Stories tagged with "HQ porn"
Assassin
When an assassin meets the man shes supposed to kill, she lets her desire get the better of her.
Everyone has a past, so to speak. You wouldn't assume that of me now watching me enter my lecture hall. Hair in a tidy bun, face ascetic, devoid of even a smudge of lipstick, and wearing a suit that might resemble the politicians running on a conservative ticket. In short, as far as general accouterment and demeanor go, I lack what most people would call ostentation. It isn't that I'm averse to a show of sensuality. It's just that as of late, I haven't been inspired. Nor Has anyone aroused my interest. But this wasn't always the case. In the fall of 1996, I was a young student studying in Bordeaux, a 19-year-old in a foreign country struggling with the language, the culture, the food, the people, everything fascinated me. Gray centuries-old buildings rising out of cobblestone streets evoked exactly the romance you would expect from a French black and white movie. Heels are rapping against checkered stones. Announcing the impending approach of a woman would send men gazing even before she appeared. They'd sit there with their cigarettes and coffee and an outdoor cafe, just waiting for her around the corner. The sight of her tiny little dog peeking out of her purse was enough to elicit a wine from one of her admirers. Meanwhile, at any given Bistro, a man and a black-tie can be seen reaching out across to a stranger, just a lighter cigarette. These are the doors that the French leave half-open for delicious possibilities. And these were things I saw in the fall of 1996, just as the city was on the verge of a general strike. By November, as the temperatures dropped and we braced ourselves for a harsh winter. The Civil Service Workers asserted their bargaining rights and imposed the much-awaited strike, public transportation, trains, buses, taxis, everything stopped operating. The university, which was located on the outskirts of the city in the 1960s, was now only reachable after a two-hour walk. This was true for every student living in Bordeaux. The only saving grace was the motorists who picked up masses of hitchhiker stations under the arc of Rue St. Catherine, mostly young people, students, and office workers hoping to catch a ride. In a way, this bonded the people of the city, opening yet more possibilities for surprising connections. It was then that I met Francois. Up until that point, I had refused to join the hearts of people around the plaza, waiting to be picked up by strangers. I would rise before 4:30 am and prepare for my early morning track, buried under layers of garments and a heavy coat to secure myself against the cold. I walked the meandering streets weighted down by textbooks towards my lecture hall. It was an arduous commute, and by the time I arrived, I was exhausted. By the end of the first week, I started falling far behind in my work. So you see, it was merely a question of energy. I was clearly beginning to fail. I had to find a solution to what seemed like an impossible situation. Then, on a Tuesday morning, I reluctantly huddled up with the rest of the crowd waiting by the roundabout where cars circulated and stopped at points to pick up passengers. A red runnel circled halfway and paused in front of a teenage punk rocker standing right next to me. The driver looking apprehensive at the sight of this seemingly delinquent juvenile, sat in his car and paused before unlocking his car door. I heard a slight uproar from the people around us asking whether or not he was offering a ride. And if not, would he please move on. I looked at him and saw that he felt the pressure from the crowd. Still, he thought unabashed as he made up his mind. He looked at the teenager and was deliberating then, as if by accident. His gaze caught sight of me standing next to this questionable youth. Our eyes locked. Suddenly, I felt a striking connection. He had picked me out of the crowd. I knew I wouldn't be among his group of passengers. He into the car forward directly in front of me, and jumped out. He walked towards me and, without a word, took my arm and escorted me to the passenger side. He then let the punk rocker into the backseat. The ride towards the university was absolutely silent. The juvenile in the backseat listened to his Walkman. And by the time we arrived, I had not said a word. I had been stealing glances at this driver. He wasn't French but maybe Turkish or Algerian lovely dark skin, thick, wavy hair: eyebrow And a slight mustache, brown eyes. Intense brown eyes, I thought at one point, he smiled at some comment made on the radio, which revealed dimples on his chiseled cheeks. I wouldn't call him handsome but may be distinguished older at that point. His composure, along with the subtle lines around his eyes, told me he must be in his early 40s, poised, quiet, and removed. I was instantly intrigued. He led us out of the university without saying a word, mousy Mozu I said before closing the door, Francois Mademoiselle. He smiled and drove off. That afternoon, after my class, I walked to the place where his car had dropped me off and secretly hoped I'd find in there again. The next couple of days passed, and I was driven to my class by different people at the plazas roundabout. By the end of the week, I felt I would never see Francois again. It might have been a one-time act of generosity on his part, I thought to myself, as I ambled out of my physics class that Friday afternoon, I was securing the books on my backpack, preparing for a long walk home, when I suddenly heard a car start less than 50 yards in front of me, mademoiselle, I looked up. Do you want to ride home? It was Francoise. How did you know I'm not French that I'm American. He smiled and said nothing as he turned the corner onto my street. About obvious ha, I blushed. I lived in America for seven years. It's a compliment. He said. American women are beautiful, Elizabeth. It was the first time he said my name. After I properly introduced myself. He parked his car outside my studio apartment and didn't say a word, Francois. I asked for coffee. He nodded. We entered my studio, and my heart started racing. I dropped my bag and I in buttons, my coat in the foyer of my living room. As he stood in paused by the front door. I felt his eyes watching me as I pulled off my coat to hang it on the coat stand. You can hang your jacket here if you want. I said, My voice cracking and faltering. I was nervous. I was convinced he felt it too. I looked down at the floor and smiled in an attempt to bury my embarrassment. Then I felt his hand suddenly crossed my hair. I looked up and smiled. Our eyes map. Then he calmly and casually unbuttoned his jacket and let it fall to the floor. He stared at me and unbuttoned his shirt. We knew about speaking. I moved closer to him and let his fingers find the clasp of my skirt. And I helped him and let my skirt fall to the ground. He looked at my bare legs. I was still wearing boots with only my yellow panties. He smiled. I looked down shyly. He lifted my face gently. And when he did this, I kissed his eyes and his cheeks until I landed passionately on his lips. His tongue unfurled inside my mouth. My hand gripped his back and pulled him close to me. Pausing, I pulled my yellow panties down my legs. He mailed in front of me, his head close to my bare sacks. He entered his head towards me, gently breathing in my scent. Then he caressed my pussy lips with his and vigorously plunged the tip of his tongue deep inside me. With short, rapid movements. I spread my legs, inviting him in further as he licked my juices until I collapse to the floor, confused with delight. Then he moved on top of me relentlessly as he buried his face, his tongue thrusting and sweeping through the walls of my sex as his hand squeezed my buttocks towards him. I moaned and swung my head unconsciously from side to side. This was the ultimate form of intimacy. I soared as he devoured me, feasting delicious Lee sucking me and paralyzing me in pleasure, my body, convulsed and ecstasy, my hand clenched his head, while my mouth opened, my lips quivering for mercy, all the while praising him, feeling ever so grateful for the absolute generosity of this total stranger. The strike continued for what seemed like an eternity, but I was never inconvenienced because Francois met me daily at the roundabout and took me to the university and then back home. His generosity was boundless, and he pleasured me in every way imaginable and never asked anything in return. Years later, I still look back on that day we first met and marveled at the odds, whoever would have imagined Such a striking connection
Rating: 4.5/5 (total: 48)
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