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– The Ferry in the Rain

The ferry drifted slowly across the dark water. Rain tapped against the roof of the little cabin. The February cold cut through my coat despite the thick wool. My fingers were numb around the strap of my bag. For the third time, I searched my purse. Nothing. Not a single coin. My stomach tightened.

The other passenger moved closer. A tall, very lean man, wrapped in a long dark coat. We were the last two on the ferry. I glanced at him sideways and felt my cheeks grow warm.

— Um… I don’t have any change for the crossing. I was sure I’d kept a coin somewhere…

I folded my arms across my chest, the soft grey cashmere pulled tight against my skin. The ferry rocked gently. At the back, the ferryman stood in silence, hands deep in the pockets of his oilskin. His impatience showed in the set of his shoulders.

— I’m so sorry… Would you mind paying for me? I can transfer it straight away if you like.

My heart beat a little faster. There was something in the air — the smell of rain, damp wood… I wanted to disappear.

He studied me for a moment, then answered with quiet lightness.

— You’re lucky. I’ve got change. And I like being helpful.

The ferry kept gliding on. The slap of water against the hull mingled with the patter of rain. A warmth rose in my throat. My fingers twisted nervously at my sleeve.

— How much do I owe you exactly? One euro, isn’t it? I’ll get my phone out. I can pay you back straight away… or when we get off, whichever you prefer.

A gust of wind made the boat sway. I stumbled and my shoulder almost brushed his in the narrow space. I straightened quickly, breathing a little shorter.

— Do you… come here often? To the Chalet Robinson, I mean? Or was it just tonight?

I hesitated, then added too quickly, — Sorry. I ask too many questions when I’m embarrassed.

He smiled faintly.

— Come now, you don’t owe me anything. If anything, I’m the one who feels embarrassed — it’s such a small gift.

The ferry bumped gently against the pontoon. The rain had eased into a fine mist that beaded on my coat. I stood still for a moment, fingers tight around the strap of my bag.

Such a small gift. The words turned in my mind. No one had said anything so simple and kind to me in a long time. A quiet warmth spread through my chest.

— Thank you… really. That touches me.

I didn’t move. Neither did he.

He looked at me, then asked with disarming simplicity, — Would you like to walk with me for a while? And tell me a little about yourself?

The ferry sat motionless against the pontoon now, the little barrier open. Your words hung in the cold damp air between us. Part of me wanted to run… and at the same time, part of me wanted to stay, face to face with a man who simply asked.

I lifted my head. My green eyes met yours for a second, then slipped away. A small, uncertain smile touched my lips.

— Walk with you…?

I stood there in my oversized coat, shoulders slightly drawn in, heart beating harder beneath the cashmere. The bitter cold only sharpened the unexpected warmth moving quietly inside me.

— I’d like that.

— All right, — your voice a little weary.

The pontoon was deserted at that hour. Only the sound of our footsteps on the wet planks and the quiet slap of water against the pilings followed us. I walked beside you slowly. My coat brushed against your legs now and then when the wind rose.

Your words made me smile in spite of myself. No one asks so plainly. It made me feel strangely light… and frightened at the same time.

I turned up the collar of my coat. It was cold, and my voice came out soft, broken by little pauses.

— Yes… I’d like to walk for a bit. A small awkward laugh escaped me. — Thank you for asking. It feels good, actually.

I stole a quick glance at you, then fixed my eyes on the path ahead: orange streetlamps reflected in puddles, bare February trees lining the trail toward the Bois de la Cambre.

You held out your hand with a smile, and I placed mine in it. Your hand was warm and steady.

— Gian Piero. I’m only passing through Brussels. People call me Gian — it’s shorter.

— I’m… Claire.

We set off along the path beside the pond, and the words came more easily than I expected.

— I don’t live far from here, — I said. — In Ixelles… in a house that feels a little too big for me now, on my own.

A soft sigh escaped me.

— I stayed on after my divorce, five or six years ago. It seemed simpler that way.

My fingers kept worrying at the strap of my bag. My breathing felt quicker beneath all the wool.

— What do you do, Claire?

— I don’t really work — well, I do, I volunteer four mornings a week with a small organisation that helps elderly people. It’s quiet. I like that. The rest of the time… I read, cook a little, look after the house. Nothing very romantic, I know.

I paused, then lifted my head. The streetlight caught in my green eyes, flashing gold for a moment.

— And you? Do you come here often? Or was it just tonight, for the restaurant?

Without meaning to, I slowed. We were walking almost shoulder to shoulder.

Your voice was low and even.

— I love the night air here, but it’s been a long time since I’ve come. Can you smell that?

The streetlamps cast an amber glow through the bare branches. The air was fresh and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth, slowly rotting leaves, and a faint hint of pine resin.

Your words made me smile.

— Yes… I can smell it. Cold earth, something almost sweet underneath, damp wood. I love that.

I tilted my face toward the dark sky and drew in a deep breath, eyes half-closed for a second.

— It reminds me of when I was little — Sunday evening walks with my father. We always came home with red cheeks and our noses full of that smell.

A small laugh escaped me.

— It’s been so long since I’ve really stopped to breathe like this, walking with someone. Usually I come alone and hurry home.

A small sigh.

— Silly, isn’t it? But tonight… it feels different.

My coat had fallen open a little as I looked up at you. My arms hung at my sides, fingers lightly clenched.

— And you? — I asked. — What do you love here? The smell, the silence… or something else?

