First Sin, Filthy Sips

Six o’clock, outside the bar,

black denim tight,

denim shirt on my shoulders,

and there she is walking towards me,

my eyes locking on her the second she appears.

Black dress flowing,
lace teasing beneath the neckline,
her smile pulling me under.
“Finally,” she says,
and the word melts between us
as I crash into her hug,
breathing her in,
her perfume mixing with my skin,
her cleavage brushing my chest.
The city disappears.
It’s only us.

Inside—a dim corner table,
hidden from wandering eyes.
We sit, but not apart.
The tension is thick,
and in minutes
her lips are on mine.
Soft, hungry,
again and again,
every few breaths we’re kissing,
as if the weeks of waiting
demand payment now.

French cocktails arrive,
but my true intoxication
is her shifting on my palm.
She’s perched on my hand,
lace pressing to my skin,
warmth seeping through,
making me throb against my jeans.

I made her feel my throbbing cock,

I feel her heat, her need,
her body whispering yes.

She leaves for the restroom—
my mind racing.
When she returns,
her lips curl, her eyes daring,
and she places a remote in my hand.

“Daddy’s in control now.”

I press,
watching her breath catch,
hips tightening,
eyes glazing as the toy hums inside her.
She hands me her thong—
warm, damp, forbidden.
I hold it,
inhale softly,
press it to my lips.
The taste of her is everywhere,
and I kiss her deep,
slipping it back into her mouth
so she tastes her own desire.

Around us the bar hums—
music, glasses, laughter—
but our world is smaller, darker, hotter.
She shivers in my grip,
a quiet orgasm shuddering through her,
and I know she’s mine.

After forty-five minutes,
she leans close,

eyes locked, voice low:
“Let’s go to my apartment.”

The Needy Eyes,

A Needy Voice,

One Needy Slut.

We finish the drinks,
the night already trembling.
Hand in hand,
her lace still in my pocket,
her taste still on my tongue,
I breathe her in—
the scent of sin,
the scent of Montréal,
the scent of what comes next.

Montréal doesn’t know yet.
But the city will learn tonight
how dirty we can be,
how far we’ll go,
how two forbidden bodies
will fuck themselves into memory.

Montréal Ache

Morning Haze, Airport Rush,

 Her scent in my hand,
A duty-free sin bottled,
a promise of what I’ll smear
on her throat later.
Three and a half hours
to the city where she waits,
my cock already aching before
the plane even leaves the ground.

Five days denied,
Our bodies quaking
with unshed orgasms

The plane climbs,
and so does the ache.
You, naked in tangled sheets,
sending me your body in fragments—
soft skin flashing,
hips rolling,
a brat’s smile daring me through the glass.

You ask me to choose your thong,
as if choice makes you innocent.
then you wear it for daddy
and wet it for your daddy
your hand sliding over it,
your moans caught between work and want.
You make me hard.
You make me furious.
You make me need to own you.

I read our old filth,

the words that should have stayed buried,

while new ones arrive,

sharper, wetter, darker.

Every line a reminder

that what we’re building isn’t allowed—

and that’s what makes it unbearable.

In the airplane toilet,
I free myself, cock swollen, throbbing,
and I give her what she begged for—
a picture she’ll hide,
a picture she’ll keep,
a picture that binds her to me.
Thick, veined, dripping.
A sin in pixels.
A promise I will force into her tonight.

By noon I land.
By six, we’ll drink.
The city will glow around us,
but the fire will burn beneath the surface—
two bodies colliding in a hunger
that doesn’t belong to us,
but we’ll take it anyway.

Montréal won’t know the truth—
but we will.
The forbidden is sweeter when it’s ours,
and tonight,
the ache we’ve carried through distance,
through guilt,
through need—
will finally split open.

Montréal ache.
Our ache.

Unforgivable, 

Unstoppable, 

Inevitable.