True Sex Stories: Un Samedi En Juin

Giving the girl exactly what she wants, one Saturday in June.

We lay next to each other in a surreal, dream-like state where boundaries between what is real and what is not blur and merge. A state so vivid we bask languidly upon it's familar shores as our bodies relax into each other's warmth.

We do this within a darkened, East facing room while distant thunder jealously rumbles and a deluge of rain melts down the large window pane.

Even in the dim light, my azure eyes record her every detail; every curve, every freckle, and dimple, and arc of her slight form. My large hands maintain contact with her soft, warm skin. My fingers trail delicately over the welcoming canvas of her small body.

I spread her out before me, exploring her womanly terrain as if new found territory. My hands hover over her increasingly hot expanse, making contact along her throat and down the valley between her breasts; taking and testing their purchase of her.

My mouth: lips, tongue, and teeth glide along her sleek surfaces as I breathe in her sweet, rich scent and randomly sample her flesh, reveling in the taste, feel, and texture of her in my mouth. She savors my sweet and violet kisses and mewls in reaction to my brutal bites.

I explore her hot, moist, all enveloping flower, and for indelible moments, caress her with such sensual care she marvels at the foreignness of the gentle sensation.

But this isn't what she wants.

Her longing rises up to meet me, giving her over, surrendering her agency, betraying, conspiring, her lustful demise. She marvels at my cognizance of her; my ability to read, to perceive, to know, her - exactly what she wants and needs and when and how. My ability to recognize the fluid nature of her dark desires and capricious cravings.

She yearns again and again and again for the collision our lips, our bodies, my insistant, invading sex as I take her, repeatedly.

And on this savory Saturday in June, she savors. She savors and records in sweet, sinful cinema each dark, deviant, slap, punch, squeeze, bite, and rope burn. Each kiss, each growl, each thrust, each time I jerk the cinch around her throat and wrenched her head back and around.

Soon after we part, she calls me to seek forgiveness for stealing another orgasm in the confines of her car. She was thinking, remembering, and just couldn't stop it from happening.

And on this rainy Saturday in June, I laugh and forgive her her theft, and marvel once again at her for simply being her.

Republished with permission from Conning Devil. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.