Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Anne F. Garréta

opening your eyes, you would see her watching you, see her face leaning over you, spying on your sleep. Insomnia would have been preferable to that. You asked her what she was doing. She replied that she was watching you sleep. You surreptitiously glanced at your watch. In thirty minutes the two alarms she had set would go off, signaling the agreed upon hour of your departure. Did she remember the deadline that she had so imperatively ordained, had made you promise to respect, and which would signal game over? You asked her if she was in the habit of watching the people who shared her bed sleep. She said no. There is a blank in your memory that extends until the moment when she took your hand and brought it against her pubis. You let her position your hand, curious to discover just where she wanted to lead it. More curious still when you saw her close her eyes as soon as she slipped it between her legs. Your fingers sliding along the natural slope, spreading the labia open, you feel her shadowed and palpitating wetness. Her eyelids quiver but remain closed, even when your fingers force their way in and pull back, losing themselves in the folds of her flesh. You listen to her, taking care not to rush her pleasure. Breaking the rhythm when you sense she is getting too close to coming, slipping from one caress to another without leaving her the time to settle in. How strange that she would now let you play her thus, and that her body would follow all the detours you were taking.


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