Stranger Sex

The morning light breaks through the window forcing my eyelids open. Allowing my vision time to adjust before making my French exit from this Parisian apartment, I watch the light creep down the far wall, slowly illuminating the worn wallpaper and vintage gold frames. If it wasn’t such a horrendous hour to wake up it would be quite beautiful.

The air seems alive with dust fragments dancing in the unused space. The light moves from the walls to the floor and then jumps onto the white metal rails of the footboard. I slither to the edge of the bed, careful not to wake last nights’ lover, but the creaky old frame announces my departure with a groan. All of his furniture looks generations past old, as if original to the building. I wince at a familiar soreness comprised in the walls of my vagina. Even the outside seems tender. Naked and cupping my cunt in comfort, my bare feet make their way onto the cold bathroom tiles.

As I finishing rinsing my face, in the mirror I see his reflection standing in the doorframe. Arms above his head, naked body stretching for display, his morning wood points at me like a warning. He does not speak English and I do not speak much French. Last night I couldn’t pronounce his name and I’m not sure if I gave mine. He holds his hand out and I respond. There is no language barrier between lovers.

He twists me around by my arm, like a lasso to pull me in close to him. His lips taste surprisingly good for morning. He is a handsome mystery; black ear-length hair on dark skin with faint freckles and piercing blue eyes oddly out-of-place with such dark features. He is hauntingly beautiful. He couldn’t be completely French. He might not even human, simply the man of my dreams.

My Frenchman clutches my ribcage and I truly feel as dainty as a rag doll. Lifting me up, my legs wrap around his hips and his cock presses inside of me, reminding me of the soreness. He walks forward, kissing my breasts and nuzzling them with his nose like a puppy asking for attention. My back hits the cool tile wall and without missing a beat he fucks me without mercy. My hand finds a grip on the shower rod while the other searches the coolness of the wall for something to hold.

The summer heat quickly rises, touching our skin like a third lover. Sweat droplets form on his forehead as he pounds away at my cunt. The fuzziness of sleep and last nights’ wine still lingers in my head and drapes over my senses. The contrast feels so good. Hot bodies, cool tiles. Hangover brewing, cunt stimulated. Pleasure overwhelming the pain. I feel drunk from last night. As if his dick is a time machine, bringing inebriation with orgasm. He cums seconds after me.

I whisper, “C’ètait amusant,” as I lean in to kiss his cheek.

He pulls me into him hard, one hand at the small of my back, the other at the nape of my neck. My first reaction is to surrender. I’m off-balance and he veritably sweeps me off my feet, dipping me into the end of un film romantique. I close my eyes and I wait for the credits to role.

Back on my feet he responds, “Me too,” without a hint of a French accent.

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