of me remains oddly paralyzed. I feel that if I were to move, there would be an explosion: stars bursting, rivers flooding, volcanoes erupting.
Belmondoâs hard cock against me, his breathless French muttering and Wyattâs obvious pleasure are melting me into a pool of pure sexual desire. Wyatt holds my gaze, knowing I am wet with anticipation and reveling in the knowledge. He pours us each a glass of Sancerre.
*
With his teeth Belmondo pulls at the marshmallow-pink ribbons on my new panties, his breath hot against my skin. His dark hands move hungrily over my breasts, his nails, buffed with charcoal, finally touching me, just as Iâd wanted them to as I watched them whisk the black stick over paper in Montmartre less than an hour ago.
Wyatt stands beside our hotel bed, his hand fixed around his lovely erection, which, like a divining rod, seeks its treasure. His hand never stops moving.
The small room, with its flowered wallpaper and gabled window, envelops us securely while our rapture is given free rein. I reach out and touch the tip of Wyattâs spectacular, blood-infused cock. He takes my hand and places it on Belmondoâs ass, which I instantly grasp, pulling him down toward me. I want him so badly. The unbearably gorgeous pressure in my groin is as white-hot as these two cocks, and I want one of them in me now. But Belmondo has other ideas, and moves to put his cock in my mouth.
I suck with one hand firmly grasping his cock and the other feeling for the deeper shaft, the inside one that feels like an extension of his cock. Now my tongue runs the length of him, lingers at the tip, plays, sucks, and then plunges down again.
Belmondo moans with a French accent (I swear), then moves down to hover invitingly over me. Beyond his shoulder I can see Wyatt, his eyes fixed on us, two bright, sky-blue orbs cutting through me with hot passion. I find this as stimulating as Belmondoâs cock teasing my clit, which it now is.
âFuck me. Now,â I command. The artist enters my wet cunt. My pelvis rises to meet his and we undulate in unison, first enticingly slowly, then faster and still faster until we fall into a furious and delirious rhythm.
âWanda,â Belmondo mutters, and then all heavenly hell breaks loose. Wyatt steps into full view. As he releases his cum over us, I climax in great, earth-moving throbs. The artist finishes with a flourish and a howl, and the three of us pulse and breathe together in ecstatic carnal union.
ROSE
Women and elephants never forget.
âDorothy Parker
Dear Joe,
In a dream long ago there was someone. He knew who I was, understood me, saw me from all angles, caressed me in all the right places, saw the beauty in my soul, the light in my heart.
He cared about me. And meant it. His love didnât stop or turn to hate.
A distant memory of someone. A buried sketch of someone not unearthed till you. A dream of someone who moved through my life long ago, in the brightly lit ghost world of my imagination. Someone who loved me. Gone, not seen all these years. As if never having existed. Like a much-loved doll from childhood. Buried, forgotten, perished with time.
Now this ancient memory stirs. This someone moves from the long-forgotten world of my dreams and materializes before me. Someone who knows me. Someone who cares. Someone who loves me.
Someone. Someone like you.
Love,
Rose
WANDA
Fill up my heart with a secret treasure.
âDorothy Parker
Iâm standing on a footbridge watching the sun sparkle on the Seine. Itâs our last day in this enchanted city and I want to drink in every gorgeous detail. We have seen so much, and shared even more.
When I turn to find Wyatt, a dark-haired woman bending to pick something up distracts my eye. Her face lights up like the Eiffel Tower at night as she holds the object up to the sky and offers thanks to the heavens. The sun glints off what appears to be a fabulous piece of jewelry held
Belmondoâs hard cock against me, his breathless French muttering and Wyattâs obvious pleasure are melting me into a pool of pure sexual desire. Wyatt holds my gaze, knowing I am wet with anticipation and reveling in the knowledge. He pours us each a glass of Sancerre.
*
With his teeth Belmondo pulls at the marshmallow-pink ribbons on my new panties, his breath hot against my skin. His dark hands move hungrily over my breasts, his nails, buffed with charcoal, finally touching me, just as Iâd wanted them to as I watched them whisk the black stick over paper in Montmartre less than an hour ago.
Wyatt stands beside our hotel bed, his hand fixed around his lovely erection, which, like a divining rod, seeks its treasure. His hand never stops moving.
The small room, with its flowered wallpaper and gabled window, envelops us securely while our rapture is given free rein. I reach out and touch the tip of Wyattâs spectacular, blood-infused cock. He takes my hand and places it on Belmondoâs ass, which I instantly grasp, pulling him down toward me. I want him so badly. The unbearably gorgeous pressure in my groin is as white-hot as these two cocks, and I want one of them in me now. But Belmondo has other ideas, and moves to put his cock in my mouth.
I suck with one hand firmly grasping his cock and the other feeling for the deeper shaft, the inside one that feels like an extension of his cock. Now my tongue runs the length of him, lingers at the tip, plays, sucks, and then plunges down again.
Belmondo moans with a French accent (I swear), then moves down to hover invitingly over me. Beyond his shoulder I can see Wyatt, his eyes fixed on us, two bright, sky-blue orbs cutting through me with hot passion. I find this as stimulating as Belmondoâs cock teasing my clit, which it now is.
âFuck me. Now,â I command. The artist enters my wet cunt. My pelvis rises to meet his and we undulate in unison, first enticingly slowly, then faster and still faster until we fall into a furious and delirious rhythm.
âWanda,â Belmondo mutters, and then all heavenly hell breaks loose. Wyatt steps into full view. As he releases his cum over us, I climax in great, earth-moving throbs. The artist finishes with a flourish and a howl, and the three of us pulse and breathe together in ecstatic carnal union.
ROSE
Women and elephants never forget.
âDorothy Parker
Dear Joe,
In a dream long ago there was someone. He knew who I was, understood me, saw me from all angles, caressed me in all the right places, saw the beauty in my soul, the light in my heart.
He cared about me. And meant it. His love didnât stop or turn to hate.
A distant memory of someone. A buried sketch of someone not unearthed till you. A dream of someone who moved through my life long ago, in the brightly lit ghost world of my imagination. Someone who loved me. Gone, not seen all these years. As if never having existed. Like a much-loved doll from childhood. Buried, forgotten, perished with time.
Now this ancient memory stirs. This someone moves from the long-forgotten world of my dreams and materializes before me. Someone who knows me. Someone who cares. Someone who loves me.
Someone. Someone like you.
Love,
Rose
WANDA
Fill up my heart with a secret treasure.
âDorothy Parker
Iâm standing on a footbridge watching the sun sparkle on the Seine. Itâs our last day in this enchanted city and I want to drink in every gorgeous detail. We have seen so much, and shared even more.
When I turn to find Wyatt, a dark-haired woman bending to pick something up distracts my eye. Her face lights up like the Eiffel Tower at night as she holds the object up to the sky and offers thanks to the heavens. The sun glints off what appears to be a fabulous piece of jewelry held
Similar Books