I stole a glance at you. My steps had fallen into the same rhythm as yours now.

You looked at me for a moment, then said simply, — You’re cold.

The wind had picked up. My fingers were numb despite the long sleeves, and faint shivers ran up my back.

Your words startled me. I lowered my eyes for a moment, a shy smile on my lips, then looked back up at you — my cheeks, already pink from the cold, growing a little warmer.

— Yes… a little, I think. I didn’t bring a scarf tonight, and with the rain… it goes through everything.

I drew my coat tighter around me, arms folded under my chest. My breath rose in small white clouds that dissolved quickly in the frozen air.

— And you? Or am I just the one who’s always cold?

I slowed again, walking very close to you now. My shoulder was only inches from yours. I could feel your presence against the evening chill — discreet, almost reassuring.

— If I dared, — you said, — I’d suggest a mulled wine. My car isn’t far.

The path was nearly empty now. Only our footsteps on the wet gravel and the wind stirring the branches above us accompanied us. Your words fell softly, like a question asked with care.

Mulled wine… your car.

Everything inside me went still for a second. A small voice whispered: you don’t really know him — what if he finds you ridiculous? But another warmth rose at once, stronger: the simple desire to say yes, because the thought of being a little longer with you felt sweet.

My cheeks burned despite the cold. I looked down at a puddle trembling with yellow lamplight, then raised my eyes to yours more directly. A small smile came to me — fragile, but decided.

— A mulled wine… yes, actually. That would do me good. My hands are freezing, and the thought of being warm for a while, too.

I paused and folded my arms under my chest without realising.

— If it’s not too much trouble, of course. I don’t want to impose on your kindness. But yes… all right.

I stood still, waiting for you to lead — that small step forward I couldn’t quite take alone.

— Come, — you said. — Take my arm. It’s slippery here.

The path narrowed. Wet gravel and patches of mud made every step uncertain. When you said that, my heart gave a small leap.

No one had offered me his arm in years, and you made the gesture feel so natural.

I slipped my arm through yours. The warmth of your body reached me even through the wool of my coat. I lowered my eyes, flustered by the sudden closeness, but I didn’t pull away.

— Thank you… that’s kind. I always slip in these flat shoes when it’s rained.

I glanced up at you for the briefest moment, then back down at the path. My shoulder was brushing yours now.

I stopped talking. The silence felt easy, filled only with the crunch of our footsteps and the rustle of branches. My arm stayed tucked through yours, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel too much of anything. I was simply there.

— Are we walking far like this? I asked quietly. — Or just to the car?

I still didn’t let go of your arm.

— There it is. Let me get the door for you.

We reached the edge of the almost empty car park. Your car stood dark under a streetlamp, blurred slightly by the drizzle.

When you opened the passenger door, the gesture was simple and direct. Something stirred in me — I couldn’t say what.

I glanced at the dark leather seat, then back up at you. A faint smile trembled on my lips.

— Thank you… You’re very thoughtful.

I slipped inside carefully, mindful not to bump myself. My coat spread out across the seat. I let my hands rest on my thighs, fingers lightly clenched in the fabric.

The interior was already warmer than outside. A faint scent of leather and wood drifted in the air, mingling with my perfume warmed by my skin.

I watched you walk around to your side.

— It’s kind of you to take me like this, — I said softly. — I feel as though I’m doing something a little foolish… but pleasantly foolish.

A quiet laugh, then I looked down at my hands, nervously turning the hem of my coat between my fingers. I waited for you to settle in and close your door, my heart beating harder in the sudden silence of the car.

– La Tourelle

The old brasserie at La Tourelle was almost empty at that late hour. A few tables at the back were still occupied, wrapped in low murmurs. A fire crackled softly in the stone hearth, and the glow of small copper lamps gilded the wood panelling, the glasses, the hands resting on the tables.

We sat side by side rather than facing each other, as though it had settled that way on its own. Now and then our knees barely touched. I could have shifted away. I didn’t.

The mulled wine steamed in our glasses. Its smell of cinnamon, orange and clove mingled with the scent of burning wood. I held mine in both hands, warming myself, attentive to that simple heat returning slowly to my fingers.

For the past half hour we had talked about ordinary things: Brussels, its neighbourhoods, the places we liked, the ones we avoided. I didn’t say much, but I spoke. My voice stayed low, a little cautious. More than once I caught myself laughing for no clear reason, just to ease the awkwardness I felt when your gaze lingered.

I raised the glass to my lips and took a small sip. The warmth slid down my throat and settled in my chest. I lowered my eyes to the garnet velvet of the banquette, to our legs so close, then turned my head slightly toward you.

— It’s really good. I hadn’t been here in years… I’d forgotten how lovely it is.

I found myself smiling, and breathed in deeply, with a pleasure that surprised me.

My fingers drifted along the rim of the glass.

— You seem to know this place well… Or perhaps you simply know how to make an evening pleasant.

I was surprised to have said that, a little embarrassed. I kept my eyes on my glass.

You took a moment to look at me before answering.

— I’m curious, — you said. — You were alone tonight at the Chalet Robinson, and you looked as though you wanted to speak to no one. Do you like being alone?

I traced the damp rim of the glass with one finger. The question didn’t hurt. It only startled me by how true it felt.

— I was alone, yes. Lately that’s often the case.

I paused, searching for the words.

— I like coming here when there are people… but not too many. Just enough to feel I still belong somewhere, without having to talk to anyone.

I took another sip.

