Stories from the darkness - Episode 2

Weeks pa

Weeks passed and soon Ekaterina was only a shadow of a memory. Life went on and I got lost in work. When a story - it was about corrupt EU deputies - took me to Brussels and later to Paris, something happened that I would never have expected in my life.

"Hey, Lutz! Your profile says you're in Paris right now, too. Do you feel like meeting me spontaneously in the bar across from my hotel?" then followed the address. Signed was the message quite simply like the documents that had led to my success story. It simply said, in blood-red characters, "-E." I frowned. Partly because I hadn't been aware that I had never uninstalled this dating app, and partly because I had no idea how to make letters a different color in a text message. But what was my hesitation? Of course I wanted to see Ekaterina again. Part of me, meanwhile, doubted that any of this had taken place. Maybe it was just the wet dream of a man who hadn't had sex in too long? "Of course I want to see you," my fingers tapped remotely, pressing send before I could think about it any longer.

I was too early. Or she was too late. In any case, I was sitting on the sidewalk at a table in a cute French bar in one of Paris' expensive neighborhoods, enjoying the balmy summer night and ordering a beer. When the beer came, I was overcome by the already familiar pang of insecurity. A beer was not appropriate for a date after all. But was this a date? Would she notice the pale smell of beer coming from my mouth? Would our meeting be awkward and embarrassing? Part of me still didn't believe that the night with her had been anything more than a dream.

When she finally approached me, the world seemed to change in slow motion. The waiter, the other guests, the cars, even the lights seemed to blur. My full attention was on this goddess, who strode toward me as if she were presenting the finest gown at the most important fashion show. Her heels clacked on the cobblestones, the extremely skimpy dress strained around her hips, threatening to ride up at any moment. Her breasts, displayed as perfect underboobs in the cut-out dress, bounced gently with her steps.

She stopped a meter and a half in front of me, posing to give me the opportunity to stare at her in further bewilderment. "When you're done," she said amusedly in her delightful Russian accent this time in German, "we could make ourselves nice and have a drink." I stood up, kissed her four times in greeting, and we sat down.

There was that feeling in me again, that tingling, that desire to impress her, to be the great strong man in her eyes for all the world. I knew this behavior from my time as a teenager, when one did the most crazy things in love. In her presence I was again a teenager in love who wanted to let the big man hang out.

She sat down gracefully, crossed her legs slowly. She looked at me steadfastly. In her eyes I recognized a slight amusement. She saw the effect she had on me, she enjoyed it. She ordered a cocktail in French, with the Slavic touch here as well. A sweet combination, I thought. We started talking in German, but I'll be honest: it was clumsy small talk. There was only one question circling inside me: would the night end similarly to the last time? She congratulated me on the prizes my Saint Petersburg story had won, which puzzled me. So she didn't seem to be just the naive pretty doll after all. Why would a Russian woman know that I had won journalism prizes in Germany. Until now, I had assumed that she was a high-class escort, that a bigwig in the police force was one of her clients, and that this was how she had obtained the documents she had sent me. The thought slowly germinated in me that I could be dealing with a secret agent. Even though I didn't really want to admit it yet in this situation, because I was hypnotized by her dress that so stunningly showcased the underside of her shapely breasts, because I followed every movement of her perfect lips, because I was dizzy from her blink and because I didn't want to think about the consequences of what this would mean. In hindsight, I realized: there would easily be treason in court for contact with a Russian agent.

I tried, without breaking the charged sexual tension, to playfully find out what her profession was. But she just laughed, a delightful laugh, as would probably have befitted a lady at the turn of the last century. She leaned over to me and breathed into my ear: "That's a story I'll be very happy to tell you some other time. And you will write it down for me." She leaned back and winked playfully at me.

After a few drinks, we decided to enjoy the balmy summer night on a spree. She hooked up with me, cleverly - and as I suspected quite consciously - moved so that my forearm and the back of my hand repeatedly bumped into her breasts, which slowly but surely led to tension in my pants. The longer we walked like this, the more unreliable my brain seemed to work. I can no longer remember any dialogue. At the same time, the urge to penetrate her rose in me. Similar to the time in Saint Petersburg.

