“I wore this white dress that summer makes transparent…”

PART 1- Get ready, summer will be muy caliente on aufeminin. A few days before the summer holidays, this week we exclusively reveal the new erotic “Avatar” from the fabulous “If you follow me…” (Alopex editions). The trip promises to be tumultuous and intense…. Happy reading.

I wore this white dress that summer makes transparent. A dress far too short for the innocence that its patterns and lace might suggest. A dress that leaves the wearer no choice but to accept its ambiguity. Hot days always make me impatient. Just as the scorching sun gives rise to an implacable thirst, the heat seems to impose on the body appetites that reason can do nothing about. As if the dampness necessarily prepared the skin for another.

As I walked through the park, my hips took an exaggerated gait. I felt in the eyes that posed on me, the desire they had to undress me and take me. The looks on my breasts that we wanted to lick, on my buttocks that I arched way too much. I was excited by the efforts people made to see under my dress. Some remained discreet, proceeding with furtive glances, blushing if my
eyes met theirs. Others, more brave, hoped, by their stares, to attract my attention. I never tire of this mysterious power that brings men to their knees. I never get bored when people look at me.

Minutes ticked by, but each second seemed like an hour. The wandering mind, but the skin obsessed with these small areas that touched.

I sat down next to a boy in his early twenties and pulled out my book. I only read one page. I headed straight for that bench, when so many others were perfectly free. I posed next to him, while propriety would have logically pushed me to the other end. My thigh against the
his. My arm brushing his.

Minutes ticked by, but each second seemed like an hour. The wandering mind, but the skin obsessed with these small areas that touched.
I felt my neighbor bend already. I let his eyes slide into my cleavage to follow the curve of my breasts. Wondering what this forty-year-old dark-haired woman was looking for in him. He who was not particularly handsome. Or wondering nothing, maybe. Just hoping this moment lasts. Fill him with this energy that he felt in each of his muscles.

I crossed my legs, letting the wind reveal my thighs according to its whims. I didn’t look at it; I listened to him dream. Imagining my hand on his puffy jeans. Unbutton it. He probably saw me take in my impatient fingers this member, he dreamed thick and tense. Then suck it, in public, maybe, like it
had probably never been sucked.
Slowly and greedily. My playful, cheeky tongue, sliding down his shaft and then around his glans. My eyes planted in his to leave him no doubt about the pleasure I took in seeing him lose his footing. To hope for his enjoyment on my tongue and his seed at the back of my throat.

I could hear his uncontrolled breathing as he intoxicated himself with the scent of lily of the valley that emanated from my neck. I guessed his quick glances. Perhaps he was trying to guess the title of the book I had placed on my lap to catch his eye. He had understood that I knew I was being spied on and was watching, in the slightest of my gestures, for an invitation. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
I like these moments of contrast, when the imagination summons all the clichés of eroticism, while reality is content with the shyness of everyday life. He dreamed of me as a slut, without any inhibition or any modesty. Who sucks without warning. Who hopes for big and tough cocks. Who sends waltzing with a glance all the conventions, to fuck everywhere. All the time.
And he dreamed of being a stallion. Pornstar with a thwarted vocation. César of the Male Revelation. But on this bench, he was not even damned to engage in conversation.

July was bathed in that paradoxical heat which commands reason to seek shade while bodies, basking in the sun, strive to disobey. Mine dreamed of heat and perspiration. And of the unknown who would know how to satisfy him.
I like the smell of sweat beading on the skin during the embrace. The musk that testifies to the ardor they put into taking care of me. I dreamed of a stranger with fine skin, tacked on the perfect mechanics of his muscles. Biceps that we band in spite of ourselves when I’m rocked on my stomach, buttocks that I feel contract on my finger, when we come inside me.
Under the onslaught of these images, my sex, already, became liquid. Perhaps my neighbor guessed it.

I replaced a lock of hair. To impress a man, it is often a question of marrying the most banal emotion with the singular fire of desire. To suggest the feeling when the whole body is all about fucking. I wanted him to think back to that moment often. That he wonders if he hadn’t missed a unique chance. That he remembers this woman who had made him hard without looking at him and who had made him come the same evening, when he found himself alone in his bed. Or what he might have thought about afterwards, working on a student, eyes closed.

I put my hand on her upper thigh. My fingers long brushing a tail that I discovered thicker than I had imagined. And without a word, I got up, to leave, without looking back.

It was then that I noticed it. He was smiling on the bench opposite; this carousel that I often used as a preliminary, seemed to amuse him cheerfully. He looked barely younger than me, his t-shirt, a little too adolescent, drew his pretty shoulders. His confident gaze betrayed
a certain malice
and at least as much curiosity. I joined him.

“You’re not going to ask me the title of my book, are you?”
– If you had wanted to talk about literature, you would have rather gone to a library, wouldn’t you?
– Libraries bore me…
– To join your book club, do you necessarily need a membership card?
– The card is not necessary. »

The member is enough. I don’t like to learn too much about the strangers I desire. A first name, even, can be enough to break the spell. Do I want to get caught by a Lionel? And if his name was Matthias like the latter who fucked me so badly? I didn’t want to know anything about him. Neither his profession nor his political opinions. I just took her hand and ordered her to follow me.
Uncovering his thick fingers in my palm, I couldn’t help but think of the cock waiting for me. With the volume that I hoped for, with its singular shape that I would print in my memory, with the veins that would run through it. I already guessed his stiffness and his impatience.

Barely a few meters from the entrance to the park, in an adjacent alley, I stopped under a porch to taste a discreet kiss from my handsome stranger. I always kissed the men, at least once, before bringing them up to my house. Even if my intuition had very rarely deceived me, we could not
to guard against everything, and the kiss still gave some clues to the embrace to come. Lips that were too shy or drooling, tongues aggressive or unheard, suggested nothing good and the adventure then ended in front of a digicode.

With my stranger, the sample was evocative. JI felt in her sensuality a form of incendiary impatience. And in his way of responding to the movements of my own tongue, a surprisingly playful respect. On the way home, I sometimes closed my eyes to dive into what the circumstances forbade me for the moment.

The rest of the story is right here

“If you follow me…” is a collection of 12 erotic short stories that explores the different facets of desire through literature, and illustrates it through the original drawings of the artist “Petite Bohème”. To write this erotic work combining imagination, fantasy and aesthetic ambition, carte blanche was given to 12 authors, writers of bestsellers or amateur novelists, who lent themselves to the game of writing under pseudonyms.
This aufeminin week makes you win on her Instagram account 10 books as well as 13 numbered drawings of Petite Bohème.

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