I rushed up the steps to the Edge’s hotel room, overflowing with the thrill of seeing him again, regret that it was the last of our three days in Paris, and contrition for having spent the last half hour at Starbucks getting ready, which had made me late. As he kissed me and ran his fingers over my hip-hugging skirt, I wondered if he was concerned about my troubles at home and whether they would affect our time together. Usually, I find that external stress or anxiety does affect my sexual experiences – but in a good way. Maybe it gives me something to escape from. But I think it’s because, when there’s something worrying me, I tend to worry less about the sexual experience itself, giving myself over to the pure enjoyment of it.
So it was a little strange that he was kissing me and fondling me and it had not produced more of a reaction in me. At this point, the day before, I had already been trembling, on the brink. And he had kept me either coming, or on the brink of coming, for eight hours. Was my clitoris simply worn out?? He made me undress, fully, down to my stockings, and began to caress my breasts, pulling and tugging at my nipples in the way that I love. He pushed my legs apart, sending a ripple of excitement through me, because I love being made to keep my legs apart. Then he told me to put my hands behind my back. I did as he asked, wondering what he was going to do. Tie me up? But no, he pushed his hand back between my legs, probing my wetness. And how incredible it was, the effect of simply changing my position, for now I felt completely abject, exposed, and objectified, standing naked before him with my legs apart and my hands behind me, while he toyed with my clitoris. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out for long, and when I came, with my hands still clasped behind me, I could scarcely keep my balance, and fell into his arms, gasping and shaking.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
“I want to suck you,” I simpered.
I knelt down, undoing his belt buckle and unzipping his trousers to release his hard cock and wrap my lips around it. I love the sweet taste of his foreskin, and even more the salty, slightly bitter taste beneath it, and I love to run my tongue up and down the length of it, sucking it into my mouth and holding it between my lips at the thick base of it. He asked me to undress him then, flicking me playfully with his belt across my ass and tits to hurry me up. I squealed in protest as the leather stung my skin, but I was laughing at the same time… I was so happy.
He laid me on the bed, on my back, pushing my legs back on either side of my head to expose my dripping pussy, which quivered with excitement around the head of his cock as he entered me. I felt that indescribable thrill when he first penetrates me. And then when I felt him push up against my G-spot, rocking back and forth inside me, deeper, deeper… oh, it was like he was pumping me full of endorphins with every thrust, like a piston, my body slowly filling, filling with this strange narcotic, and I knew it couldn’t be the first time anything had ever felt so good… or could it? My hands are shaking even now, as I type this, just to think of it! I was moaning even before he gave me permission to come, completely lost to the world, collapsing limply to one side when he pulled out, as though his dick had been the only thing holding me together, and I clung to the edge of the bed, my whole body transformed into a pure vessel of pleasure!
He lay back on the bed, opening his arms for me to join him, and I crawled weakly over to him. He forced my legs apart so he could keep one hand between my thighs, fondling my wet and swollen pussy, still throbbing from the feeling of his dick inside me, and my tingling clitoris, which sent thrills up my spine every time he stroked it. I felt electrified, my whole body quivering on the edge, held there, ever so delicately, between his fingertips. Soon, I was begging him to let me come again.
“What’s it worth?” he asked, tracing tantalising circles around my clitoris, making it harder… harder to hold it.
“Hmm,” I closed my eyes, struggling to think of something to offer him, while all the while beating back the wave which threatened to engulf me! “You can hit me with the shoe-horn.”
“I was already planning to,” he said, indicating the wooden shoe-horn lying on the bedside table. I had seen it there earlier, of course, with great delight, for I had made him promise, the day before, to use it on me when we next met. That’s why it had sprung so effortlessly to mind… but he was right, it wasn’t much of an offer. Finally, between strangled groans, I gave up, gazing at him in helpless despair.
“I’ll tell you what,” he suggested. “When I go back to London, I’ll make a list of things I’d like you to do, and then, every time I ask you for something, you can pick one of the things on the list.”
