Monsieur by Emma Becker

that, gasping wildly against him, I knew I wanted to see him again, and again, and again. There was a fire burning inside Monsieur, offering me glimpses of worlds unknown through half-open distant doors. Flash memories: me, sitting in his lap, panicked at the thought I had exhausted him. Me, crawling over his stomach, sniffing him; his flat stomach, the firm, soft skin of a thin man that the passing years had barely altered, just blemishes here and there that only I could feel against my cheeks, beneath my fingers.
    I know I gazed at Monsieur before I took him in my mouth; I stared at his body, fascinated as always by the shamelessness of a man’s erection, the pride he displays in his spectacular nakedness. Monsieur’s legs were wide enough apart for me to find refuge between them, and through the curtain of my eyelashes I could see the brown silk blanket through which his cock surged. His taste blended with mine. This was mostly new territory for me. As much as I would have liked to impress him with my appreciation and knowledge of a man’s body, I didn’t want him to think that, at only twenty, I was as wanton as he.
    Another flash memory, so crude: after just a few seconds, he pulled out of my mouth and turned me onto my stomach, so fast I almost bit him, as the stream of cum he had been unable to hold back flew down my throat. I heard him speak, but I could barely understand a word he was saying, moaning as I was, lying in the gutter of my mind with the filth of his voice, that still ownerless voice for I hadn’t yet looked at his face . . . I was mortified to realize that Monsieur was silent, watching me calmly, listening to the broken rhythms of my breathing. What I had taken as an insult was the sound of his cock sliding rapidly in and out of me, his belly thumping against my arse. I had to strain my neck to see the evidence for myself: my arse quivering like jelly with every thrust while Monsieur held me pinned down, his hands outstretched, his nails digging deep into my flesh. Even from that awkward angle, I could see his cock sliding inside me, and the sound it made as it slammed against the back wall of my cunt was loud enough to take physical form and colour. I was embarrassed but crazily excited, and I began to moan louder, if only to drown those sounds. But what came from my throat was more like an echo of Monsieur’s movements inside me, mimicking their strength and depth, their powerful vibration. The sounds of a bitch in heat.
    Monsieur pulled away from me, and I was left gaping, pink and vanquished, my body still shaking convulsively, flat on my stomach. Before I closed my eyes, I glanced for the first time at his face as he held his cock and leered at my body.
    I had known the taste of his cum before I had seen him properly. Now I opened an eye and he was there. His large grey eyes were full of the sensuality he shared with his eldest son (I had come across a photograph of Charles a few days earlier) and the soft curves of his mouth betrayed his enjoyment of love. His nose was perfectly positioned between eyes and mouth, a nose made to ferret between my thighs and tango across my neck. All of Monsieur invited me to purr like a cat in his presence. Or maybe I was already triumphantly corrupted by the submission that ran from my cheeks to the aqueduct of my mouth.
    Who were you, Monsieur? Who were you really ? What did you conceal in yourself to make that ordinary Tuesday morning what it became inside my head? Had I been in your shoes, I’m almost certain I would not have pushed open the door to that room, or at any rate not with your poise, as if you felt you already owned me. You looked at me as if you’d hungered for me all of your life. I saw how you moved around the bed, how you took control of me. I allowed myself no protest: that room would always be ours.
    Do you remember the twenty minutes after we had made love? I was stuck against you, your torso weighing down on me