Tags

,

Dinner was just like any other. Except for the part about it being in a brand new apartment, in a brand new country. My husband, having been recently promoted to a new job, running a European factory, has been making the effort to get to know his employees. This particular evening, he invited one of his salesmen over for dinner.

He made his phenomenal beef bourguignon, served with a most delicious red wine for our special guest. Our guest looks like a younger, handsomer Eric Ripert. Whether or not he is just as wonderful of a cook, is unknown. However, being french, I am willing to bet he is a great cook. My mind wanders. How many women were treated to one of his meals before going to his bed? How many awoke to a savory breakfast? One things for sure, I will never forget his name, as it happens to also be, Eric.

Eric spoke english with a thick french accent, like honey on the tongue, and when he spoke french he made me weak in the knees. The men, lost in discussion of finances and projects, barely notice, when I leave the table. I collect the plates and my heart skips a beat as Eric’s hand touches my wrist. His voice slices into me, like a knife through butter, as he thanks me.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper.

In the kitchen, I wash and place the dinner dishes on the drying rack. I can hear the men talking in the background, occasionally laughing. Once finished, I approach the table, my hands still damp. “Aperitif? Coffee?” I ask.

“Aperitif, please, my love,” my husband replies. “I think you can prepare dessert as well.” I nod in agreement and make my way back into the kitchen as the men smile at each other.

I remove two sifters from the cabinet and as I search for the bottle of cognac, I am startled by two hands at my hips. Immediately the scent of cologne invades my nostrils and I know it is not my husband. I hold my breath as lips graze my ear lobe. “Your husband tells me, that though your lips are familiar with french, they have not yet been touched by french.”

“No, sir,” I blush, barely able to get the words out.

I feel his body press against mine. I moan softly as his erection presses against my ass. He trails his hands up my legs, pulling my skirt over my waist. His hand migrates to my panties, his fingers pressing against my mons through the thin fabric. I groan and feel his lips press against my ear. “You didn’t think I meant the lips on your pretty little face did you, cherie?”

“Yes, Eric, ” I stutter. “I did.”

“Tsk. Tsk.” He mutters. He places one hand on my hip and one on my chin, easily turning my body to face his. Normally, an encounter such as this would have made me quite uncomfortable, but I knew my husband played a part in this. Earlier in the week, he made it a point to bring up the Frenchman in conversation. He was quite deliberate in his description of Eric’s reputation for being an extremely charming ladies’ man. My eyes float across the kitchen and sure enough, there was my husband, watching, with a smile on his face. He lifts his wine glass in a toast and takes a generous sip. I can’t help but smile.

Eric’s hands grab my ass and I’m suddenly off balance. I grab his shoulders as he lifts me off of the floor and places me on the counter. He lowers himself to the floor, running his hand up my right leg. His hands find my garter and slowly unhook the straps. With slow and deliberate movement, he moves to the other leg, unhooking each strap there. His hands grab hold of my panties and give them a gentle tug. I lift myself off of the counter, helping him slide the thin fabric over my ass and off my feet. Satisfied, he takes my left foot in his hand, kissing my ankle through the stockings. He trails his tongue, past my ankle, along my calf, past my knee, onto my inner thigh, grazing the lace top of my thigh highs and finally onto the delicate skin of my thigh. I gasp at the feel of his hot, wet tongue on my cool skin. My legs naturally spread, inviting him farther. I lean back, my head against the cabinet.

Eric’s tongue finds my freshly waxed lips equally  inviting and he takes one long lick along my labia. I groan loudly and I hear him chuckle. He laps at my labia continuously. Occasionally, he nibbles gently on my intimate folds, sucking on my hardening clit. I feel him press two fingers into me and I moan. My hands immediately grab a fistful of his hair. Like the chef, this Eric also gels his hair, but this Eric was working his magic on my body and I didn’t care that my hands were being covered in gel.

His fingers work gently within me, slowly curling upward, stimulating my g spot. I gasp in approval. Eric presses his tongue harder into my clit as his fingers work in and out of me. I raise my feet and kick off my heels. They fall to the floor, in a boisterous tumble, but Eric never flinches. I place my heels on the counter, pressing the back of my head against the cabinet, my hips begin rocking. My fingers grip Eric’s hair tighter and I pull him into my pussy. He laps loudly at my cunt, suckling on my bud. His fingers thrust aggressively inside me. I yelp in ache. Eric hisses in response.

My moans grow louder, more urgent. I can feel the pleasure welling up inside of me.

“Come on cherie,” His french accent entering my ears and traveling straight to my pulsing clit. “Give me your orgasm.” I swear to fucking god he could make me come with just his voice.

I moan loudly, pressing myself even harder into his face. The back of my head aches. His fingers thrust even faster. “Yes, yes,” Oh god his voice! “Yes, let go. Give it to me.”

I feel the first wave of my orgasm hit as his mouth finds my clit. His tongue keeps it’s steady rhythm as his fingers fuck me aggressively. Each thrust is hard and deliberate. My moans break into a scream and I slam my head into the cabinet as I throw my head back and howl. My muscles contract hard around his fingers and stops his thrusts briefly. My fingers ache with how tight they hold onto him and I can only imagine how much his scalp much hurt.

Slowly my body grows soft. My voice hoarse and mouth dry. My fingers pry themselves open. Panting, I let my feet drop off of the counter and my legs tremble. Eric rises and holds me tight against his body. His voice breaks the silence, “Now, my cherie, you have felt the touch of the french.” I could have melted right then, perhaps even orgasmed once more had I not been so tired. I blushed, biting my lower lip.

“I have seen that look before,” my husband comments, as he makes his way towards us. “I believe my wife has not yet had her fill of the french.”

“Then we shall make sure she does!” Eric winks at my husband before picking me up into his arms. Following my husband, Eric carries me into the bedroom. I may just have my fill of the french tonight!