on his fingers added to the caresses, a rough sensuality that excited me more. Already at that moment, I would have let him explore by sun kissed body. We had finally exchanged our numbers.

He had called me back that very evening. "Come to my house", I ordered softly. I remember my room, the empty mosquito net waiting patiently to be the scene of the fury of our flesh. I had waited there watching France O then I had searched for a radio that could serve as background music. I thought of his dark skin, the clear interior of his hands, almost tenderly pink, his knotty fingers, who seemed to no longer need to make their only promise: pleasure.

I felt as though I had accumulated so much desire that it became hard to be patient. I squeezed my labia through my pants, my hand exerted a soft pressure on my button of pleasure, I swayed my pelvis. I closed my eyes. He could have been inside me in a second. I was ready. I leaned back against the wall, still touching myself. I already grew short of breath when my phone vibrated. He stood there, his smile, sweet smelling after-shave and desire. He kissed me, touching my hips.

I wanted him to come closer in order to feel his member through his jeans. I approached gently and took refuge in his soft lips, uttering small cries. Meaning that I liked it. Meaning that I still wanted to. That I wanted more. I imagined it between my thighs, the terrible pressure on my parts interspersing the crazy moments of a crazy tongue, the sounds of sucking, my groans. I could not wait. For the moment, he just stroked my anus. If he had wanted me from behind at that moment, I would have been ready, my pussy was so slippery…