talon

aiguilles

By Baylee Brooks

Copyright © 2011 Baylee Brooks

A Truly Erotic Tales publication

All rights reserved.

Kindle Edition

Cover image: The Licensed Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; and any person depicted in the Licensed Material, if any, is a model.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used here fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real persons or events is entirely coincidental. All characters depicted in this work are over the age of 18.

talon aiguilles

My iPhone is on before the plane touches down, and as we taxi to the terminal on the wet San Francisco Airport runway, I scroll through 90 new messages until I find Bobbie’s text—

Waiting at baggage claim w/a smile and a hard cock!

We’ve been engaged for a month, dating for a year, and I can’t recall the last time we went a day without fucking—let alone six days. I’ve just returned from a trip to Paris and I feel guilty. Let me tell you why—

My best friend Julie took a job with an ad agency right out of college. When a French company bought her agency, they asked her to move to Paris. She’s been gone a year and I miss her, so she sent me a ticket for my birthday. I said goodbye to Bobbie and flew out six days ago. I was excited to see Paris, and more excited to see my friend.

Julie is my opposite. Where I’m tall and lean with dark, almost black, hair, Julie is shorter and curvier with blonde hair that touches her waist. I have always envied Julie’s curves. By the time we hit 9th grade, her breasts were already pushing against our high school track uniforms and she had to tape her nipples. By the time we hit 10th grade, she had to stop running.

We messed around once, our first year at Berkley. We were drunk, it was late, and neither of us ever said anything about it. But I thought about it, a lot. I still do. Julie’s tits are as perfect as any pair I’ve seen created by Hollywood surgeons, but they’re real. I remember kissing that night, opening her blouse, her firm nipples dark against her pale skin.

Julie loves Paris, but she hates French men. She says French men are all pussies. She says the stuff in films about how romantic they are is just bullshit. She says they talk too much, they smoke too much, and they all have small cocks. Before I flew out from San Francisco, she told me on the phone that she hadn’t been laid in almost six months. Now, knowing how hard it has been for Julie to find a man in Paris, I couldn’t help but fantasize that part of her inviting me was to repeat our college tryst.

I thought about Julie’s breasts for nine hours on the plane. I’m not a lesbian, at least I don’t think I am, and Bobbie and I have amazing sex. Bobbie’s built, his cock long and perfect, and we’ve had sex everywhere we can think to, including a Macy’s dressing room. But Bobbie doesn’t have tits. And sometimes when we’re fucking, I think about Julie’s perfect tits hanging in my face, her nipples hard and swollen.

When I arrived in Paris, Julie was waiting at the airport. The minute I cleared the gate, she threw her arms around me. I felt her breasts pushing against my chest, smelled her coconut shampoo. She pulled away. We looked each other over. She was taller than I remember, thinner. But her curves were still there, even more defined maybe.

“You look great,” she said, smiling.

“So do you,” I said. “You’re taller too.”

She laughed and kicked out her foot showing me the most fabulous high-heel sandals I’ve ever seen.

“Talon aiguilles,” she said, with a sexy French accent I had never heard from her before.

“Talon what?”

“Stiletto heels,” she said, laughing. “My company’s marketing them for the manufacturer. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I’ve got a hot new pair back at my flat for you.”

Julie couldn’t wait to show me everything. She had the airport cabbie wait while we dropped my bag at her flat, and then we climbed back in and she told him to take us to the Louvre. As the cab dodged in and out of honking traffic, forcing its way into crowded roundabouts, Julie and I bounced back and forth like ragdolls in a wagon and every time Julie fell into me, her breast would push against my arm and I was sure she lingered there each time just a little longer than she needed too.

In the Louvre, I let Julie walk ahead just so I could check out her ass working in her tight 7 jeans. Her ass is a perfect upside down heart, and I wasn’t the only person staring.

We looked at paintings for hours, standing back and pretending to be art snobs and then laughing.

“Look at this one.” I said, pointing to three nude figures sunbathing beside an ancient Roman river. “I see an artist, repressed by the society in which he lives, using the river to make a statement on the temporary beauty of our human forms.”