“Great idea!” I exclaimed. “Now, may I come?”
“What’s in it for me?” he asked again, aggravatingly.
“The first thing on your list,” I cried, trembling, unable to wait any longer. He plunged his fingers into my soaking wet cunt, expertly locating my swollen G-spot and thrusting against it over and over again. It was… oh, so intense. And at the same time, I felt completely vulnerable and helpless, with his fingers so deep inside me.
“Take off your stockings,” he said.
“What?! No! Please, don’t make me…” I implored, but even as I uttered these words, my hands were already moving down to the tops of my stockings, to roll them down my legs and slide them off. He began to kiss my thighs, moving down slowly, slowly towards my already soaking pussy. I gazed at him a little anxiously, wondering if I should warn him that I probably wouldn’t come this way, I was too slippery and wet from coming just before and from being fucked, there wouldn’t be the necessary friction, I wouldn’t be able to feel it enough. And, all the while, he was gently, but persistently, exploring my sex with his tongue, running it along the hood of my clitoris, sometimes licking it, sometimes sucking it, but varying all the time, never really increasing the tempo or trying to lead up to anything. Or so it seemed. And, almost imperceptibly, a strange, incredible feeling began to build up inside me, but it wasn’t emanating from my swollen clitoris, as one might imagine – instead it seemed to be wafting out from the very core of me, and I could feel every every part of me alive and vibrating, even the tiny muscles in my forehead were twitching and fluttering, but it all happened so subtly, there was no sudden spasm, no wave of contractions, just this gradual quivering glow spreading over me, and through me. And, as I lay completely still, even my breathing seemed slower and shallower, my gasps of pleasure fainter. And soon I felt almost removed from my body altogether, floating somewhere just above it. And then I opened my eyes, and he was there, looking up at me.
“Er… I think I came,” I murmured, in a kind of disbelief.
“You think you came?” he repeated incredulously.
“I can’t explain right now,” I told him, cursing myself for having said something so completely inane. “You just had to have been there.”
He continued to mock me a little as I lay beside him, his fingers gently stroking the underside of my breasts, pausing occasionally to tweak or tug at my erect nipples, and every time he did, I felt a corresponding twitch in my clitoris, as though there were some invisible string connecting them! I felt that I could almost come, but I needed something more… something inside me.
“Will you fuck me?” I cried breathlessly.
“Didn’t you leave something out?” he asked sternly.
“Please?! The Edge?!” I said wildly.
“Now put it all together…”
“Will you please fuck me, the Edge?” I begged him meekly.
“Say it again.”
“Will you please fuck me, the Edge??”
“No,” he said finally. “First, I want you to come. So I can fuck you while you’re still coming, and feel your cunt closing down on my dick while I fuck you…”
“Oh God,” I cried. “I’m coming!”
He pushed me on to my back, parted my shaking legs and plunged into me. I could feel my pussy contracting tightly around his dick, as my legs began to shake more and more violently with him inside me. I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming! He kept fucking me as the spasms subsided, asking me if I wanted more.
“Yes!” I cried.
“Then get on your knees,” he said. I jumped up on to my hands and knees so he could fuck me from behind, pushing down on my shoulders with all his weight, forcing my head down into the bed, holding a pillow down over it so I was aware of nothing except my hips arched towards him and his cock pounding into my pussy. Then he removed the pillow and told me to look in the mirror, to watch myself getting fucked, my tits swinging back and forth with each thrust.
“Would you like to come again?” he asked me.
“Yes, please, the Edge.”
“Then get back on your back – I want to watch your face as you come. And tell me when you’re getting close.”
