DCM A/N: We are happy to have a TWCS author, Bagpuss squeezing us. The link to her page is on our blog and she is listed as a favorite on our TWCS page. Make sure to check out the blog for her picspiration *fans self*. www . dirtycheekymonkeys . blogspot . com Ready, set, squeeze!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Squeeze My Lemon~~~~~~~~~ 03.07.12~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Learning French by Bagpuss.
He's tall, dark and lean; built of angles, and young, but not too young.
You don't have a definitive type but if you did, you think he'd be it.
He asks you your name as you wait his table; his voice holds the trace of an accent, a slight inflection though you can't be sure.
"It's on my badge," you reply, not meeting his eye, staring instead at the tray in your hand. His hand darts to the badge at your breast.
"Isabella," he breathes as both finger and tongue roll across your name. You know you should move, you should be appalled, smack his hand away at the very least. But you don't, you stand frozen to the spot watching the lazy smile spread across his too beautiful mouth.
"B-Bella; it's Bella," you stutter. "Will that be all?"
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, he smiles now; it's a smug sort of a smile, he brings the finger to his mouth as though to hide behind it. You want to tell him his overconfidence does nothing for you, but you don't like to lie.
The next evening you tie up your hair and pull on your uniform wondering if he'll be there. Your uniform fits snugly around the contours of your body; you know the heels of your shoes accentuate the sway of your hips, the fabric of your dress rustles as it swings around your body. You spread a little gloss across your lips and peer at your reflection in the mirror.
He's already at what you have come to think of as 'his table' as you start your shift; he's been here often lately but this is the fourth night in a row, your heart rate increases as he catches your eye. You wonder if he'll speak to you again, maybe you'll even get past the preliminaries tonight?
"What can I get you?" Your voice sounds breathy to your own ears.
"I want an orgasm" he murmurs, "but I'll settle for a Bud."
You're about to tell him you've heard this before once or a hundred times but his eyes are coal, burning and consuming. You lose your train of thought standing there, your mouth open slightly, your breathing rapid; your teeth graze your lip as you begin to tremble.
"Miss?" questions a patron from behind. The spell broken, you nod at the customer and step away from the stranger. You leave on unsteady legs, your heart and stomach seem to be jostling for space.
You take your break in the kitchen and watch as he rolls a bottle between his hands. Maybe tonight you will have courage? The evening is busy; beer for one, wine for another, wipe down the tables, balance your tray, service with a smile, straining to hear the orders over the increasing volume of the music. The stranger watches you, his gaze burns at your back. Mindful of his attention you sway a little more; touch a shoulder here, laugh at a joke there.
You return to his table to collect his now empty bottle.
"Can I get you another?" you question, your hand on the bottle.
He reaches out and clasps his hand around your wrist and electricity jumps between you with a force of its own. He gestures you closer with his finger, the music is loud so you incline your ear towards his mouth inhaling the scent of shampoo and cologne, conscious of the cords straining in his neck.
"I've been watching you," he says, "but you know that already." His breathe caresses your neck, the words turn slick inside you. You look to the fingers holding your wrist; he releases you and you feel an ache of loss immediately.
"Can I offer you a ride?" he asks, the evening is wearing down. The innocence of his tone clashes with the intent of his words but maybe it's just all in your head; accents probably makes everything sound sexual.
You open your mouth to say you'd like that but the words fall from your mouth in a jumble, "No thanks, I've got it covered." You turn your back and walk away, empty.
Outside now your cab is late. Cold and wet, you wrap your arms around your body, struggling to retain any warmth through your thin jacket.
"Hello." The stranger's voice is soft and low, as you turn towards him heat returns to your body.
"Are you sure I can't offer you a ride, I promise not to bite." He challenges and this time you accept. He watches you for a long, drawn out moment, his expression unreadable and you wonder if he's changed his mind. He holds out his hand to you.
He tells you his name is Edouard, it sounds a lot like Edward but his pronunciation lengthens the vowels and leaves out the final 'd'. The name suits him; you roll it round your tongue...Edouard. He mentions he's French and you ask if he'll teach you some of his language.
"Sometime," he answers.
His hair glistens dark in the rain, his eyelashes spiked as you walk hand in hand. He stops at a dark coloured car, you have no concept of what type, but it's sleek and new. As your hand meets with the door handle he reaches a long arm around you, pressing the palm of his hand against yours. He leans his body against you, brushing his nose against your hair and your heart stills for a second.
The car smells of leather, the seat is cool against your thigh and you shiver as much from anticipation as from the temperature. He leans towards you and kisses you before he's even closed his door. His kiss is intense and hard, teeth clash and tongues dance together as you meet his mouth with your own. He pulls away; you're both a little breathless as he turns the key in the ignition.
"Come for a coffee?" he questions and you laugh and nod your head; the artifice goes unmentioned.
He drives with one arm casually propped on his window; and you can see the edgings of a tattoo on the inside of his forearm and you wonder what it says. The atmosphere is intimate as you travel through the night, cocooned and magnetized by the unspoken.
