While Geoff showers, Patrice opens every window in their Paris flat. She pulls her blouse over her head, lets it fall away, then palms the white under each breast, and yells across the bright alley, “It’s time. C’est l’heure.”
Naked, she lies on her back. The mattress is low so she can see out to the top of the neighboring cathedral with its weather-beaten gargoyles. A century of hail has dulled their talons and teeth into edgeless nubs. She peers up at them, her fingertip circling a rose-colored nipple, her own edgeless nub.
Soon, Geoff will come out of the bathroom, barely dry. He’ll spread her legs and train his focus between her thighs. His heavy elbows will weigh her down and open, exposing her every tender shadow to the parapet above. Cool wind will skim her ribcage, her collarbone, her forehead. He’ll lap with slow whispers—his tongue feathering her clit, drawing her weak, coaxing a shine of want. She’ll try to rise up to meet his fingers, hand, cock, anything to ride, but his mass will keep her splayed. Powerless. Empty.
Still, he will lick. Too soft. Again and again and again until tears leak from her cunt. Her lips crying with need. Every contraction a prayer.
“S’il vous plaît. S’il vous plaît.”
Only when her longing becomes unbearable, across the way, three gargoyles will crackle to life. They’ll shake off their stone shells and glide with wide wings in through the windows. Geoff will stand back, “Oui, c’est l’heure!”
Two will flank her shoulders and press tender claws at each breast. The third will find his way to her womb—his curved, stone, length a perfect fit—stretching her open, chiseling, sculpting her orgasm with every ancient pulse.
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the invincible and generous Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read the fabulous Wicked Wednesday “View” entries here!