— Solitude… I’m not sure I like it. At first, after my divorce, it was a choice. Simpler. Quieter too.

I lowered my eyes a little.

— And then I think I simply got used to it.

My voice stayed calm, but something barer moved beneath the words.

— Tonight, though, that wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. More a place where I could just be there without having to explain why I was on my own.

I finally turned my head toward you.

— And then you were there. That changed something.

I said it simply, almost under my breath.

— You were alone tonight too. Is that often the case for you, or did you just want some quiet?

You smiled faintly and gave the slightest shrug.

— For me it was almost by chance. But sometimes life arranges things well… You looked at me. — I’m glad to be here with you tonight. You’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

Everything inside me went still, then gave way all at once. My heart quickened. I lowered my eyes immediately. Heat rushed to my cheeks with an almost painful intensity. For a second I didn’t know where to put my hands.

You hadn’t said it the way men say it to get somewhere. You sounded as though you truly meant it.

My fingers closed over the fabric of my trousers. I felt my chest rise faster beneath the cashmere.

I raised my head slowly toward you, my voice barely audible.

— Gian… really…

— It means more to me than you can imagine.

The fire crackled softly behind us. Everything felt strangely still, closer. I could still feel your knee against mine.

— It’s been so long since anyone said that to me like that. Without a ‘but’. Without anything after…

I let out a trembling breath.

— I don’t even know how to receive it anymore… You’re making me blush.

My right hand moved of its own accord, very slowly. My fingertips brushed the back of your hand resting on the banquette. I didn’t pull away.

I leaned my head slightly toward you. My knee pressed more firmly against yours.

— You… you really think I’m beautiful? The question came out almost childlike. — It isn’t just the wine, the light, the evening…?

My fingers tightened gently on your hand.

— Claire, I’m afraid I may shock you if I tell you what I’m really feeling…

Your words passed through me like a warm wave. My breath caught. The fire went on crackling somewhere behind us, but everything else fell away. There was only you, right beside me.

My cheeks burned. An intense heat moved down into my belly. I pressed my thighs together in a small furtive movement, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

I lowered my eyes to our hands — mine resting on yours, my fingers trembling slightly — then raised them slowly back to you, my breath short.

And my voice came out low and rough, barely a whisper.

— You… you won’t shock me… Really. Not tonight.

A small nervous laugh broke free, unsteady with something I couldn’t name.

— Tell me. Please… What you’re feeling. I want to hear it… even if it makes me blush.

My hand slid over yours. My knee sought yours. I didn’t move away.

— I’ll be honest with you, Claire: I want to take you somewhere quiet, and make love to you.

The world stopped.

I sat motionless for a second, eyes wide, fixed on yours. An intense heat rose from deep in my belly up to my throat. My breathing turned short and ragged.

I dropped my eyes, unable to hold your gaze any longer, then lifted them again — slowly, trembling.

— Gian…

My voice broke slightly on your name. I looked down at our joined hands.

— You say that so simply… just like that…

The fire shifted softly in the grate. I could still feel your knee against mine. It steadied me and undid me at the same time.

— We don’t know each other. We met barely two hours ago on a ferry. I know almost nothing about you. And you say it just like that…

A brief incredulous laugh escaped me.

— It’s mad. I can’t… I’m not… how can you… you don’t even know me.

— I want to know you, Claire. Look at me.

The silence that followed felt endless. I wanted to cry, or to protest — I didn’t know which. My hand tightened around yours without meaning to.

At last I looked up.

— I can’t… I mean… what happens if I… My voice rose, then dropped. — Oh, I’m so cross with you.

A silence.

— And damn it, — I added. — I don’t care what anyone would think.

Then quieter, almost to myself:

— The worst of it is… I want it too.

I had no idea how those words had come out of my mouth. I had never spoken to a man that way. And yet I kept going.

— Not just because of the wine, or the evening. Because you unsettle me. It’s been so long since I felt looked at like this.

My throat tightened.

— I’m afraid of being clumsy. Afraid of not knowing what to do. What if I change my mind at the last moment?

You looked at me with quiet kindness and said nothing. I couldn’t tell if what I read in your face was trust or simply acceptance, but it relaxed me more than any persuasion would have.

I closed my eyes for a second. The fire murmured behind us. I breathed more slowly.

— I don’t want to say no just because I’m afraid. But I can’t pretend this would mean nothing either.

I looked at you.

— If I say yes… can we go slowly?

— Yes.

I stayed very still. That single word touched me more than it should have.

— And if I feel lost?

— We stop.

— Even at the very last moment?

— At any moment.

Heat rose to my face again. I lowered my eyes to our hands, then raised them back to yours.

— You say that very calmly.

— I know what I want, Claire.

My breath shifted.

— And what is it that you want?

You looked at me without hesitation.

— You, Claire. You. And I’m in no hurry — your desire will be my guide.

The words entered me slowly, deeply. There was nothing to add. Nothing to defend. Nothing to prove. Only your way of wanting me without taking.

I felt my fingers close more tightly around yours.

— You’re making me lose my balance…

— Then hold on to me.

A breath escaped me — half laugh, half something else entirely.

— I’ll probably blush. I may hesitate too.

— I can accept that.

A slow shiver moved through me.

— And you’ll stay like this?

— Yes.

This time I believed you.

I drew in a breath, the way one does before a step long put off.

— Take me home, Gian. Let’s go to my place.

The silence that followed had the weight of a door opening.

