Joyeux Noel

I don't know why it happened. Maybe it was because it was the Christmas holidays and they always make me a bit lonely. Or maybe because I've always had a taste for seducing older men. Or perhaps it was just that I found the man who lived on the sixth floor mysterious and attractive on a visceral level. Whatever the reason, it happened, and I'm glad it did.

I had moved from Paris to New York four years before, taking a job in Midtown and living in a highrise apartment building near Sutton Place. Shortly after I arrived, I fell into a romantic relationship with someone and it became quite intense. In retrospect, I think I fell trop vite et trop forte -- too fast and too hard. I was a stranger in a strange land. In any event, we embarked on a weekend love affair -- she lived in another city. It was my first serious relationship with another woman.

She was...is...very beautiful. I met her while on vacation in the Caribbean. She was walking on the beach. She was in a string bikini and I had never seen such a gorgeous creature before -- beautiful eyes, a lovely smile, a perfect body. We hit it off immediately. She pursued me and I felt so flattered that someone so beautiful would want me so much.

You see, I have always been sexually attracted to men but drawn to women in a more emotional way. Yet the way she affected me, the way she touched me...she took me to places I'd never been. She had a way of getting under my skin, of getting past my inhibitions, and making me feel things that I never felt before.

I remember the first time she kissed me, brushing her full lips softly over mine, her hand softly touching my face, the heat grew deep within my body. And when she first caressed my breasts, her fingers gently brushing my nipples like the softest feather, my heart pounded and my pussy became so very wet. And then, when she licked me, making love to me with her beautiful mouth and tongue ... oh mon Dieu ... I was so excited I couldn't stand it. La petite morte with her was as complete, as satisfying, as any I'd ever had. Right now, remembering that first time, lifting my pelvis to her mouth, feeling her tongue in my pussy ... I'm getting wet again just thinking of it.

As our relationship grew, I had a kind of sexual renaissance. All I could think about was sex. All the time. When would be the next time I would be with her? When would I feel her tongue between my legs again? When I was at work. In meetings. I couldn't concentrate. It got to the point that I snuck a vibrator into my office and would actually masturbate during the day. I would create a ruse that I had a project to finish and then I'd shut the door, draw the shades, and put my legs up on my desk and pleasure myself. I'd imagine my lover kneeling under my desk, making love to me with her tongue, licking and sucking me. I ran the vibrator over my clit until I came, playing music on my laptop to keep my moans from being heard outside. Incroyable!

Yet even with these daily dalliances, I couldn't seem to satisfy my urges. I found myself wanting more. Something was missing. It started to feel incomplete as if only a part of me was being pleasured. And then I realized what it was. I wanted -- needed, really -- a man's cock. I needed to take it in my hand. In my mouth. To feel it inside me. No matter how good her tongue was, or how stimulating a vibrator could be, it wasn't the same. I needed the hot, penetrating hardness of a velvety, throbbing penis. I longed for it. Day and night.

Finally, my lover and I decided to break up. It was hard because I still cared for her. But I was driven by a lust that was always lurking beneath the surface.

That's when it happened. Shortly before Christmas, I was returning home from work. Snow was on the ground and the store windows brimmed with decorations. Watching the couples bundled up in their overcoats and scarves, walking arm in arm down Fifth Avenue, created a yearning deep inside me.

I had just returned to my building, and was saying hello to the doorman, when I saw him by the mailboxes in the lobby. It was him. The man from the sixth floor.

I had known him casually for more than a year. We had a easy, friendly relationship, just saying hello in passing, but I sensed he was attracted to me. I could feel his eyes on me when we rode the elevator together. I would catch him looking at my body. He was older than me, a professor at the university here, with sensitive, intelligent eyes that seemed to really see me.

Anyway, I saw him by the mailboxes and we started chatting. Just small talk. We were talking about a TV show that we both liked on HBO. He said he had missed the latest episode and I said casually that I had too but had recorded it and that we should watch it together. He said that sounded delightful and we decided to do it that night. When I shut the door to my apartment, my heart was beating like a schoolgirl's.

