Champagne spilled down her blouse like the morning dew on the edge of flower petals. It dripped in aged wealth down her ageless breasts to a place where only my eyes could imagine there were gardens of succulent nipples waiting to be caressed by my every touch and swirl of my tongue.
I would make her orgasm just by my gaze if I could, and maybe some day I will, but tonight as I sit across from her at this dinner table it is my undying duty not to reach across the two dishes of tiramisu and rip every button from her top until she was exposed to everyone around so they can know why I crave what I crave.. The cream of the desert is nothing compared to the insatiable flavor that emanates from her tipsy stare as her eyes flash signals of unrepremanded urge from her lost years as a working woman. This is her night to be free, to find liberty in every glass of rich liquid courage that seems to be harvested itself in her chest for too long, deep behind her breasts as her breathes grow heavier and heavier along with it’s desire to break free. My tongue looks for any part of flesh to taste as I sit only inches away and I become inferior to my compulsions, and soon her to her own. The table between us is set ablaze by the passion we share at 9 o’clock pm in this restaurant in France, and I am unsure of whether or not any fire department can make it up the cobblestone street in time before my tongue is down her throat and the tablecloths are turned to ash.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/p5mf93/champagne_in_paris