We walked through a park that would have been beautiful had it not been so filthy. The path was lit by colorful bulbs and old street lamps. In the background, the illuminated Eiffel Tower cut into the dark night sky. "Isn't it romantic?" she whispered, pressing herself even closer to me. "Yeah, but you know what? I don't feel like romance," I answered her, looking deep into her stunning amber eyes. She looked at me curiously, challengingly. I grabbed her by the neck and kissed her energetically. My tongue seemed to glow as it touched hers, which she pushed into my mouth. I let go of her, my face moving a few inches away from hers. Now it was she who took the initiative. Despite her heels, she was still a good bit shorter than me, yet she managed to pull me to her effortlessly and with an unexpected ease. She kissed me energetically, gently biting my lip. Now I grabbed her tighter by the neck, guiding her head away enough to look into her eyes. "so?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "so!" I said determinedly and again as if remote-controlled. Now this wild Lutz, this new Lutz, this Lutz who had come with me to Germany from the shadows in St. Petersburg, was in control again. This side of me that I was afraid of and whose strength and self-confidence were at the same time like intoxication. I turned her toward the blue railing that demarcated the sidewalk from a gentle embankment, holding her hip pressed against mine with one hand and pushing her neck forward toward the railing with the other. She grabbed it with both hands to brace herself, her long perfect fingernails gripping the metal.

"That's a good girl," I said, releasing her neck, sliding down her back and lifting the dress. Between her buttocks I discovered an elegant black thong of fine lace. I reached out, slapped my flat hand on her ass so that it vibrated, grabbed the panties and pulled them down a little. In the same movement I also opened my fly, from which a more than ready member sprang. I spat on her buttocks, wiped the spit in her asshole and penetrated determinedly.

So in the middle of the night in a park behind the Eiffel Tower I fucked her magnificent ass for the second time. This time I came in this one too. I pulled my cock out and before the juice could drip, I pulled her thong back up and slapped her ass once more. She gave me a surprised and I think slightly indignant look.

Then she slowly and deliberately straightened up elegantly, reaching to her ass with her outstretched index finger, pushed the thong, which was dripping with my cum, to the side and pushed her index finger into her wet ass.

She slowly took out the finger, which was now full of my cum, straightened up and turned to me. "I guess I'll have to get used to not being able to sit up straight after meeting you," she said in German with a Slavic accent. "But I want you to get a little something out of our adventure." She pushed the fingernail, at least an inch and a half long and glistening with my cum, into my mouth before I realized what was happening. She smiled.

In the distance, the darkness of the night sky began to give way to the dawn. "I have to go," she said, "Wait...." She grabbed my crotch rather forcefully and gripped. Her fingers pressed on one of my balls. Pain shot up my belly. My eyes became moist. She smiled at me meanwhile with her shy smile that didn't fit the situation at all. I realized that her shyness had been an act all along and nothing had ever happened that she hadn't wanted or allowed to happen. In what I now knew was her playfully naive voice, she whispered, "So that when you sit down, you'll remember this night, too." I gritted my teeth. It was very hard for me not to start crying.

"Wait, don't you want to end the night together?", I moaned. "We did," she said in her sweet voice. "I mean, in one bed, waking up together, ordering breakfast..." - "If that's what you want, we'll have to sleep at my place. Next time. Then I'll tell you my whole story too. But now I really have to go." Only much later did I realize that she had dropped her accent on that last sentence. It sounded like perfect High German, like people speak in big cities like Berlin, Munich, Vienna. She pulled me down to her one last time, kissed me one last time, and, without turning around, strutted out into the dying night.

tbc in Venice!

Metatalk: If you've been following my stories for any length of time, you may have realized that I really enjoy playing with dominance and submission in my stories. That said, it's very important to me that my female characters always retain or regain some degree of control and power. At the end of the day, though, they are simply erotic stories that I tell myself and give to you. I feel no desire to implement the things from my stories in reality, yet it gives me great pleasure to invent them as stories.