Skye Warren - Short Smut, Vol. 1

Every different man will have different details, I realized. Each John will have little things that make them different.

I surprised my Frenchman by standing on my toes and kissing him. He slipped his trench coat to the floor, and then I had his warm torso, in jeans and a button-up, under my hands. I pulled him close, rubbing my breasts across his chest. His mouth was strong and knowing. It opened against mine and it somehow felt like he made a direct connection to the sex between my legs. I pressed against his lips, deeply hungry, wanting more sensation from him. He gave a flattering groan.

I feel the same, Frenchman! He was so different from the College Boy from two minutes ago, who was different still from Jack. A girl could get used to this variety! My lips were still sensitive from the earlier make-out sessions, so they picked up with the Frenchman where the others left off. This third man of my “professional career” was just another stage in a day-long sex act that was building to an explosion.

“ Your dress?”

I pulled it over my head before he finished asking.

He lifted me off the ground and I curled my legs around his hips. His mouth slid down my chest. His tongue left a wet trail that set my skin on fire. When he landed on a nipple I heaved against him. I wanted to escape the intense feeling-but dive into it too.

I settled on gathering him closer, as if I could control the sensation by smothering him against me. I clasped him with my legs, scissoring so tightly he grunted. He couldn’t pull away without wrestling me-but he didn’t want to pull away.

I glanced in the mirror and saw Jack standing by the door. He was timing us with a wristwatch and staring at me with adoration.

Holy shit, I thought. Jack really likes me!

I had thought we were having a classroom crush. Put me next to a guy in class, I can fall in love in an hour and then forget him until the next day. That’s just the way I’ve always been. I’m especially fun on dates.

Jack was different. I was obsessing over him even in the off hours. Now here he was, sharing my dream fantasy with me, glowing with pride. It was mutual. As Marylou I trusted him. As Lorelei, I craved him.

I reminded myself that I had responsibilities.

I turned back to my Frenchman and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He stopped me: “Someone might come in and see me.”

I smiled at that. Double standard much? I unclenched his torso and landed lightly on the ground.

I hope I didn’t seem too eager, but I manhandled him into the handicapped stall, gave Jack wink, and slammed the door behind us.

Now in private, he let me open his shirt to reveal the hard, tan body of a laborer. He had a tattoo of some kind of French army emblem right over his heart. I laid my face against it and brushed my lips over his detailed chest. I gripped his sides. He was hot and soft to the touch, but muscled like Adonis.

One hand cupped my ass to lift me up, and the other landed on my sex, fingers working. My sex was like my nipple-ready to go. It was monumentally wet from what had already been the sexiest day of my life. I held his gaze as he explored me down there.

He opened the folds of my lower lips, and they felt soft as flower petals against his rough fingers. His callused palms seemed to score my inner thighs, as if I weren’t flesh but instead some inestimably delicate artwork that shouldn’t be handled. I wanted to be handled.

“ Tell me something in French,” I breathed.

“ Qu'est-ce que je ferais sans toi, ma petite?”

Wow. For a moment I could only smile dumbly at him.

A girl had to be careful listening to French.

“ Let me suck you,” I said, sliding to my knees.

I had his belt open in seconds, and his long, dark cock free in the air a moment later. I didn’t even take it in my hand-too slow. I caught it in my mouth and swallowed it whole, pressing my face into his groin. I didn’t stop until his pubic hairs tickled my lips, and my face pressed against his strong, flat stomach.

He gasped an obscene word and tried to get away-too much sensation maybe. Welcome to my world, Frenchman! I held him inside me with my fingernails in his ass, like a threat if he dared to pull away.

The dick in my mouth affected me like it affected him. For a moment I was nothing but throat. Girls can go into a blow-job trance if they’re not careful, and I felt it beckoning me. I loved being in the zone. Heat, saliva, rhythm-I could come before the man did if I wasn’t careful. I told myself to stay professional.

The Frenchman filled me without any extra space. The whole man was inside me: this lean, handsome ex-solider from France, who had no backstory, but was overly modest about nudity and had epic bedroom eyes. I laved the root of his cock, and he thrashed against the door. I felt connected to his every movement down to the smallest shiver. I could fucking read his mind through his cock.

I must be the best whore ever. Cock Whisperer.

Eventually, of course, I had to breathe.

I pulled off and gasped, but he plunged forward again. I wasn’t expecting this and choked a little-which he liked. Time for his revenge. He grabbed my head and pumped my face- hard. His flat, veined stomach slid in front of my vision like it was on hydraulics. I choked and tried to clear my throat, and that made me gag. I saw his bedroom eyes light up at my discomfort, and then I didn’t mind it so much. He was digging me.

“ Putain!” he gasped, staring down at me. Whore.

I knew that word in most languages.

I watched him for signals through teary eyes. When he decided to switch, I was ready. He pulled out and I stood up, coughing. He spun me around and held my hips with strong fingers that seemed to sink into my womb. He lifted me high, until my toes left the floor and I hung off the top of the stall with a precarious grip. I waited…

“ Moment,” he said. He dropped me.

Fucking condoms.

His cock was sheathed in about eight seconds but that was about a century past my preferred deadline. He finally plunged himself into my sex, and it was like I had tripped into a hot-tub. Heat and lust exploded through me like I was hit by a libido bomb. I cried out and heard Jack step forward on the other side of the stall. Then he detected the pleasure in my next moan and dropped out of angry pimp mode (but it was nice to know he was there).

The Frenchman’s hands shifted and I actually screamed. Somehow he had found the precise position I needed. His cock rubbed a new location in my canal, and everything I had thought was sensation snuffed out like a candle in a forest fire.

“ Oui,” my Frenchman gasped, sounding smug. He clenched his hands to freeze my torso and pounded me from the new angle. “Le point G, putain. Le petite zone vaginale.”

It sounded damn sexy to me, whatever he said. I was all about my building orgasm, which was now a self-feeding maelstrom of desire and heat that laid waste to my language centers. Who knew? Maybe I’d speak French by the end of this.

I forgot to hold myself up and simply flopped against the wall. It was a bus depot so it wasn’t the cleanest surface: I didn’t care. I breathed against it with a wide-open mouth, my teeth clattering against the “for a good time call…” graffiti each time my Frenchman plunged into my sex. I would have licked the entire bathroom clean if he’d demanded it-I was delirious with growing sensation and not thinking straight.

The Frenchman felt it too. His movements turned jangly in a way I recognized from all men. He was building to his own explosion, and just the knowledge that he was using me for this sent me over the edge.

My last cry sounded sexy even to me-a throaty squeal, then a high whine that ran out of air… Lights exploded in my eyes.