I have always been attracted to men who were older than me, and he was just my type. Dark curly hair with dark brown eyes. The thought of seducing him, caressing him, taking him in my mouth, feeling him grow hard ...well, it made me dizzy just to think of it. I took a long bath just to calm myself. I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind. But after drying myself I found myself spraying eau de cologne on my breasts and on my pussy. I couldn't help myself.

When the knock on the door came, I was dressed in a clingy nightgown and heels. It wasn't a negligee exactly, but it was quite sheer and, yes, it showed off my figure. Oh, I was shameless but I didn't care. And because I was already excited, I'm mean in a sexual way, my nipples were hard and quite visibly pressing against the fabric.

When I opened the door, he paused and I could feel his eyes linger for a moment on my breasts. I took him by the arm and led him in, my breast pressed against him.

He sat on the couch and I stood before him and asked if he wanted something to drink. The light from the kitchen behind me shone through my nightgown. My legs were slightly apart and my hip was thrust to one side. I could see him studying the outline of my body, the contours of my thighs, beneath the sheer nightie. I let him. I wanted him to. It excited me. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, slowly moving my hips.

"I have beer, wine, sparkling water. What's your pleasure?"

He gave me a sly smile.

"That's a loaded question," he replied. "What are you having?"

"I planned on opening a Courbissac from Languedoc-Rousillon," I said with a gesture to the wine case against the wall. "Care to join me?"

"Sounds perfect," he answered with a smile.

I walked to the armoire on one wall and opened it, removing two crystal wine glasses, and placed them on the coffee table. I could feel his eyes on me. On my body.

"Do you know Languedoc?" I asked. "It's in the south. On the Mediterranean."

I then walked to the wine cabinet on the other wall. I knew he was watching my every move and I made every move count. I wondered to myself, is he an ass man, or a breast man?

"It's one of the major wine regions of France," I continued. "Very beautiful."

The cabinet was just a metre high and I bent over to find the wine I wanted. As I did so, I pressed my ass against the sheer fabric of my nightgown giving him a good view.

"Very beautiful," he echoed.

I turned to him with bottle in hand and caught him eyeing my derriere. Ah, an ass man, I thought to myself. I was enjoying this.

"Is that where you're from?" he asked with eyebrows raised.

"Non, non," I replied. "I'm from the north. From Bretagne. Although I lived most of my adult life in Paris."

I started to open the bottle of wine, twisting the corkscrew, knowing he was watching me like the proverbial hawk.

"This is how we open wine in Bretagne!" I said.

I put the base of the bottle between my legs and leaned towards him. My arms were pressing my breasts together, spilling over the top of my nightgown.

I made a show of wrestling with the cork, putting my whole body into it. I turned from side to side, letting him feast on my breasts. I grunted as I struggle with the cork, biting my bottom lip with my teeth, until it pulled out with a loud pop.

"Voila!" I exclaimed, brushing a shock of auburn hair from my my face. "The world's most beautiful sound!"

I bent at the waist in front of him to pour the wine. The front of my nightgown was scooped and as I bent forward I could feel it fall open. I pretended not to notice that the top of my breasts were visible to him. I just chatted on about Bretagne, how beautiful it was, and how different life was when I moved to Paris. I poured the wine slowly, carefully, giving him a good, long view.

I could see a bulge forming in his trousers.

When I finished pouring, I sat on the couch next to him and raised my glass.

"Joyeux Noel," I said as we touched glasses.

"To new friends," he said, charmingly.

I stole a glimpse at his crouch and I could see that he was clearly getting larger. Perhaps he's an ass man AND a breast man.

As we spoke of our lives, our experiences, I turned my body to face him. I sat up straight, with my back slightly arched, and my breasts pressed against the sheer fabric. The outline of my nipples were clearly visible. Yes, I was shameless.

You see, I'm rather proud of my body. I'm a former dancer, with a petite figure, and I work hard to stay in shape. While my breasts aren't very large, they have a nice shape with pink upturned nipples that stand out when I'm excited. They were standing out now.

Oh, I admit that it excited me to flirt with him. Was that so wrong? It had been so long since I had been with a man. And he seemed to enjoy it too. Knowing that I still had it in my power to excite a man, to make his body react with a mere gesture or pose, was such a turn on to me.