“I see a ménage à trios,” Julie laughed.

After waiting in line to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, which looked like a postage stamp on the wall from ten feet away behind the guard rope, we headed next to the sculpture garden. We walked the quiet courtyard marveling at the glistening marble statues of warriors and horses and gods. Julie giggled and pointed to the penis on a white-marble figure posing with a cloak over his arm.

“See,” she said, “I told you they have small cocks.”

“That’s not even French,” I said, “It’s Greek.”

We were exhausted by the time we got back to Julie’s flat. I wanted to go out and see the streets, grab a bite maybe—sit in the famous cafés. But Julie said the cafés were crowded and expensive.

“And besides,” she said, coming back from the small kitchen holding up a bottle of French Citadelle Gin, “Look what I have.”

We mixed it with tonic to start. Then, after catching up, we sat on her chaise longue—the only French word I knew besides bonjour—and we switched to passing the bottle back and forth. I was tired. Jet lagged. The gin was harsh in my throat, but I felt my stomach getting warm and my head going light. The sheer curtains filtered the streetlights and Julie sat next to me glowing like a small-town virgin in the moonlight. Her bangs fell into her face and her lips were swollen and red from the gin. She leaned over, plucked the bottle from my hand, and took a swig. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said:

“You know what this reminds me of?”

“A couple of street bums getting loaded?” I said.

“No,” she said, laughing. “It reminds me of that night in our dorm.”

“You remember that?” I said.

She nodded and smiled. I reached between her legs and grabbed the gin bottle. Julie gripped my wrist and pulled my hand against her pussy, the denim already warm and damp. The bottled rolled onto the floor. Julie turned to face me, her eyes wild, her lips parted, her tongue playing with her teeth. I looked at her tits pushing against her pink T-shirt. No bra, her nipples aroused and hard. Julie smiled. Fuck it. I kissed her. Her lips parted to make way for my tongue. She tasted like spearmint and gin. She kissed me back, harder, filled with desire. Her warm tongue brushed across my teeth, and I felt my pussy ache.

She raised her hands. I pulled her shirt up and her tits sprang free. Before the shirt cleared her head, I clamped my mouth onto her dark nipple and flicked it with my tongue. I felt her hand on my cheek pushing me to the other breast and I moved my mouth to her other nipple in and sucked it hard. Her tits were full and ripe and I half expected milk to shoot out into my mouth and the idea turned me on.

I pushed her back onto the chaise and clawed at the button closing her jeans. I got it free, pulled the zipper down, and parted her fly. Her blue panties were dark with pussy juice and I could smell her sweet, biting scent.

I knelt on the floor, pulled her pants to her ankles and then stripped them off. She giggled. I ran my fingers along her inner thighs and licked my way to her slit. She was trimmed, almost bare. Her pussy mound perfect, the lips of her labia pink and swollen. I teased her with my tongue. She thrust her hips up and reached down to grab my head. I felt her nails bite into my scalp as she pulled me into her and I buried my tongue in her sweet pussy.

Almost immediately she came. A flood of her sweet juice boiling out and running down my chin. She moaned three times, sucked in her breath and shuttered. Then she relaxed.

The apartment was still and quiet. A car sped by outside, headlights glanced against the far wall. For a second I felt strange, guilty, embarrassed. Then, before I could lift my head from Julie’s thighs, she stood. She reached down, took my hand, and pulled me up.

She led me into the bedroom.

Inside the small bedroom, she switched on a lamp with a red shade. The room was small. A double bed, a mirror. Julie stood me next to the bed and peeled my shirt off. She unclasped my bra. Then she unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down to my ankles and I kicked them off and stood there naked. She pushed me back onto the bed, the satin comforter cool against my skin. She lifted my foot. Then she slid red stiletto heels on, left foot, then right. The sexy shoes were sleek, shiny, the heel at least six inches long.

“A little welcome present,” she said.

“Talon aiguilles,” I purred, in my best fake-French accent.