I finally withdrew my hand from yours — slowly, only to finish my wine in one swallow, now lukewarm. Then I set the glass down. My fingers trembled a little less.

— I should warn you, — I said. — My house is a little too big, a little too quiet, and probably a little too tidy.

I lowered my eyes, almost embarrassed by the needless confession, then looked straight at you.

— Let’s go. Before I start to panic.

We stood. When you helped me with my coat, my movements were less steady than I wanted. The warmth of the fire was still on my skin, the wine in my blood. And something else burning underneath.

As we left, I took your arm. Firmly.

– Claire’s House

We drove in silence, and now we stood face to face in the thick quiet of the house. The air was warmer here, carrying familiar scents — polished wood and a faint trace of vanilla. Our coats lay in a heap on the sofa, as though we had left all the hesitation of the outside world behind with them.

The small bedside lamp cast a soft golden light over the white walls and the large king-size bed with its navy sheets. I felt my pulse everywhere — in my temples, my throat, deep in my belly. My legs trembled slightly — not from cold anymore, just that diffuse wanting that made me unsteady.

I looked at you, eyes locked on yours, lips slightly parted. My hair was a little tousled from the night wind, one strand falling across my cheek. I left it there. My hands hung at my sides, palms open, uncertain.

— We’re… we’re here. My place.

I took one small step toward you. My grey cashmere jumper clung to my damp skin. I felt my chest rise with the quick rhythm of my breathing.

My voice trembled when I spoke again. I took your hands, my breath short.

— I’m frightened, Gian. I want you to see me… but I’m afraid I won’t please you. I’m too big. My breasts… and my arse…

— Claire, people have told you lies, and you believed them. But I think you’re strong, intelligent and sensual, and that tonight you’re going to discover yourself as I see you. Do you trust me?

My right hand rose slowly, my fingertips brushing your chest, then slipping under your shirt to touch your bare skin. A small moan escaped me despite myself.

— Will you kiss me? Please…

I tilted my face toward yours, lips only a breath away, waiting for that kiss like a handhold, the assurance that you were going to want me.

— We have all night… Undress slowly.

Your words struck me straight in the chest — direct, without detour. A violent shiver ran through me from the nape of my neck down to my toes. My knees nearly buckled; I placed a hand on your chest to keep from swaying. My breathing turned ragged.

I looked at you, eyes wide open, bright with tears of raw emotion.

— Yes… all right…

My hands moved slowly to the hem of my jumper. They hesitated a moment, then I pulled upward. The fabric slid over my skin, carrying the warm scent of my body. I drew it over my head, my light brown hair falling in disarray over my bare shoulders.

I stood there in my bra and jeans. My breasts were heavy and full, straining the lace. I lowered my eyes for a moment, cheeks burning, then lifted my head back toward you. You watched me closely, and what I read in your eyes and on your face was something a little sad — compassion, perhaps? And something else I couldn’t quite name.

— Gian… look at me… My voice trembled. — Do you still want me?

— Continue, Claire. I want to see you naked.

What made me obey? I no longer dared look at you, but I did as you asked. My fingers found the clasp of my bra at my back. The small click sounded loud in the silent room. The straps slid down my shoulders. My breasts fell free, heavy and natural. I breathed hard.

You said nothing. You waited.

My hands moved down to the waistband of my jeans. I undid the button, lowered the zip. I pushed the fabric down over my hips, wriggled slightly to work it down, then stepped out of it.

The dark curls of my sex pressed lightly against my beige lace underwear. I hesitated one last second, heart pounding so hard I could feel it breaking, then slowly slid them down my thighs.

They fell at my feet. I straightened up, completely naked before you, waiting for I didn’t know what.

— Look at yourself in the mirror, Claire.

I looked at my reflection in the large mirror. I was tall, my skin slightly olive. My figure had a shape to it — something like a guitar — but my breasts were much too large, and my hips too, and my belly traced a curve, even if a gentle one. The triangle of my pubis was dense and a shade darker. My thighs and calves, at least, had kept the shape of childhood sport. In the glass I could see the green of my eyes searching for yours.

I stood motionless, arms at my sides, shoulders slightly drawn in.

Was I waiting for your verdict?

— There… My voice was barely audible. — I’m too…

You interrupted me.

— Claire. Will you listen to me?

I fell silent.

— You are incredibly beautiful.

I was speechless.

He wasn’t saying it to reassure me or to seduce me — I could feel it. He continued.

— Your body is superb. I don’t understand how anyone made you believe otherwise. And what you just did moves me as much as it undoes me.

A slight tremor ran through me. I took one small step toward you. We were so close that my breasts brushed your shirt.

— Gian, I don’t know what to say.

— Let me guide you. I want you — all of you.

Your words resonated like a promise, soft and firm at once.

I stood naked before you, my legs trembling slightly. I looked at you, eyes bright, almost drowning in the golden light.

— Yes… I believe you.

I laughed nervously, very softly — almost a sigh of relief. My hands settled on your shoulders, brushed your shirt, then slid down your arms — a hesitant gesture, but a willing one.

— Guide me, Gian… Tell me what you want. I… I want to do what you feel. I want to be yours tonight…

I pressed myself against you. My breasts crushed against the fabric of your shirt. My arms circled your shoulders, anchoring myself to you.

— Tell me…

I stayed there, offered, trembling with anticipation. My eyes were closed now, waiting for your first gesture, your first word, your first command — my whole body taut toward you, ready to be guided, ready to be taken.