When I showed him my ass, and saw the effect it had, it made my heart race. I've been told I have a nice ass more than once -- it's my strongest asset, so to speak.

And when I caught him looking at my breasts, yes, that too sent a wave of heat through my body. And when I sat next to him, and could see the outline of his cock, getting bigger, because of me, well then I have to admit it made me very wet. I cannot help it. I am a healthy French woman and I have a good body and a pretty face and this is what we do. C'est tout.

We shared our wine and talked of everything, from literature to art, to politics and our families. I told him about my life in France, and how it felt to be a foreigner living in the U.S. He was a great listener, sensitive and insightful. We enjoyed each other's company tremendously but there was a sexual tension that ran like an undercurrent throughout our conversation.

We decided to watch the TV show which I had taped earlier. Here, I confess another deception. I had already watched this particular episode. I just wanted to watch this one again -- with him. In it, the main female character, an Irish woman living in the U.S., lusts after a man and finally takes him as her lover.

Over the next hour, we sat and watched as the woman character grows increasingly obsessed with the man. The sexual tension built up during the whole episode. His mere physical presence makes her wobbly. His touch sends electricity through her body.

Finally, she asks him to carry her suitcase up to her bedroom. They are alone. The house is empty.

"We will never speak of this again," she says, matter of factly.

Then, she moves to him. Gives herself to him. They embrace passionately and she lets him push her back onto the bed and remove her clothes. The last shot of the episode is a closeup of her face gasping as his cock fills her.

Watching this again, this woman living far from home, longing to feel a man inside her, taking this near stranger to her bed -- all with him sitting right next to me -- was just too much. By the time the credits ran, I was completely ... totally ... wet. My heart was pounding. I had to calm myself.

"More wine?" I asked, my voice tremulous.

"That was quite a climax," he said as I refilled his glass. "Do you think she enjoyed it? I mean, they cut away before the action really started."

I let out a small laugh, collecting myself.

"Oh, I'm confident that she was more than satisfied," I said, filling my own glass. "She had been waiting so long for this. All that pent up desire flooding out at once. All alone, in that empty house."

I turned to him, my composure restored.

"My guess is," I said confidently, "she had an orgasm that was positively volcanic."

I smiled at him seductively. He looked at his glass and nodded.

"Perhaps, though he was moving rather fast," he said with a glint in his eye. "It may have been just a flash in the pan. We'll never know what happened after the last fade out, will we?"

I took a sip of wine and imagined how the scene might have played out.

"I like to think that, while he started fast, due to his passion for her, he was wise enough to slow the pace and let her feel every bit of his love. Deep inside her. Touching her very soul."

There was a pause as he looked at me, intently. We were crossing some sort of unspoken boundary.

"Is that how you would have liked it?" he replied in a low voice. "If the scene continued, I mean. Slow and ... deep?"

"Ummm, oui ... yes," I said, feeling that heat again between my legs. "Slow ... Deep ... Intimate."

I slowly licked the rim of my wine glass and turned to him. "And you? How would you have liked it to continue?"

He thought about it for a moment.

"I would hope he would have covered her body with kisses. Leaving no part unexplored. With his lips. And his tongue."

I smiled knowingly.

"Go on."

"And ... I hope he would have had the courtesy to bring her orgasm several times that way. With his head nestled between her legs."

I shifted a bit in my seat. My heart was beating fast again.

"Is that right?"

"Of course, she might have other ideas," he replied with a smile. "What ideas might she have?"

I smiled and thought a moment. Then I spoke in a slow whisper, my eyes closed, as if in a trance.

"I think ... she would have liked ... to wrap her lips ... around him ... and to feel him ... growing ... growing ... harder and harder ... inside her mouth."

I opened my eyes and he was staring at my mouth. I licked my lips and continued. My hand found his leg and gently stroked his inner thigh.

"I think she would use her tongue," I whispered. "To please him ... to tickle him ... to make him hard."

My hand found his cock, and started to rub it slowly through his trousers. He let out a grunt.

"May I show you what I mean," I cooed.

"Yes," he whispered.

I knelt on the floor in front of him, facing him on the couch. I began to unfasten his pants.

"She would want to take it slow, to make it last. She had wanted his cock for so long that she'd want to savor it."

