THE FRENCH BALCONY

Part II – Worship and Sunrise

She pulled me by the collar until I was standing between her legs, her thighs bare and parted, her eyes half-lidded, already drunk on something far heavier than alcohol. I didn’t kiss her mouth. Not yet. I kissed her throat. Her collarbone. The slope of one breast. My hands moved under the shirt—my shirt—still warm from her skin, damp in places, clinging where she’d already begun to sweat.

She leaned back on her elbows, arched, presenting herself.

“Worship me properly,” she whispered.

Not a request. A command.

I knelt.

I devoured.

Tongue deep, slow, deliberate. Every flick, every pull, sent her higher. Her hands gripped the iron rails behind her, knuckles white, legs twitching around my shoulders. I could feel her clit throb against my lip, her veins pulsing under my tongue, her hips bucking like a creature mid-exorcism.

She didn’t care who heard now.

She wanted them to.

The moans poured out of her in waves, echoing into the cobbled street below, where the bakery lights were just flickering on, and someone paused—looked up. She saw them. Locked eyes with a woman carrying a tray of pastries.

She didn’t stop. She smiled.

When she came, it was loud. Full-body. A shockwave. She nearly slid off the railing, knees folding, hands clawing for my hair, dragging me deeper like she needed to be filled by my breath. Her legs trembled against my neck as she came again, and again, raw and oversensitive. By the time I stood, my chin was soaked, my cock was painfully hard, and her face was wild—hair clinging to her cheeks, mouth open, panting like she’d sprinted to heaven.

“Fuck me, now.”

She pulled me into her, her nails digging into my back, her teeth finding my shoulder. I slammed into her with zero ceremony—wet, hot, tight—our skin slapping loud enough to draw echoes. The balcony rail clanged behind her with every thrust, her ankles locked behind me, pulling me in like a trap.

I came first.

Not soft. Not slow.

I pulled out at the last second, gripped the base, and exploded.

Across her stomach.

Her chest.

Her throat.

Then her face.

A thick, hot splat—the sound sharp, obscene, beautiful. She gasped as it hit her cheek, lips, chin—then moaned, slow and proud, as it dripped. Down her throat. Between her tits. Along the swell of her ribs. She didn’t wipe it. She leaned into the sunrise like a painting.

It glowed on her. Pearlescent. Gleaming.

She looked holy.

The baker below had stopped walking. So had someone on a bicycle. A man with a dog. They all looked up.

She turned to face them, naked, painted, shining. Let them see what I’d done.

Then, casually, she slapped me on the arse.

“Get dressed, baby,” she said, voice raw and glowing with filth. “I need a pack of Camel Blues and another bottle of Dom. And maybe something sweet. Croissants, if you can still walk straight.”

She lit a cigarette from the previous night, still half-smoked on the ashtray. Sat on the edge of the bed.

Dripping.

Smiling.

Mine.