— Turn around. Bend over the table and spread your legs.

Your words fell into the room, calm and steady, and my body obeyed almost before my mind had time to take them in. A wave of heat washed over me all at once — not only desire, but a soft, liberating submission I had never quite known before.

I looked at you for one more second, then turned slowly. My bare feet moved over the warm parquet to the pale wooden table near the window. I placed both hands flat on it, fingers spread, my damp palms sticking slightly to the varnish. The wood was cool against my burning skin.

I leaned forward, slowly. My nipples grazed the surface of the table with each breath. My hair fell like a curtain over my shoulders and cheeks. My back arched, deepening the curve of my hips and arse.

I spread my legs. My feet moved apart and found their footing on the parquet. My belly pulsed with every heartbeat.

I felt the air on my skin, the table holding my weight as I leaned into it. I imagined your eyes on me, and a shiver ran up my arms and neck. My breasts swayed gently. A moan escaped me…

I turned my head slightly to one side without straightening, my hair sticking to my damp cheek. My voice came out low and rough.

— Like this…? Is this how you want me?

I stayed bent, legs spread, and waited, motionless. I held back another moan.

Your hands settled on the tops of my thighs — firm, demanding — and I trembled under your palms. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out, but when your face drew close, when I felt your breath against me, then your tongue pushing slowly between my cheeks… my whole body arched hard.

A stifled cry escaped me, sharp and startled. I opened myself to your mouth and received your tongue. You explored me with strength, without hesitation, yet with a slow and steady rhythm, and you made me vibrate as though I might break apart. I am so sensitive at the best of times that the slightest touch reaches deep, and now I felt an electric current running all the way up to the nape of my neck.

My hands gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles whitened. My breasts swayed beneath me with each movement of my hips, which I pressed back toward you, offering everything. With every part of me, I wanted you to possess me, wanted to be yours.

I could feel your face exploring me, invading my intimacy, warm and wet. No one had ever done this to me, and if the pleasure was intense, it was held slightly in check by an old, learned sense of the forbidden. An image crossed my mind — you kneeling behind me, me spread open on the table — and I blushed in the very middle of my pleasure.

A raw moan escaped me at last, vibrating in my throat…

— Oh… God… Gian, Gian!

My thighs trembled so violently I had to cling to the table; I felt my muscles contracting, and each stroke of your tongue brought me closer to the edge. Eyes closed, I let my head fall back, hair clinging to my damp shoulders.

My hips rocked against your mouth despite myself, my sighs and gasps filling the silence of the room. My body was taut as a bow, on the very edge of breaking — and I knew I wouldn’t hold much longer. Then suddenly you pulled back and your words struck me.

— Can I speak crudely to you, Claire?

Without waiting for my answer, you plunged back in. Your nose and tongue searched my intimacy, and my thighs trembled so hard I had to press more firmly onto the table to keep from collapsing. I held back a cry, but a low moan escaped me all the same.

My forehead was pressed against the cool wood of the table, your hands kneading my arse.

I turned my head, trying to see you, eyes half-closed and swimming. My voice came out lower, rawer, freed by your words that finally gave me permission to let go.

— Yes, talk to me… You’re driving me mad!

A long shiver ran through me; I was on the edge, so close to the edge that my legs threatened to give way.

— Go on, Gian… please.

— I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked… From the moment I laid eyes on you, my cock and my head have been calling out for you. You made me hard from the very first instant, in the woods!

Your crude words struck the room like hot slaps, and my whole body contracted in a violent spasm. I cried out, nails digging into the wood of the table.

My pussy throbbed around your tongue as you kept on licking, probing, sucking as though you wanted to make me shatter. I felt myself running down onto your chin and over my thighs. My breasts rubbed against the wood of the table with each movement of my hips, their tips hard and raw.

— Gian… don’t stop, please!

I sought your face with my hips, grinding my soaked and burning sex against your mouth and nose, desperate for more pressure, more of everything. I felt the orgasm rising like a wave about to break — I was going to crack, going to explode.

— I’m going to come… My voice rose, sharp. — Oh God, Gian, I’m coming…

My body seized all at once. The orgasm arrived like a wave crashing: I cried out, and cried out again…

My legs shook uncontrollably, my nails scratched the wood, my whole body caught in a continuous spasm that lasted, and lasted…

I remained slumped there for a long moment, tears running down my cheeks, not knowing why I was crying.

I felt your hands on my back, then my shoulders, and your breath at my neck. And something hard pressing against my arse. I straightened; you were bare-chested, still in your jeans.

— Do you want to lie down? I want you.

— Shh… Get on your knees. Open my fly.

Your words fell into the room like a quiet, implacable command. My belly contracted again, a fresh wave of desire flooding through me despite my exhaustion.

I turned toward you. My legs were trembling, and your gaze moved down to my breasts. You looked at them the way you might look at a work of art — studying them, weighing them with your eyes alone. I couldn’t remember a man ever having looked at them that way. My hair was plastered to my face, and I was damp with sweat.

Without a word I sank slowly before you, thighs parted on the warm parquet.

My hands moved up along your thighs, brushing the denim, feeling the hard shape of your sex beneath the fabric. My fingers hesitated for a brief moment when they reached the fly. I pulled slowly on the zip, the metallic sound filling the silent room. It came down centimetre by centimetre.