I released his cock from his pants and began to stroke it, slowly. My eyes were fixed on his. It felt so glorious to have a cock in my hands again.

"And then ... she would stroke him ... slowly ... making him bigger ... harder."

I made my thumb and forefinger into a pussy shape and slid it over the tip and slowly down the shaft, one hand and then the other. He leaned back and moaned loudly. His cock was fully erect now. His chest heaved.

"And she would long to taste him ... to lick him ... to feel that soft hardness ... beneath her tongue."

I trained my eyes on his and glided my broad, soft tongue along the length of his shaft, swirling around the tip and tasting the precum that gathered there.

"And as their desire grew ... they would want more ... they would find themselves ... in an embrace ... soixante-neuf ... head to foot ... mouth on pussy ... mouth on cock ... and he would pump his cock into her mouth ... as if it were her pussy ... sliding in and out ... and she would love it so much. And she would press her pussy against his face ... his tongue and lips caressing her clitoris. Pure, unadulterated, pleasure."

Slowly, I stuck out my tongue and licked from the base of his cock to the tip. He leaned back, moaning.

"Only then would he put his beautiful hard cock against her hot, wet pussy. She would want him ... need him .. to fill her up .. to make her come."

I moistened my lips with my tongue and puckered them. Full, wet, fleshy lips hovering over the tip of his cock.

"Slowly ... gently ... he would push the tip against the lips of her pussy ... so wet ... so ready."

I pressed my puckered lips, shaped like an pussy, against the swollen tip. And pulled away.

"And he is so turned on ... his cock is so hard ... and swollen ... the tip spreads her lips as he enters her."

Again, I pressed my lips against the tip and let it pop into my mouth, making my lips tight against the warm, velvety skin. My tongue slid over the head with a flourish. I felt his body shudder. Again, I released him from my mouth.

"Her pussy is small and tight ... so the tip spreads her lips ... and makes her gasp."

I pushed my lips against the tip again and this time slid halfway down the shaft. I released him with a smack.

"He wants her so ... he pushes himself inside her ... filling her. She cries out ... it feels so good.

I took his cock deep into my mouth and throat, sliding up and down the velvety shaft. I squeezed my lips around the head and slowly released it with a smack.

I raised myself up until my lips met his.

"I want to do all that," he whispered. "With you. Right now."

As if in a trance, he stood and pulled me up from my kneeling position. We walked into the bedroom and he kicked off his shoes as I unbuttoned his shirt. I pulled off his trousers and underwear and let them drop to the floor. His erect cock stood out, glistening.

I was so full of desire my legs were trembling. Not just from our foreplay, but from the knowledge that I was about to make love to a man the perfect size for me.

A quick explanation before I continue my story. You see, in reality I am quite petite and I cannot lay with just any man. If the man is too big, it isn't pleasurable for me. I prefer a man who is small to average size. A man who is big, I must say no. I will give fellatio but no more. But a small man feels wonderful for my tight pussy. And an average man? Well, let's just say that an average sized cock feels like a huge cock to me, ok? Like a porn star would to another woman. It spreads me and fills me and makes me cry out until I come over and over again.

I lay him down on the bed and did a strip for him. First one shoulder, then the other. I cupped my breasts in my hands, hiding them, rubbing the nipples. I let my nightgown fall to the floor. I turned and showed him my dancer's body. I stuck out my ass which he seemed to like so much. Then I slowly got on the foot of the bed on my knees, my knees spread, and lifted my hands to my hair. I could see him staring at my breasts, devouring them with his eyes, and at my pussy, shaved and already dripping wet. I let my fingers drift down to my shoulders and arms until they found my breasts and I caressed them and played with the nipples. I was so turned on, they were hard and erect, ready to be touched and sucked. Slowly, I moved my hands downward, to my hips and stomach, until my fingers found my pussy. I slowly slid my index finger along the wet slit and then brought it to my mouth, tasting my own desire.

I saw his throbbing cock rise and fall as it lay against his stomach.

"Do you like my body? Do I turn you on?" I purred.

"God, yes" he answered.

"Then show me," I purred again. "Touch yourself."

He hesitated for a moment.

"I want to watch you touch yourself. It makes me so hot. Touch yourself while I touch myself."