Il m’encule dans tout les sens et j’en redemande ! Il jouit dans mon cul ! – Les Pounes
In the cozy confines of their Parisian apartment, she teased him until he couldn’t resist any longer. The petite French beauty, Lila, lounged seductively on the plush sofa, her long raven tresses cascading over creamy shoulders. A knowing smirk played at the corners of her coral-painted lips, as she watched the object of her desires – her beloved, hard-bodied lover, Jean-Pierre. He entered the room, eyes roving hungrily over her barely-clad form, the tiniest G-string and lacy bra doing little to conceal her supple curves.
Lila beckoned him closer with a crooked finger, her sultry voice like honey, “Viens ici, mon amour. Viens m’enculer dans tous les sens.” She didn’t need to ask twice.
Jean-Pierre descended upon her like a dessert-starved man seeing a decadently rich plated affair. Hands roved, groping, feeling, as lips crashed together in a passionate, open-mouthed kiss. Lila mewled into his mouth, tongue dancing with his. He could taste the remnants of the sweet wine they had shared just moments before. It mingled deliciously with the flavor that was purely Lila.
Fingers found that tiny scrap of lace, skimming beneath, to find her already dripping with anticipation. Jean-Pierre groaned, urging her nipples to stiff peaks through the delicate lace cups. They squared off as equals, Lila as ravishing as any queen. In the heat of passion, the maître, in any regard, didn’t matter. All that did was the sweet inferno they were about to incite.
Jean-Pierre sank to his knees before his goddess, peeling the soaked panties down strong, corded thighs. Lila’s breath hitched, her sex clenching on nothing. He nuzzled into the crook of her legs, inhale deep, endless, before his tongue met her heated flesh, long and languid, sipping from her like a fine wine. Lila arched, fingers sinking into his hair – his inky locks so much like hers. “Oui, mon coeur. Mange mon cul.”
He did just that, lapping and stroking, nudging her swollen clit with the ball of his nose. Fingers joined his efforts, one sliding deep, then two, pumping slowly. When a third pressed into her, Lila shattered, knees clamping around his ears as she rode his hand and face like a woman possessed.
Before the echoes of her cries could fully fade, Jean-Pierre was breasts-deep in their queen-sized bed, Lila poised above him. She rubbed her slick sex along the heavy length of him, base to tip, temptress through and through. He bucked, her hot honey bathing his aching cock, and she purred like a kitten. Eventually, she sank down deliberately, inch by excruciating inch, until he was fully sheathed in her blissful heat. They sighed in unison before she began to ride him geographically, undulating, circling, sensuously rolling her hips. Lila knew no mercy, taking him hard and deep, squealing little mewls and canting her head back as she chased her pleasure.
When she came, they were in silhouette, her pert rump bouncing in his greedy palms. Her scorching heat rippled and squeezed, milking him expertly, but still the man held back, urges reaching a feverish pitch.
She dismounted him, leaving him achingly empty, and presented herself to him on all fours, shamelessly spreading herself. “Baise-moi, Jean-Pierre! Baise-moi fort!” she demanded, and he didn’t hesitate to oblige, slicking himself through the remaining evidence of her release and pressing at her plugged orifice. With a guttural groan, he sank into tight perfection, balls slapping damp skin. He snatched her hips and plunged, over and over, as she wailed in rapture, loving the feel of his thickness splitting her open.
Their flesh came together like the slap of thunder. Jean-Pierre wrenched her back against him, free hand gripping a bountiful breast, fingers sinking into the flesh. He rocked them both, panting, hips scissoring into her backside, driving them both towards one shared pinnacle.
Lila broke first, sex squeezing and pulsing as she came anew, spearing herself onto his patriotic sword. Her lover followed, unleashing a sound that bordered on a roar as he flooded her insides with his hot release. Her name was on his heaving lips like a benediction, lovely effusions spilling from his cock in waves.
They collapsed together intimately, a sweaty tangle of sated limbs and whispered words of reverence. Lila sighed contentedly, shifting torsos to place a boneless kiss to Jean-Pierre’s firm jaw. “Encule-moi encore,” she agreed with a dreamy smile. “Il en faut plus de ça.” She shifted her hips to prove her point, his cock slipping from her heat and creating a sticky ribbon between them.
Jean-Pierre laughed, a wonderful sound that had her toes curling, and pulled her into his lap, his semi-interest tangible against her thigh. Their breaths mingled, a sweet dance translating to an even more humid dance of flesh on flesh. There was time, she knew, for their passions to reawaken, to play out the scene, to indulge in depravity. For now, there was only the space of one moment, a beautiful coupling, menage a quatre: the lovers and their insatiable hunger and want for one another.
It was nirvana to witness, the poignant way they explored every erotic map of the other. Lila became more of a temptress than any snake. Jean-Pierre, with his seafoam eyes and boyish smile, alone, proved that older versions of the saying, “Once you go black, you never go back,” weren’t nearly as catchy as they could be. In the most metaphorical sense, once you get loving like the Frenchfolk, you never go back. Vous ne pouvez pas.