He pulls ups into a driveway and helps you from the car, taking your small hand into his larger one. His house smells of citrus as he gives you a tour of the lounge, the dining room and kitchen; he avoids the bedrooms.
"Coffee?" he questions once more. You laugh, shaking your head and tell him caffeine keeps you awake at night.
"Perfect," he answers, a wicked gleam in his eye. Your heart rate increases as he closes the small space between you. His hands hold you at your hips as he whispers, "Call it payback, you've kept me awake nights for weeks." His voice is dark and laden with the lust.
He loosens your hair and rubs his fingers across your scalp. The feeling is delicious and a small moan escapes from your lips. His mouth covers yours once more.
This kiss is tender and but no less intense. His mouth moves against yours, his tongue stroking and coaxing as his hands cup your behind. He flexes a little, rubbing the length of his erection against you; you exhale audibly as he pushes you backward against the kitchen table, his mouth not leaving yours. Slowly he pulls at the zip of your dress before pushing it from your shoulders;, it puddles at your feet.
"Je te veux...I want you," his voice is soft as he lowers his head to your ear. "I want all of you." Taking the lobe into his mouth, he sucks gently before slowly kissing his way down your neck with his wet, open mouth.
"Do you know how men watch you at work? You and your ass, swaying through the bar, do you wonder how many want to bend you over in your frilly little apron?" His words thrill you as you exhale a soft moan. His tongue dips lower as your insides lurch, desire unfurling. You reach to the hem of his t-shirt and tug frantically at the edge, desperate to feel his skin against yours. With a the flick, his torso is bare; the lean muscles of his chest tauttaught against your palms. You place your hand at his waistband intent on loosening the button fly.
"All in good time," he whispers into the flesh of your neck, lowering his mouth to your skin. Sliding your bra straps from your shoulders, the ribbon like fabric caresses your skin and you shiver from the sensation. Elegant fingers loosen the remainder before drawing down your sternum.
"Tu est belle...so beautiful," he murmurs as he runs his hands across the soft swell of your breast; your nipples pucker and ache at the touch.
"Mamelon," he whispers, "tu répètes." He leans forward and flicks at the engorged flesh with the very tip of his tongue. "You say it," he coaxes and you wrap your unfamiliar tongue around the word, softly, the sounds barely audible.
Your body jumps as he licks at the flesh, taking it into his mouth, sucking and teasing. Desire spawns in the pit of your stomach, fanning out across your skin. You cry out as the sensations heighten and build inside.
"Cul," he murmurs as his hands cups your behind, lifting you onto the table. "tu répètes." And you do.
He draws his fingers down the length of your torso, down to the waistband of your panties, running a finger down the front. His fingers dip into the fabric before he plunges two fingers deep inside.
"Chatte," he purrs, but he doesn't ask you to repeat. "You are so wet." His words praise you as his fingers dip in and out of your swollen flesh. Your body twists and bows against the cool of the table in time with his delicious rhythm. You moan and cry out and your fingers scrabble at the wood as the sensations wrack your body.
"Please," you moan as your hands grasp at the belt of his jeans. You need more and these needs make you bold, driving you on.
"Patience...doucement...slowly," he commands and you still.
Loosening the panties from your hips, you lift your bottom in assistance; he pulls them down your legs and flicks them to the floor.
Kissing you once more he leans into you and murmurs, "J'ai envie de toi...despererement."
He lifts your feet onto the table and you experience the thrill of vulnerability before he kneels before you. He exposes you, holding his elbows to your knees, his fingers at your folds; you moan wantonly as the flat of his tongue strokes you, tastes you, fucks you. He lightly brushes you with the tip of his tongue, flicking and circling your swollen clitoris. You cry out for divine intervention as he takes the fattened flesh into his mouth, sucking and drawing on it until you are sensation alone, quivering, convulsing, shattering.
Your head now rests on his sternum; you tilt your head to his.
"Kiss me," he murmurs and desire flares at your core once more. You taste yourself on his lips before he enters you, raising your legs to his chest as he fills you deeply. His pelvis rolls and flexes, flesh hits flesh as rhythm builds deliciously inside. The French lesson is over, he has lost the power of words.
"Je viens!" His voice is strained, guttural and you know viscerally what this means. Your climax builds as your body responds to his; he thrusts deeply as you are pushed over the edge and you come loudly beneath him, frozen in that moment in time where absolute clarity lies.
He lies in your arms, your heart beats between you. You stroke his back, his shoulders, his arms. You see the tattoo and ask him what it says.
"Bon sang ne peut mentir...good blood cannot lie."
DCM A/N: *pants & pants* So hot! A French speaking Edward! And Smut! Hope you had your clean panties ready! Please leave her some love and beg her to continue and write more!
Next week we have an eager to squeeze us again squeezer, BellaClary.
If you are interested in writing for us, drop us a line! We want you writers! dirty cheeky monkeys at yahoo dot com
Entries are being posted for our Spring Squeezing Contest, go read and review.
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Voting will start 03.16.12