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The Devil wears high heels ... The End.

"...there were fewer rapes in Europe during war than peacetime?"

The tip of her tongue peeked between her lips. Her mind whispered in reply. "Do you know how much I want to suck your cock right now?"

His little finger topped hers on the tabletop. They both watched it happen.

"Tell me your name so I can cry it out when you make me cum. Please?"

He shook his head as his hand lifted, his thumb grazing roughly over her lower lip.

She thought she was having an orgasm. She wanted desperately to lick his thumb, suck it deeper in her mouth and dance her tongue all over it...in preparation for his cock. He pulled his thumb away.

Her lower lip felt abused, blistered, hungry. She wanted more of it.

"Are you a unicorn, Mr. Devereaux?" Her voice was so low she barely heard it herself.

"The French say 'peut-etre' -- perhaps, but I think I'm just another man."

He spoke French -- only a word, but perfectly pronounced as a Parisian -- and it sent a quiver through her mind. In an instant, her imagination had placed her in a grotty attic viewing the Eiffel Tower, naked and disheveled, used and sprawling and sated beyond her fantasy.

Distracted, she suddenly realized her hand lay across his swelling cock as he watched with a poker face.

She physically blushed and jerked her hand away. "I don't know what's got in to me today, Mr Devereaux. But I think I know what I'd love to get in me. Oh, my!"

Love to get that thick hard cock in me, she mused, lounging back in her chair and spreading her legs slightly. She could feel an updraft beneath her dress on her wetness. It surprised her, but it felt good, too. She rocked her feet and wriggled her toes and felt a faint shiver across her shoulders. She licked her lower lip and imagined his cock some more. Mmmm, she thought, pussy's in Paradise.

An hour had passed. They ordered a bottle of wine for the next hour. It warmed them and they moved closer to each other at the table. His ring finger had been gliding up and down her pussy lips, dipping inside her from time to time, in a unexpected rhythm that kept her edging but without climax.

"Oh, god, Mr. Devereaux," she gasped between breaths.

He didn't finger her to a writhing orgasm until they stood beside his car. Her dress above her hips, thighs wide, grinding on his fingers and thumb as if wild.

She was his thrall. What's more -- hearing the stories about him -- she knew his pattern to come and what he would do to her, on her, in her. She became his worshipful priestess and fuck toy. In anticipation.

His home was half-museum, she noted, passing through the rooms to where his bed waited. Soft lighting, artistic things strewn -- bohemian. She'd heard he was an artist with tongue and cock. She loved the feel of his strong fingers around her wrist, like a steel handcuff. It made her wet and wetter when he just looked at her. That way. That conquering "I take you" look. That "I'll fuck you" look. It made her tremble.

She dropped to her knees in front of him and fumbled at his buckle and zipper, pulling his pants down over her legs and feet and throwing them over her shoulder. Surprising even herself, she lowered her head and, moving slowly upward, began engulfing the head of his cock between her lips. She sucked at it, licking the tight smooth skin. She nested her lips tightly around the rim and bobbed up and down quickly, her other hand coming up to caress his balls. She began dipping her mouth lower on his shaft and gently squeezing and tugging his ballsack.

He groaned, digging his fingers in her hair, not guiding or forcing but caressing. She loved that.

As much as she wanted his cum shooting in her mouth, to swallow all of his juice, she knew he wouldn't cum yet. She felt a renewed throbbing ache in her clitoris -- imagining, no, knowing his tongue would ravish it until she climaxed on his mouth. The stories told her so.

He sensed her distraction and slid his fingers up her body to her neck and settled there in a loose but significant grip.

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