The Lover
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/80/1/The-Lover/Page1.html
By Alice Sturdivant
Published on July 17, 2009
He knows four languages: French, English, Portuguese, and sex. My first lesson in Portuguese was on a night when he refused to move, his thick cock lodged inside me, a throbbing incentive to remember “por favor” – for some reason, I kept saying “s’il vous plait”.
“So polite,” he murmured, his dick sliding in and out while he called me his “estudante querida”, his darling student. That he spoke Portuguese was always a shock to me; he looked more Stockholm than Rio. And those sea-green eyes and pale blond hair always seemed a million miles from my own bronze eyes and skin.
Once, I opened my eyes and was startled; his skin was so creamy, luminous that without candles to light my room at night, it almost seemed that the moon itself was fucking me, was teasing me softly in some soft-tongued language, while moonlit fingers stroked my body.
“Você gosta daquele?” Do you like that? Always rhetorical. He knew me as well as I did myself, never had to question if I wanted it harder, softer, faster, deeper. Besides, with him, I eventually wanted it all. He spoiled me with his cock and his enthusiasm; I was greedy.
“Encore,” he once cajoled, late one night. His head was propped in one hand, corner of his mouth quirked up. His left hand idly followed the undercurve of my breasts, teasing. He wasn’t through with me yet. “Again?” I could barely whisper, I was so weak; blissfully worn out from what we’d been doing. The French, I knew, was a delicate attempt to be persuade by being romantic. He didn’t beg, didn’t plead, just slid his sleek body, smooth as cream, down until all I could see of him was the silvery spikes of his blond hair between my legs; a corona of moonlight eclipsed by the bluish copper of my thighs. My legs were limp, my body defenseless as he dragged soft fingers up and down the plush skin on the insides of my thighs, letting them rest on his shoulders. I was suspended between him and the bed.
“Le chaton…” he sighed, giving my pussy the tenderest of kisses. “Pauvre petite chaton….voyons s’elle se reveille…” The next kiss was not as light, his raspberry tongue nudging against my clit.
Waking the kitten. Let’s see if we can wake the poor kitten.
My lover showed me no mercy, lapping, nuzzling, sucking, teasing; giving me just enough room under the iron bar of his grip to ride the slippery torment of his tongue, pushing me inexorably higher until I felt drunk with frustration and pleasure. “Your fingers,” I begged, opening my eyes to glare at him. “Give…”
He was already ahead of me. I could see the ocean in his eyes; fathomless. He was dragging two fingers from his mouth; they came away with a wet, slurping sound. “Oui,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. Then is fingers slid into me and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think; I could only feel. He wasn’t talking anymore; he was murmuring into my flesh, echoing my gasps and groans with his own. I was not riding his hand and mouth so much as springing myself around his thrusting fingers and tongue. He fluted a third finger into me, knowing that the surprise fullness would send me over. I felt his smile against my sopping mound as I came. He couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t resist half laughing, half gasping as the last tremors faded. Fluent, I thought, as he poured himself back up my body and enfolded me in his arms.
When I opened my eyes and he was gone, the pinch of my pajama bottoms making telltale indentations on the top of my wrist, I don’t know what I felt. My husband’s morning bathroom sounds and Morning Edition on the radio let me know it was far past 6.45 a.m.
I shut my eyes against the world and turned away from the window, with all its morning sun and reality. I pulled my own sticky fingers from atop my thigh, slid them from the cotton bottoms and under the pillow; a secret.
I saw my lover’s face there in the dark of my closed eyes, as real to me as the day that awaited me . “Jusqu’a ce soir,” he said. In my mind, he put his arm behind his head, fathomless eyes staring, mouth quirked up confidently, perpetual moonlight shining silver in his hair. Until tonight.
Not so long to wait.
An assignation with a secret lover...
The Lover
He knows four languages: French, English, Portuguese, and sex. My first lesson in Portuguese was on a night when he refused to move, his thick cock lodged inside me, a throbbing incentive to remember “por favor” – for some reason, I kept saying “s’il vous plait”.
“So polite,” he murmured, his dick sliding in and out while he called me his “estudante querida”, his darling student. That he spoke Portuguese was always a shock to me; he looked more Stockholm than Rio. And those sea-green eyes and pale blond hair always seemed a million miles from my own bronze eyes and skin.
Once, I opened my eyes and was startled; his skin was so creamy, luminous that without candles to light my room at night, it almost seemed that the moon itself was fucking me, was teasing me softly in some soft-tongued language, while moonlit fingers stroked my body.
“Você gosta daquele?” Do you like that? Always rhetorical. He knew me as well as I did myself, never had to question if I wanted it harder, softer, faster, deeper. Besides, with him, I eventually wanted it all. He spoiled me with his cock and his enthusiasm; I was greedy.
“Encore,” he once cajoled, late one night. His head was propped in one hand, corner of his mouth quirked up. His left hand idly followed the undercurve of my breasts, teasing. He wasn’t through with me yet. “Again?” I could barely whisper, I was so weak; blissfully worn out from what we’d been doing. The French, I knew, was a delicate attempt to be persuade by being romantic. He didn’t beg, didn’t plead, just slid his sleek body, smooth as cream, down until all I could see of him was the silvery spikes of his blond hair between my legs; a corona of moonlight eclipsed by the bluish copper of my thighs. My legs were limp, my body defenseless as he dragged soft fingers up and down the plush skin on the insides of my thighs, letting them rest on his shoulders. I was suspended between him and the bed.
“Le chaton…” he sighed, giving my pussy the tenderest of kisses. “Pauvre petite chaton….voyons s’elle se reveille…” The next kiss was not as light, his raspberry tongue nudging against my clit.
Waking the kitten. Let’s see if we can wake the poor kitten.
My lover showed me no mercy, lapping, nuzzling, sucking, teasing; giving me just enough room under the iron bar of his grip to ride the slippery torment of his tongue, pushing me inexorably higher until I felt drunk with frustration and pleasure. “Your fingers,” I begged, opening my eyes to glare at him. “Give…”
He was already ahead of me. I could see the ocean in his eyes; fathomless. He was dragging two fingers from his mouth; they came away with a wet, slurping sound. “Oui,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. Then is fingers slid into me and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think; I could only feel. He wasn’t talking anymore; he was murmuring into my flesh, echoing my gasps and groans with his own. I was not riding his hand and mouth so much as springing myself around his thrusting fingers and tongue. He fluted a third finger into me, knowing that the surprise fullness would send me over. I felt his smile against my sopping mound as I came. He couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t resist half laughing, half gasping as the last tremors faded. Fluent, I thought, as he poured himself back up my body and enfolded me in his arms.
When I opened my eyes and he was gone, the pinch of my pajama bottoms making telltale indentations on the top of my wrist, I don’t know what I felt. My husband’s morning bathroom sounds and Morning Edition on the radio let me know it was far past 6.45 a.m.
I shut my eyes against the world and turned away from the window, with all its morning sun and reality. I pulled my own sticky fingers from atop my thigh, slid them from the cotton bottoms and under the pillow; a secret.
I saw my lover’s face there in the dark of my closed eyes, as real to me as the day that awaited me . “Jusqu’a ce soir,” he said. In my mind, he put his arm behind his head, fathomless eyes staring, mouth quirked up confidently, perpetual moonlight shining silver in his hair. Until tonight.
Not so long to wait.