She giggled and climbed on top of me. Her breasts hung like ripe fruit and her nipples brushed my belly as she licked her way up my chest, working her mouth around my nipples, teasing the areola with her tongue. Then she kissed me, nibbled my lower lip just enough for it to hurt, and without warning I felt her finger slip inside my pussy. I was gushing wet. I arched my hips, felt her finger gently searching my pussy wall, her thumb rubbing my clit. She bit my lip a little harder, slid another finger in. Another nibble, another finger. She reached down with her right hand and cupped my left breast. Four fingers in my pussy now, working back and forth, slow and steady. Then she released her bite on my lip, slid down, and disappeared. I felt her tugging at my foot, pulling off a shoe. I lifted my head to look. She grinned and held the shoe up and slid the stiletto heel into her mouth and when she pulled it out again, it was dripping with saliva and then she slid the heel into my ass and before I could protest, her mouth was on my pussy and pleasure shot through my body and sent my head back onto the pillow.

Slowly, she pumped the heel in and out of my ass. Slowly, her tongue worked my clit. Omg! The pleasure of it was more than I could stand. I was soaring. Images crashing into my mind. That night in the dorms, our first kiss, the excitement of Julie’s breast in my mouth. Her tongue, the heel. Faster now, harder now. More images. Julie spread 69 on her bed with my vibrator fucking her, her tongue fucking me. Sweat on her belly. Faster. Then my fiancé Bobbie was there in my mind—his long, perfect cock sliding into my cum-dripping ass while Julie switched between licking my gushing pussy and his hanging balls.

Deeper the stiletto plunged, faster Julie worked her tongue.

And then there were hands and tits and cocks and pussies in a tangled orgy of flesh, and all of it rubbing and sucking and fucking me and I reached down and pulled Julie’s face into my pussy and her tongue shot deep, and I pulled the six inches of stiletto all the way in my ass and I exploded in a white-hot river and as my pussy pulsed, waves of ecstasy flooded over me and then I heard myself scream, felt my breath suck in again, and then I let go and sank into the soft and quiet dark of sweet release.

The next day we fucked all over again. Six days we hardly left the apartment, and I never saw anything of Paris after the Louvre.

Julie had scoured Parisian sex shops in her loneliness and she had a treasure chest of toys. Huge vibrators we fucked each other with. Vibrators so thick, I thought I would split. A strap on cock. Nipple clamps and suction cups. Oils, lotions, wax. We even heated Polish sausages in the microwave and fucked one another with them warm. We sucked and fucked so much, I could hardly walk to the plane. But halfway home over the Atlantic and I was horny again. Well, horny and feeling guilty as hell about Bobbie.

But I think I figured out a way to see sweet Julie again, to make it up to Bobbie, and to get over my guilt.

The crowded plane disembarks and I wheel my carryon through the terminal toward baggage claim. And there he is—Bobbie. Without me around reminding him to shave, he’s grown a sexy scruff on his chiseled face. His black T-shirt is tight and his arms are bigger than I remember. Then he sees me and smiles—a white toothpaste-model smile that melts my heart.

I run up and throw my arms around him and I feel the bulge in his blue jeans. I guess he wasn’t joking when he text me that he was waiting with a smile and hard cock.

“I missed you,” I say.

“I missed you too,” he says. “How was Julie?”

“Julie?” I say, blushing. “She was great.”

“Well, how was Paris?” he says.

“Oh, Paris is Paris.”

Then he pulls back and looks at me strange. “You seem taller?”

I kick out my foot and show him the red stiletto heels. I say, “Talon aiguilles.”

“What?”

“It’s French for stiletto heels,” I say. “They were a welcome gift from Julie.”

“Oh, that was sweet of her,” he says. “But we need to hurry up and get you home because I have a welcome gift for you of my own. You can tell me all about Paris later”

“I can’t wait to unwrap your gift,” I say, cupping his balls and laughing. “And I have a gift for you too.”

“Don’t tell me you got me one of those little Eiffel Tower snow globes,” he says, grabbing my bag and wheeling it toward the exit.

“No,” I say. “Julie’s coming to visit and she’s going to stay with us.”

THE END
(At least for now)

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Also, you can find my latest confession here: A Naughty Christmas Confession