It must be a dream.
He’s actually here, in my bed, the star of all my fantasies this last month, Roger Duprée—that’s Ro-zhay Du-pray—from the firm’s Paris office.
The room smells of cologne and sex and red wine. My legs tremble and my pussy burns from the pounding he’s given me, again and again
His voice, thick with satisfaction, rumbles in my ear. “Ah, Brigitte.”
My name sounds so different in a French accent. Good ol’ Bridget brings banana bread to the break room. Brigitte is a woman of passion, who acts on her desires and goes to bed with a man she barely knows, because she wants to.
I’ve been watching him the past few weeks. Not stalking, but somehow I keep finding myself where he’s likely to be.
At the company gym, for instance, where I first see him. He's wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt, providing an inspiring view of ripped abs, his shorts riding low on his hips. Pure pornography. He pulls down the shirt in time to catch me licking my lips.
A game of chase begins. If I pick an elliptical, Roger gets on the one behind me. I can feel him watching my ass and thighs. Or he mounts a stationary bike and I sling a leg over the one next to it, leaning forward as I hammer the pedals, following his eyes in the mirror as they go to my cleavage. Under his gaze, my nipples crinkle hard against the confines of my workout bra.
I go shopping for new exercise wear. A little tighter, a little shorter, a whole lot lower cut. The shower is no longer just a place to soap off the sweat—it’s a refuge where I can rub one out.
Sharing the elevator becomes a test of my self control. Part of my brain screams to push the STOP button, grab him by his $200 tie and reel him in. I torment myself, imagining different scenarios: a stand-up quickie with my legs around his waist, Jimmy Choo’s digging into his backside? Or do I drop to my knees and blow his mind with one of my special blow jobs?
I’m woozy from rising internal heat by the time we reach my floor. He nods with Gallic courtesy as I exit, then scurry to the ladies’ room and pretend it’s his finger on my clit.
Then tonight, at last, the opening I’ve been praying for. It’s one of those office mixers, where we’re supposed to bond over plates of Costco appetizers. Roger looks my way, raising a brow. I saunter over and take away his plastic cup of box wine.
“I know where we can find something better.”
“I ‘ope you are not referring to food and drink.”
That accent. I’m wet already.
The taxi ride home is the longest ever. Cabbies have seen everything there is, but we manage to restrain ourselves, sitting close, touching from hip to knee to shin. My entire left side is on fire from the contact. Breathless with my own daring, I slide my hand up his inner thigh and mold it around the iron bar of his hard-on.
“Mon dieu! I could take you right here,” he growls. The driver may get an eyeful after all.
Somehow, we make it to my flat.
Ravenous for each other, we haven’t left the bed for hours. My throat rasps from panting, there’s a cut from my teeth on the inside of my lip. I couldn’t care less.
He strokes my belly, skin slick from sweat and saliva, cum and lube. I thought I was too tired to become aroused again, not after the soul-searing orgasms he’s already given me, but my body has other ideas. One finger parts my lower lips, giving a whisper touch to my still-sensitive clitoris; my hips buck involuntarily. He rolls his erection against my thigh. How can he be hard again, already?
“Brigitte, I-I can’t get enough of you. I never felt this way before.”
My knees fall open weakly, as he nudges them apart. I hiss at the cool blessing of lube on my stinging flesh, then he’s sliding in, stretching me wide around his thick cock. My pussy is swollen, raw even, but he fills me so perfectly that my moans are pure rapture.
Our bodies surge together, momentum building. I clutch at him, wanting more, deeper, harder. His thrusts push me to the heights--and over. I cry out, and spiral down, down ...
… … … …
It’s after midnight. Tomorrow is another work day.
Reluctantly, I disentangle myself from the rumpled sheets and flick off the switches of my trusty Roger Rabbit™ vibrator.
As I totter off to the bathroom to clean up, I resolve to buy one of the rechargeable vibes I’ve shopped online. They’re pricey, but I’ve spent a fortune on batteries since I first laid eyes on Roger Duprée—or whatever his name is.