The fabric of your boxers was stretched tight over something thick and long. I undid the button of your jeans with care, pulled the trousers down just enough to free your cock. It sprang out, hard, veined, the head already glistening. The sight of its size hit me all at once; I swallowed a moan, lips parted.

I placed my hands on your thighs, eyes raised to yours, waiting.

— Look, Claire, what you do to me…

I was kneeling before you, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of my orgasm. Your cock was there in front of my face, upright, long and thick, and my belly tightened.

My lips quivered, but I stayed motionless, waiting, breathing in short bursts.

The silence was complete. You rested your hand on my head, lightly — almost a caress through my hair.

— Take me in your mouth, Claire, no hands… Lick it all the way along, get it wet. I want you to make me come in your mouth, I want to fill you with me…

The parquet was hard under my knees. My heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears, a dull, panicked beat. Your crude words made me blush to the roots of my hair, and I was afraid.

— I… I’ve never… Not like this. You’re so big… Not… not taking it properly into my mouth.

I thought of the videos I had watched alone, late at night, when the frustration had become too strong. But this was different. This was real.

I leaned my head slowly forward. My lips brushed the head first — warm and smooth. I closed my eyes for a moment. Then I opened my mouth, hesitant, and laid my tongue flat against the underside, licking gently, timidly, moving upward.

I tried to take more. My lips stretched around the head, then moved a little lower — two, three centimetres. I felt you fill my mouth, thick against my tongue, against my palate. I panicked for a moment: what if I choke? What if I drool too much? What if I’m doing it wrong? But I pushed further, moving deeper, wetting everything with the saliva that now flowed freely. I licked in clumsy circles around the head, sucked gently, then harder, drawing on what I had seen in videos I’d watched alone, late at night, when the longing had grown too strong.

My cheeks hollowed. Saliva overflowed from my lips and ran down my chin, then lower. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I looked up at you — pleading, anxious, terrified of being judged. My hands stayed clasped behind my back, only my mouth working, making you wet, wanting you to keep wanting me…

A small stifled moan vibrated around your cock. Tears rose to my eyes and ran down my cheeks, mixing with my saliva. Still I took you deeper, until you touched the back of my throat. I coughed, eyes wide, but didn’t pull away. I stayed there, mouth full, throat tight, sucking like a good girl terrified of doing it wrong.

I kept going — tongue circling, lips sliding, saliva running everywhere, over your cock, over my lips, down my chin, over my chest. My eyes never left yours: anxious, vulnerable, desperate to please you, to make you come in my mouth as you had said. I no longer spoke. Just the wet sound of suction, those stifled moans, those silent tears, and my naked body trembling before you, terrified and offered at the same time.

You pulled back suddenly, and I nearly lost my balance, lips still swollen and gleaming with saliva.

— Come onto the bed. On your knees in front of me.

Before I could understand, your hands seized me under the arms — firm, without roughness — and helped me to my feet. My legs wobbled, my knees sore from the parquet, but I followed you, naked and trembling, heart pounding in my throat, to the bed.

The small bedside lamp cast its warm light over the navy sheet. You were still hard, still covered in my saliva. A fresh wave of fear mixed with excitement tightened in my belly — fear of doing it wrong, fear that you could see exactly how inexperienced I truly was.

You guided me to the edge of the bed. I climbed onto it on my knees, slowly, the cool sheets against my legs. I turned to face you, thighs slightly apart for balance. I looked up at you. My hands settled on your hips. I leaned forward, lips parted, and took you back into my mouth — deeper this time, trying not to cough. I sucked awkwardly at first, then with more daring: tongue circling the head, lips sliding along the shaft, saliva running again in streams down my chin and onto my breasts.

When your hands cupped my heavy breasts, I startled violently. Your palms weighed them, grasped them, kneaded them, slapped them lightly — strong and possessive. My breasts overflowed your fingers, the soft flesh giving under your grip. Your thumbs found my nipples, pressed slowly, then pinched — first lightly, then with growing firmness — while a stifled moan vibrated around your cock in my mouth. Every tug sent sparks straight down between my legs.

I kept sucking, faster now, head moving, cheeks hollow. My tears still fell — silent, unstoppable — because it was too intense, too new, too everything. But I didn’t stop. I held my breath, eyes wide and raised toward you, pleading, worried. My hips rolled slightly on the bed, my soaked sex rubbing against my heels, sensitive and throbbing. I felt every movement of your hands like a current running directly between my legs. I drooled freely, saliva running over me, mingling with sweat, dripping onto the sheets. I sucked desperately, wanting to please you, to make you come, even as my throat burned and my tears ran without stopping.

I stayed there, on my knees before you, mouth full, breasts in your hands, their tips made painful by the steady pressure, my body trembling in a mixture of fear and raw desire. Not a word. Just the wet sounds of suction, those stifled moans around your cock.

— I’m going to come in your mouth, Claire — don’t choke, there’s going to be a lot.

Your words struck like a warning, and I felt you swell even more against my tongue, pulsing. My heart raced — fear, excitement, panic all at once. I had never… not like this. Not this much. Not with someone who warned me there would be a lot.

I kept my hands clasped behind my back, fingers clenched until my nails whitened. My lips were stretched around your shaft, my throat already burning from the effort, but I didn’t pull away. I kept going, desperately, eyes raised toward you, terrified.

Then the shock arrived — seismic, violent. The first powerful spurt struck the back of my throat, hot and thick. I gagged almost instantly, eyes going wide, tears streaming, but I kept my mouth open, swallowing what I could in a panicked reflex.

