He Only Loves My Lips

He only loves me for my lips. I know it, even if He says different. • It’s the way He looks at my mouth when I speak, and the hunger when we kiss that has me convinced. He fell in love with my mouth, but not for the intellect conveyed... no, but for the voluptuous beauty and softness on full display.

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A Parisian Holiday: Beautiful Consent

We ascended the glass elevator to my hotel room, hand in hand, my pulse racing with excitement. Now it was my turn to set the mood, so I selected some sultry jazz tunes from my phone’s playlists. Moscow and I sat on the couch and discussed what was about to happen. • Warning: Contains explicit language and graphic sexual references. Only for readers 18+.

A Parisian Holiday

It was an unseasonably warm spring day outside of a small café on boulevard de la Tour Maubourg in the heart of Paris, I sat taking in the sights and sounds of the city. In the distance, I could just make out the lights from the Eiffel Tower as the sun made room for nightfall. Cars rolled along and people strolled by on their way home or to an evening of magic in this city of wonder. It was shaping up to be the perfect Parisian evening.

A Taste at the Table

Our table sat in a dimly lit corner of a side alcove off the main dining room in an aging Italian restaurant. We were fairly isolated from the rest of the diners, just the way Sir likes it. I pressed a glass of cool prosecco to my lips and drank in the smooth sparkling wine. As I swallowed, I felt the coolness in my throat followed by a heat rising to my cheeks. I could feel his eyes on me. I returned the glass to the table and slowly raised my eyes to meet his steel-gray stare. His gaze was amiable but intense. He was studying me. I felt my lips drying up from the drink, and ran my tongue over them to bring back some moisture. I smiled, he did not.