Paris 5:4 - Sophie & the photographer
Sophie hadn't intended to be seen like this - she'd lost control, and that was most definitely against her nature - this was somehow too intimate, she hadn't been ready for him to see her like this. And yet there he was, frozen in the doorway, his mouth open, startled and intensely aroused at the same time, looking at Sophie as she came urgently, unable to stop herself, her fingers rubbing hard at her clit, her body trembling in delicious, rippling convulsions.
As quickly as she could, she attempted to compose herself, but it was an impossible task - she was naked, her face was flushed, she was still catching her breath, her hand was still firmly between her thighs, and she knew he had seen everything. "My apologies," she smiled, slipping her wet fingers from between her thighs, her casual manner already brushing off the incident as if it were nothing, "this situation appears to have affected me more than I realised, I hope I haven't embarrassed you."
Duchamp struggled to find the words. Sophie stole another glance to his crotch, her gaze drawn to it - he was clearly very erect inside his trousers, clearly wanted her very much indeed. She wondered if he had ever seen a woman masturbate before, or reach a self-induced orgasm like that, so wantonly. "Madame, I... please forgive me if I seem overly forward, but... I wish I had been able to witness the entire event... by the time I had realised what was happening, you were done..."
"You were expecting me to put on a show for you? Is that what you mean, Monsieur Duchamp?" Sophie adopted her most scolding voice, but not without irony, as she knew very well it had always been her intention to do precisely that - though not at that particular moment, admittedly.
"No!... no... of course not... I'd never dream..."
"You were hoping I'd perform for you, like some woman from the streets?" she added, pressing her advantage.
"No... I swear... the thought never entered my head..."
Sophie sat down at the chair by the window. She looked at him for a moment. Of course, he was lying, but she didn't mind that - he was still intensely erect - it wasn't his fault that he had walked in on her right at that moment. She smiled at him - warmly, she hoped.
"And now...?" she asked. "Has it entered your head now...?"
"I... I'm not sure I know what you mean..."
"Would you want to watch me now, Monsieur Duchamp? Having seen me already surrendering once to climax, would you want to see it again...? The entire event, as you stated...?"
Perspiration dotted his forehead. The poor man had no idea what the right answer was. Sophie wasn't intending to confuse him, but this was clearly a situation with which he was unfamiliar.
"You're aroused, are you not, Monsieur Duchamp...?"
"Well... I... I mean, that is to say..."
"I can see that you are." She looked down at his bulging crotch again. "Please, don't be embarrassed. I didn't intend for it to happen like this, but I think it's unfair of me to tease you in this situation. Please - take a seat, opposite me..."
Duchamp pulled a chair opposite hers, and sat down, a little nervously. Sophie continued.
"Would you still care to witness the entire event, as you expressed earlier?" she asked quietly, smiling again. His gaze drifted down her naked body. His breath was quickening again.
"Yes. Yes I would, very much..." he replied.
"Then I'd like to give that to you. A gift, as a gesture to you for embarrassing you. I have certain conditions..."
"Of course..." he murmured, "anything..."
"My condition is that you don't touch me. You may look, you may not touch. I would also prefer it if you do not touch yourself. That you can do afterwards, when I have gone. Is that understood?"
"I... yes, that's understood... I'm not to touch myself...?"
Sophie sighed. It wasn't his fault. But this was her day, her present to herself. Just this once she didn't want it to end with some man grunting astride her, pouring his cum over her - today was all about her. You may unbutton your trousers," she smiled, "you do look a little uncomfortable - and if you must, you can rub yourself through them - but your cock stays in your britches, that way we both know where we stand, where the limits are."
"I understand" he replied. He blushed a little, his fingers nervously unbuttoning his trousers. Despite herself, Sophie couldn't resist watching his fingers work their way down his fly, and she said nothing as he slipped his hand inside, readjusting himself, briefly imagining her own fingers wrapped around his warm, hard cock, then putting that thought back out of her mind. His hand back outside his trousers, resting against the visible contours of his cock through the material, he blushed a little again, and settled back in his chair, watching her.