It overflowed. A lot. Too much. Hot, thick cum filled my mouth, ran from the corners of my lips, slid in white streams down my chin. A long white trail ran over my left breast, down over the wide dark areola, before dripping onto the navy sheet. Another spasm came, and a third — I felt each jet pulse against my tongue, against the back of my throat. I coughed again, a muffled wet sound, but stayed there, offered, my face streaming.

My breasts were covered now in white trails flowing into their cleavage, over the full curves, over the hardened nipples. I breathed through my nose in short, frantic bursts, tears mixing with everything on my cheeks. My body trembled violently, and I remained still, on my knees on the bed, letting your release run over me. I kept my mouth open for a moment, my tongue still against you. Then I swallowed slowly, painfully, throat burning, eyes still on yours — anxious, waiting, wondering what you would do next, where you would take me, whether you would simply leave now.

I was trembling. Everywhere. But I stayed on my knees, covered in you.

Your hands slid under my arms — firm but gentle — and helped me down from the bed and to my feet. My thighs trembled, but I stood, bare feet on the warm parquet, feeling suddenly heavy.

You took the white towel from the back of the chair — the one I always left there for rushed mornings — and began to wipe my face with infinite gentleness: the corners of my eyes where tears and cum had mixed, my burning cheeks, my glistening chin. Your gestures were slow, almost ritual. Then you moved lower: the towel sliding between my breasts, erasing the thick trails still running there slowly, then drying the dark areolas, still swollen and sensitive. I shivered at the rough fabric against my skin.

When you were done, you tossed the towel to the floor without looking. Your arms circled my hips, and you drew me against you in one slow, firm movement. My belly pressed flat against yours, the mass of my breasts crushing and spreading against your chest. I felt every centimetre of your skin against mine, the volume of your body enveloping me.

Your hands moved down and grasped my arse fully — fingers sinking into the soft flesh, spreading slightly, kneading without haste. And I felt entirely yours.

— You are astonishing, Claire… You gave yourself to me as few dare to.

Your voice was low and deliberate, and those words struck me right in the solar plexus. My eyes misted again — not with shame this time, but with a strong, unexpected emotion. I rested my forehead against your shoulder for a moment, just to breathe, just to absorb what had happened.

Then your right hand rose, cupped my nape, and your mouth found mine.

You kissed me gently — your lips warm and still faintly salty against mine. My tongue came tentatively to meet yours, hesitant, brushing against it as though asking permission. Then you deepened it, explored, and something in me gave way. I answered, cautious at first, then with a hunger I no longer controlled. Our tongues wound around each other and tasted each other with boldness. A small moan escaped into your mouth.

I wrapped my arms around your shoulders, my fingers moving over your back. I pressed myself hard against you. Your hand settled at the small of my back, arching me slightly, and I felt your cock — long, heavy, still damp — nestling against my pubis. The contact was firm. You rested there against my intimate lips, still swollen and wet, sliding gently between them without entering — just that slow, lazy friction…

I trembled against you, my thighs closing instinctively around your shaft without quite capturing it. My sex, still sensitive, pulsed against your warm skin with every small movement.

I broke the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips, breath short, voice cracked:

— I can still feel your tongue inside me…

My nails pressed lightly into your shoulders. I stayed pressed against you, the small of my back arched under your palm, my breasts crushed against your chest, your cock resting heavy and warm against my open, throbbing sex. I watched us in the large wardrobe mirror — my green eyes turned toward yours, bright and still wet.

Your arms held me solidly. I felt your slow, steady breathing against my hair, your chest rising in an easy rhythm. My cheek was in the hollow of your shoulder, and I no longer had that burning, consuming urgency. Just a deep, sweet exhaustion settling into every muscle.

My thighs still trembled. The small of my back ached faintly. My whole body felt tender. My breasts, heavy, with their wide dark areolas — that no one, and certainly not my ex-husband, had ever looked at that way. Between my legs I still felt my own body, which you had tasted and brought to the edge as no one had before: a mingling of pleasure and emptiness pulsing gently.

I raised my head slowly. My green eyes searched for yours in the soft golden half-light.

— I… I’m spent.

I placed a hand flat on your chest and felt your heartbeat beneath it. My fingers slid slowly downward, brushing your stomach, then stopped, without pressing further. Your cock rested against my pubis, thick and heavy — just there, like a promise you were keeping to yourself.

I took a small step back — not to move away, just to breathe, to give you the space to decide. My breasts peeled away from your chest with a faint moist sound; I shivered as the cool air touched my still-burning skin.

I stayed there, naked, arms at my sides, shoulders back now, no longer hiding. My eyes remained on yours — bright, damp, full of a silent question.

I held out my hand toward you, palm open, trembling, like a question without words. I looked at you, lips parted, breath short. My voice came out weak, uncertain:

— And now?

I didn’t move. I didn’t step closer without you saying so. My thighs pressed lightly together — a reflex to quiet the dull throbbing that hadn’t quite stopped.

I lowered my eyes for a moment, then raised them back to yours — pleading, vulnerable, ready.

— Tell me… please… I’m here. Yours.

I stood motionless, naked before you in the soft lamplight, my body offered but exhausted, waiting for your gesture, your word, your direction. My heart was still beating hard, but you were the one guiding. I knew I would do as you said. And I hoped with everything in me that you wouldn’t simply leave — wouldn’t walk away from a woman who no longer interested you now that you had had her, now that she had made you come.