I eagerly obeyed, and he entered me again, in missionary, with my legs drawn back, on either side of my head, my body folded over. His cock felt so incredibly stiff and swollen inside me, pumping into me, filling me so perfectly, and yet it seemed almost to be swelling even more with each thrust, my pussy stretching around its girth, my excitement mounting, mounting…
“I’m close,” I murmured shakily. And I think that maybe he was already close too, because he pinned me down on the bed by my arms and, with a couple of tremendous thrusts, flooded my spasming pussy with waves of hot come. Ahhh…
We lay beside each other, breathing deeply, but soon his hand was between my legs again, his fingers dancing around my clitoris, pausing every now and then to plunge deeply into my pussy and emerge coated in sweet, warm come for me to suck. Then he told me to get up and bring him in panties. I rose unsteadily and retrieved them from the floor beside the bed.
“Now push them up into your cunt,” he said. My eyes widening, I attempted to do as he had requested.
“They won’t go in,” I told him.
“What do you mean, ‘they won’t go in’?” he asked. “If I can get my fist in there then there’s room for your panties.”
I knelt on the bed, arching my hips and presenting my pussy to him in mock helplessness, for him to ram my panties inside with his forceful fingers.
“There’s still a little left,” I informed him, once he’d finished.
“A little left?” he repeated. “You just want me to finger-fuck you some more, don’t you?”
When my panties were finally stuffed as far inside me as they would go – or rather, when he had finger-fucked me enough – he asked if he could take me out for lunch. His train was not until 4, but we had to vacate the room by 1:30.
“Lunch?” I exclaimed. “But you haven’t beaten me with the shoe-horn yet!”
“Get on your knees,” he said, at once. “And tell me which side hurts more…”
I gulped as he hit me sharply with the shoe-horn, once with the ridged side, one with the flat.
“Uh… the flat side hurts more,” I said weakly, burying my face into the pillows as he covered my ass and thighs with stinging blows, trying to remind myself that I had asked for this, and wondering if I would feel that glow afterwards, once the pain had subsided. I’m sure that’s what I’d felt in London, after he’d fucked my ravaged ass – a beautiful warmth radiating out from the aching epicentre of assault. So I held on, though my stomach lurched with every blow, gritting my teeth until he had finished. And I still don’t know which side he used…
He stood back afterwards to admire his handiwork, inviting me to do the same, in the mirror. And there I saw a sight I’d never witnessed before: my smarting ass cheeks, all rosy and red. I traced my fingers across the marks with awe, but also, a slight twinge of regret, for I knew they would soon fade, with no glorious after-glow. And yet how could I have withstood any more?
He made me extricate my panties, now drenched with his come and my wetness combined, and told me to put them back on while we went out to lunch. I tried to swallow my sadness, knowing that his trip to Paris was almost at an end. We had anticipated these three days together for so long – much longer than they had lasted. As usual, I had been increasingly consumed with anxiety and stress, worrying that something would go wrong, that I would come down with an unsexy cold or a bad case of cystic acne just before he arrived. And yet everything had unfolded so magically: our frantic, lust-fuelled “quickie” on Wednesday afternoon, to make sure I was dripping with come when he took me out to dinner later that night, how he had whipped me a little with his belt when we got back to the hotel – “so you don’t know what foreplay is?” – and then Thursday, how we had lounged around in bed for eight hours, drinking champagne and trying to see how many times I could come, except when I knelt on the edge of the bed blindfolded, with my wrists strapped behind my back to my ankles while he slapped my tender breasts and face – my breasts were so wonderfully sore that night – and finally, this perfect Friday. But we didn’t speak of that; instead we talked of other things, like my dream of working for MI6 (hmm, perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed that!?) and then making our way back to the hotel lounge, where I kissed him adoringly for the few minutes we had until we had to leave for the Gare du Nord. He seemed a little restrained – discomfited, perhaps, by my unabashed lasciviousness? How intriguing! And how English…
I saw him off at the station, turning to wave goodbye as he passed through the gates, and hoping he would find it significant that we had both turned for that last glimpse at the same time. Whereas, in truth, I must have turned back half a dozen times, until he was gone.