Champagne Casanova

 I knew you were trouble by the look on your face when you popped the bottle open, the sideways grin and the way you look up without moving your head. 

Last week I had a scheduled ‘sex appointment’ with my regular fuck buddy but they've become unreliable lately. Funny how people are willing to pay us yet our free cum appointments take us for granted. I really should just stop that.

But this promised to be fun. Whatever happens next, I get paid and am happy, there’s never guilt, mixed feelings or resentment. So I don’t worry. But, if I am indulged sexually, it’s a nice bonus, isn’t it?

Wine relaxes me. I’m glad you brought Champagne, it’s a naughty little treat that adds to the mood. The first sip fizzles on my tongue and I haven’t much to say, I just let the moment happen and savour the taste. You start the conversation, but, I can’t recall what you said. I watched your lips, soft for a man, play a dance, and I shut you up by going for them.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they kiss. Some people kiss like their lips are fingers trying to grip. Dry, hard, possessive. But then others, like you, you know to keep them relaxed. You know how to anticipate the next move. You’re clean shaven, no stubble so there’s only silken flesh touching my lips, just a hint of tongue, tasting like the very best dry Champagne, softly caressing mine. 

I wonder if it feels the same for a man, when your body is excited and anticipates sex. I wonder if the throb, the flutter feels the same. When all the blood gushes into the genitals and begs to be satiated. That’s what you did to me. Your tongue and your lips and the hand on the back of my head made me feel faint, bloodflow to my head, limited, and my breathing, suddenly quick and in time with yours.

It only makes me feel more helpless as we put down our wines, that you pull my head back by my hair and run your lips down my neck, savouring my spicy perfume, then nibbling along my collarbone. I hear a moan escape the depths of your throat and I’m finished. My legs instinctually part and I’m ready, almost begging for what you do next.

My work requires a strong, assertive nature and thick skin. But I submit to you. To let go, just for a moment, feels freeing and devine. To be taken, to be wanted, to let someone else take the reins. And it's you - you’re not beautiful, you’re not perfect, but you’re perfectly good at seducing me, and tonight I’m all yours. All it took was the way you looked at me over a bottle of champagne.

PETRA FOX

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