— You’re going to rest now — you’ve more than earned it, my princess. We’re going to take a hot shower together. I’ll wash you, powder you — do you have talc? — and dry you with one of those big fluffy towels I can see at the bathroom door. And if you’ll have me here for the night, you’ll fall asleep in my arms.

Your words fell softly, like a caress after all that fire, and I felt my shoulders sag all at once — not from exhaustion alone, but from pure relief. Your words touched me, after everything that had just happened. This gentleness and firm tenderness surprised and moved me. You had made me feel like a woman again — desired, seen, beautiful in your eyes. You had loved this body I had doubted, these breasts I thought too large, that gave me backaches from years of trying to hide them. But I had feared it would stop there — that once this full-hipped, round-arsed woman had made you come, you would go.

I stood still for a moment, naked before you, arms at my sides, eyes raised to yours. My lips trembled slightly when I answered, voice low and rough with exhaustion and emotion:

— Yes… all right. Let’s go.

I let you take my hand. Your fingers laced through mine, warm and steady, and you led me gently toward the bathroom. I walked slowly, a little stiff. My thighs rubbed together, still damp, still sensitive. Each step revived a soft tingling between my legs — gentle now, almost soothing.

The bathroom light came on — white and stark after the golden dimness of the bedroom — and I blinked. You turned on the shower and the water ran hot almost immediately. Steam rose slowly, fogging the mirror.

You brought me under the jet with you. The hot water enveloped me, and I let out a small involuntary sigh, eyes half-closing. You took the shower gel — the vanilla one I always used — and poured a little into your palm. Your hands moved over me: first my shoulders, my arms, slowly, without haste. You soaped my breasts with infinite gentleness, your palms lifting and massaging them slowly, careful to avoid my swollen, still-sensitive nipples. I held back a shiver — not desire this time, just gratitude.

You moved between my thighs with care, your fingers rinsing my still-tender sex without insisting. I leaned against the tiled wall, eyes closed, letting the water run over my face, my hair plastered in dark strands over my shoulders.

— Do you have talc?

I nodded faintly.

— Yes… in the cupboard under the sink. The pink box, the one with the pompom.

The water stopped. You wrapped me in one of the big white fluffy towels — the one I kept for days when I needed comfort. You dried me with care: my hair first, rubbing gently so as not to pull, then my neck, my shoulders, my breasts — lifting them a little to dry properly underneath — my belly, my thighs, the insides of my thighs. You knelt to dry my feet, and your nose and mouth brushed against my pubic hair. I blushed to my ears.

You poured talc into your palm and powdered my skin gently — under my arms, beneath my breasts, inside my thighs, my pubis. The sweet scent mingled with vanilla and warm skin. Your gestures were slow, almost ritual. I stood with my arms slightly apart, letting you, eyes lowered, a shy smile on my lips.

When you were done, you guided me back to the bedroom, still wrapped in the towel. You pulled back the sheet, settled me on my back, then lay down beside me. You opened your arms and I curled against you, head on your shoulder, one leg over yours, our naked bodies under the sheet. Your hand rested on my hip. I felt the steady pulse of your heartbeat.

— Do you have to get up tomorrow?

I lay still for a long moment, breathing in your scent, feeling your warmth around me. Then, almost already asleep:

— Tomorrow… no. It’s Saturday. I can sleep.

I raised my head slightly, searching for your eyes in the half-dark.

— And you? Do you have to leave early? Or… can you stay?

My voice trembled a little on the last words — a thread of fear coming back as everything quieted. I placed my hand flat on your chest, fingers spread, anchoring myself, and whispered close to your ear:

— You make me feel alive, Gian. I’ve never come like that. Never…

You tightened your hand on my hip, and your hazel eyes unsettled me even now.

— Sleep now…

I rested my head against you, closed my eyes, and let sleep carry me gently away, in your arms, for this calm night you had promised. My body relaxed against yours. I breathed in your scent, and nestled against you, I fell asleep without fear.

Just before drifting off, one last murmur, barely audible:

— Gian…

And I slipped into the dark, peaceful, against you.

It was morning. I woke slowly, light filtering through the curtains. My hand reached across the sheet beside me… the bed was empty and already cold. Your scent still floated in the air, and yet I already knew. You had left.

My heart made a painful leap. I lay still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, my chest rising with suddenly shorter breath. I murmured your name into the silence: — Gian…

No answer. Only the distant ticking of the clock and the sound of rain against the window.

I sat up slowly and ran my hand over my belly, which you had marked with your presence. A shiver passed through me.

I got up. The grey silk dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed. I slipped it on without closing it, leaving my breasts and pubis bare — as though you might still be watching.

Then I froze. On the table where I had bent for you while your tongue made me come just a few hours ago, a small folded sheet of paper waited. My name written in capitals: Claire.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. I sat for a long time at the kitchen table, naked under the open gown. I read your words again and again.

— Claire, I loved every moment I spent with you. I hope to be able to call you very soon. You are very beautiful and you don’t know it yet. Please take a moment every evening to look at yourself naked in the mirror. Look at yourself as I looked at you last night. Wait for me.

No address. No phone number.

The day was long and passed slowly, the phone silent.

That evening, after a television series that failed to hold my attention, I stood in front of the large bathroom mirror. I squared my shoulders as you had asked. The cool air touched my skin. I thought of your mouth, your hands, and my belly tightened with the memory.

I set the note back on the table. I let the dressing gown slide to my feet.

And I stayed there.

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