Dinner is a delight. Milla is wonderful to talk to with an interest in and knowledge of almost any subject you can think of. But she keeps it light and flirty, quick to laugh charmingly and to pick up and extend the risqué, while placing her hand on my thigh or hand in a promise of more physical intimacy ahead. She speaks softly, French to the waiters, English to me. In the car going back to the hotel Milla slides across, our arms touching, her head almost on my shoulder. Somehow our clasped hands just happen to rest tantalisingly on my inner upper thigh. No words are exchanged but she seems pleased at the involuntary lengthening, swelling and general tightness in my groin that this provokes. As so often in her company I am priapism personified.
Back in the hotel we drink Champagne and cuddle on the sofa, glasses in one hand, our free hands wandering over shoulders, thighs, breasts and pushing ever higher between parting legs. Milla is not wearing underwear and nothing restricts access to the soft moistness between her legs. Small gasps encourage greater exploration of the interior.
Eventually she suggests we take advantage of the greater freedom offered by the bed and I undress while she changes in the bathroom into a gorgeous silk fuchsia baby doll nightdress and matching kimono. She straddles me on the bed, letting the kimono fall open and pulling up the baby doll to rub her pussy enthusiastically up and down my impossibly erect penis. I guide her up to straddle my face and let my tongue flick, lick and probe, encouraged by the gasps and moans coming from above. She lifts herself up and pivots to face away from me, her pussy snuggled again against my face, her hand grasping and pointing my penis to her lips. Small kisses with closed lips, licked lips slightly parted pushing a little further down the glands, the warm wetness of her mouth reaching down the shaft, tongue pushing against glans as her mouth withdraws. I gasp against her pussy in time to the rhythm of advance and retreat. Her grip becomes firmer as her hand pushes down onto my pubic hair. The tightened foreskin no longer follows her withdrawing mouth, lips and tongue press directly, firmly on exposed glands. I buck beneath her. A hand against her shoulder, slight upward pressure. Like an old dance partner, she responds intuitively, lifting her head, bringing a coquettish smile and watery mouth back to kiss me.
Crisis averted, we kiss and grin at each other, catch our breath and, after the necessary preliminaries, I’m inside with Milla in cowgirl. She’s in great shape physically, toned muscles energetically doing what toned muscles should do. We roll over into missionary, cycling though changes, legs open, vertical, knees to shoulders, the satisfying slap of pubis on pubis echoed by sharp intakes of breath. As I pause, she’s quickly on all fours presenting a wonderfully inviting ass and we resume doggy style. After a while, slippery preparations made, we visit Greece, exploring the islands’ contours until I come. Even then she encourages us to stay entwined as our breathing and heart rates gradually slow.
We break for more Champagne, hold hands, look out the French windows over Piccadilly and down to Berkeley Square. It’s cold and quiet in the small hours of the mornings, but not for us. Still standing but leaning forward, hands against the window frame, Milla encourages me to take her from behind. So, my hands on her hips, we fuck, framed in the window, both looking down at the night city and laughing at the thought that someone below might look up. Is there any more exquisite way to experience this city?
We leave the city and return to bed, rotating to a comfortable sixty-nine. I taste Milla’s humidity, feel her pleasure, glutes held open beneath my palms, tightening involuntarily. At the other end all is warm wetness around my penis. Soon, control is no longer possible, and I add to that wetness, she sighs, subsides, her head resting on my thigh as I wrap my arms around her inverted waist, all tension gone. The peace that comes of fucking. We fall asleep, spooning, my body contoured against her back, my hips and thighs nestled into the roundness of her ass, my right hand on her breast, her left hand holding my cupped fingers in place, nipple still hard between my fingers.
I’m used to waking early, earlier than her, I think. Our limbs are still roughly intertwined, more scattered over each other than arranged. I’m cruel and decided to wake her. However, I am not, I think, completely heartless. So, trying hard not to wake her quite yet, I slide my head under the covers, and let my feet pivot to the headboard. In my mind it is to be a manoeuvre executed with smooth efficiency. It isn’t. Feet tangled in sheets, head unable to find the gap between the covers, hands desperately tunnelling. But eventually I’m there, head just below her ass, and mercifully Milla still sleeps. She would have laughed gently at my awkwardness, but I am spared the embarrassment of discovery and can gently kiss her cheeks. I continue as she stirs, using my hand to urge the higher leg forward and up until I can rest my head against the lower leg and begin in earnest to lick, nibble and suck the lips of her pussy. Still half asleep she opens her legs while little, sharp intakes of breath encourage me. Things get wetter below and noisier above.
Now fully awake, Milla throws the bedcovers off us both, pushes me away, fastens her hand to my penis and draws it into her mouth to ensure all is as taut and hard as it should me. Then, kneeling on all fours, head down against the pillow, she wiggles her ass in my direction. After suitable preparations, we fuck: hard, sweaty, aggressive, noisy fucking, as befits the well-rested and horny.
Coffee and croissant for breakfast. Sometimes, for a moment, things really are perfect.
Milla is a pure delight, in and out of the bedroom. Now I just need to find a way to see her again.
