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Jean prefers to shower before we are together. And so, while the hot water sluices over his age-thickened but powerfully built body, I arrange myself in his bed: limbs akimbo, hair fanned out on the pillow. I am an artfully slumbering Muse.

I meditate while he showers. My heartbeat slows, my mind clears, my body sinks boneless into his bed. The illusion of sleep is flawless.

When I feel the weight of his knee on the mattress I turn my face away slightly, as if I am dreaming, revealing my neck to him.

He presses his mouth against the dip where collarbone meets shoulder and palms my naked breast. Jean has made a study of my reactions. Part of his pleasure is the ability to draw mine from me. A gentle dominance he has been learning, studying like an acolyte, since our first encounter.

He touches me reverently, studiously ignoring my nipples, which rise and tighten, begging for attention. I maintain the illusion of sleep, but my lashes flutter in anticipation as his touch ghosts over my ribcage, my hips and thighs, my belly.

I whimper and he hushes me. When his lips close over my nipple my back arches. He squeezes the other, flicking it with his thumbnail, and heat flies along my body’s ley lines. Now, I may “wake.”

With a chuckle, he begins to repeat this process — languorous caress, wet kiss, and flick, but with no predictable rhythm. My body is in a frenzy of want and I writhe on the sheets in an attempt to press my sensitive flesh into his hands.

He slides his arm underneath me, cradling me back against him. I can feel the warm, heaviness of his erection against my ass and I grind against him, smiling to myself when he gets harder.

He draws my leg up and back, spreading my cunt open, and I relish the cool against the wet heat there. He toys with me, stroking me from knee to thigh, brushing his fingertips like whispers over the lips of my pussy without giving me the satisfaction of touch. I am in flames and he knows it. His cock twitches. He wants to fuck me, but he wants me to want him more.

Those long strokes on my thighs grow more forceful, his fingers dip into my wetness but never where I need him to be. He is waiting for one thing, but I know he isn’t ready for me to give it yet.

When I am a screaming bundle of nerves, he simultaneously pinches my nipple, bites my shoulder, and rubs his finger over my soaked and swollen clit. I come hard, bucking and crying out. He continues to play with my breast and clit, driving me up again.

There is wetness smearing the place where his cock is trapped between us. He must be in an agony of desire. For our own reasons, we are both hell-bent on driving one another insane.

I have lost count of the number of times he has pushed me to a climax, but there is an deeper orgasm he seeks, one he knows he can give me. The one which pleases him so much he is willing to purchase it.

“Please.” I am demanding, but needy. Greedy, slavering for this release. Such a polite word, such a lustful use. “Jean, please.”

He rolls us over and spreads me wide, anchoring my thighs against his. I press my cheek to the pillow and grip the mattress. He slides his cock into me slowly. The pleasure of being filled is a kind of relief and I rock back to welcome him. When he is seated so deeply inside me we can both feel every breath and heartbeat, I say it again.


I flex the muscles in my cunt, squeezing his cock hard. He pumps into me, fucking me like a berserker, stroke after relentless stroke until he cannot take it any more. He reaches under my body to pinch my nipples. I cry out and my whole body spasms so hard I don’t feel his release when it comes.

Jean-Anthoine prefers to shower when we are finished as well. I take a moment in his guest bath to tidy up and discreetly check my accounts. These days, I am trying to be more mindful of who I am.