Sophie smiled at him, leaned back in her own chair a little, and spread her thighs. She was still, as she had been for the entire conversation, extraordinarily wet. Duchamp gasped audibly as he looked at her, his gaze running down her naked body, fixed for a moment between her thighs. She knew he would be able to see how wet she was. Something about that excited her. She smiled again, sliding one of her hands up to cup her breast - and as it had done before, a pinch of her hard nipple between her thumb and forefinger caused her clit to pulse - she gasped gently, sliding her other hand down her soft, naked belly, over the thin strip of neatly trimmed pubic hair, and down to her clit. She began to stroke it, circling over and around it, rhythmically, a little greedily.
Duchamp was breathing hard. Sophie didn't want to pay him too much attention - she so didn't want to fuck this man, and knew that watching him too much might make her want him, but she couldn't resist a furtive glance. He was leaning back in his chair, his gaze all over her naked body, not knowing where to look next. One of his hands gripped his chair. His other hand was between his thighs, rubbing his cock through his trousers, his fingers keeping the same rhythm as her own. This must be torture for him, she thought to herself.
She spread her thighs wider. She could feel the lips of her cunt pouting between her thighs, literally dripping wet - a trickle of her wetness was dribbling from inside her, dripping slowly down onto the chair, dampening it. Her fingers skidded faster around her clit - but it wasn't enough - she needed something inside her.
Still stroking her clit, she moved her other hand down between her thighs, slipping her fingers between her open pussy lips - Duchamp gasped again, and she pushed three fingers deep inside her cunt, starting to fuck herself with them, thrusting them in and out, her juices splashing with each thrust, a wet stream now trickling onto the chair as her fingers rubbed harder and faster around her throbbing clit. She was breathing hard now, groaning as she masturbated, so close to orgasm, needing it, wanting it...
Duchamp groaned audibly - she looked over at him again - his hand was inside his trousers, clearly rubbing his bare cock - it was against the agreement, but nothing was going to stop Sophie now - she imagined her own hand around his cock, imagined pumping it up and down, his hard penis pulsing and erect in her fingers, throbbing and swelling as she stroked - there was a very wet splash from her cunt as she felt a rush of her juices flowing from inside her - in her mind's eye her hand was stroking him urgently now - imagining a sudden long spurt of cum flooding from his erection, pouring over her hand - that was it - she groaned long and hard, her body suddenly shuddering into intense convulsions, more of her wetness splashing out as she began to come, so hard, so fucking hard, her orgasm overwhelming her... pulsing and pulsing and pulsing - she had reached a plateau now - she needed another, needed to come again, her clit throbbing, aching for relaease again... her thighs trembling, so much wetness pouring from her cunt... she stole another glance up to Duchamp - he was still rubbing his cock, but he still hadn't cum - she could hear his hand slapping against the hard flesh of his erection as he stroked himself urgently - for a moment she saw his cock in his hand, so hard, so swollen as his fingers stroked up and down its length - it was what she needed - her clit pulsed hard again - she screamed in ecstasy, long and hard, primal, her body bucking on the chair, arching up, a second orgasm pulsating through her, again and again and again.... her juices splashing from her cunt, drenching the chair... she lost a few moments then, her body flooding with intense sensations... and as she came to rest again, her heart pounding, her thighs wet and trembling, a puddle on the seat beneath her, Duchamp was still there, watching her, still stroking, not wanting to miss anything...
"I have to go" she breathed. She could feel her wetness dribbling down the inside of her thighs.
"Please..." he gasped, "please just touch me... I'm so close..."
Sophie stood up, a little wobbly, and gathered up her clothes, throwing her coat over her naked body, looking for a moment at the silk nightdress in her hands. With a soft smile, she rubbed it for a moment between her damp thighs, and handed it to him.
"Use this," she said. "Use this and think of me." And with that, she swept out of the door, naked but for her coat, into the late summer sunshine.
And there, alone in his studio, Duchamp tugged down his britches, looking at the wet chair in which she had sat moments before, wrapped her damp silk nightdress around his achingly erect cock, and with a few brief, urgent strokes of his hand he came, spurt after spurt of thick wet cum pouring again and again from his swollen cock, his warm spunk spilling frantically over the lace and silk, soaking it with his cum, marking it forever with his lust.
to be continued in Chapter Six...