Page 40 of Oyster

She grinned, wide and lazy. “Yeah, I know. To be honest, I don’t know what to do with most of it. It’s not like I grew up dipping in and out of girlfriend’s bedrooms, practising on each other. It’s mostly a result of watching YouTube videos late at night, then getting carried away with my credit card.”

“Is that after you’ve bought the designer dresses for cutting up or before?”

She hugged her knees. “I like pretty things—don’t judge me!”

I unbuttoned my jeans, also for the second time that evening. “Zoë could show you some makeup tips; she’s amazing. We’re always telling her she should do some of those online tutorials herself.”

Divesting myself of my trousers, I turned to her, in nothing but my boxers, still sitting low on my hips from my previous undressing. Whereupon she fucking clamped a hand over her mouth and laughed her socks off. Not an effect I was used to having on the ladies. I didn’t work out, but I hadsomemuscle covering my long, lean bones. I had a manual job. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“I get it now!” she snorted. “The octopus! Seven legs.”

Florian. I cursed him. The most annoying, infuriating, yet trustworthy human on the planet. Diving on top of Éti, I straddled her hips, making her shriek even harder. Holding both her wrists, I tugged them up above her head, even if she was wriggling about like a worm. Bloody hell, she was strong, I think she let me win in the end, or was giggling too much to resist.

“I don’t think you and he need to spend any more time together. Double trouble.”

I dropped wet kisses into her laughing mouth before blowing a raspberry on her neck.

“Let me see it again.” Pushing up, she rolled me off her. “I need to count these legs.”

Now I was being straddled. Yes, for sure she’d let me win. Note to self: heavier lifting at work. Bulk myself up.

Sitting back on her haunches, hardly short of breath after our tussle while I was panting like a run-down hare, she traced the wave tattoo. Her sharp brows knitted together, memorising the shape of it. Shavings of golden light from a lamp behind shimmered through her curls, like she’d run through a shower of stars. I could stare up at her the whole night.

“I’m falling in love with you, too,” I whispered. “Just so you know.”

Unthreateningly as possible, I rested my palms on each of her pyjama-clad lower thighs. Mon dieu, how I longed to touch her properly. To pleasure her, like she had pleasured me. “Is this okay?”

With the hint of a smile, her eyes flicked to them, and she nodded. Leaving the wave tattoo, her fingertips travelled lower, halting above my hip.

“Here’s one octopus leg.” Her voice was soft and loving. “And these must be numbers two and three.”

She leaned forward to brush her lips against the tip of each ridiculous tentacle. The design, done years ago, rose from the centre of my groin, chaotic, overblown, and a source of endless amusement for the likes of Florian. The epitome of youthful folly and the only one of my tattoos I regretted.

Numbers four and five spiralled up from the waistband of my boxers, each garish orangey-blue tentacle ending on my hip bones. Éti’s lips lingered on them, her hair falling in a featherlight cascade across my belly.

Numbers five, six, and seven curled down from my groin and peeked out from each of my outer thighs. Also recipients of her tongue’s lavish attention.

Leaving leg number eight. Thicker than the others and leaking through the fabric of my boxers as she shuffled back to graze her mouth along its length. With a mischievous peek upwards, she eased down my underwear. An exploratory kiss landed on my tip, accompanied by a hum of pleasure.

“Ça alors, Nico. Your cock is even nicer this close.”

Another experimental kiss, this one halfway down my length. Holding me firmly in one fist, she contemplated my erection, working out how best to tackle it. How to be the best at sucking cock, to add it to her list of accomplishments. I could have told her that even a bad blow job was still better than, say, the most beautiful sunset at the end of a perfect summer’s day, or the sound of spring water burbling down a mountainside. But then she licked up one side, from the very base to my swollen head, and swirled her tongue in my slit. She darted a glance at me from under her lashes, and every sunset ever risen nestled in the pit of my belly, along with every laughing stream, every cute kitten, and every first sip of fucking beer after a long day humping oyster pouches. In a word, Éti with her lips around my cock was the most beautiful sight and sensation in the whole fucking universe.

Naturally, being Éti, her mouth then abandoned my cock. She threw me a bashful grin, her lips glossy and swollen. “Would you mind closing your eyes and thinking about someone who does this better?”

“I’d be staring at nothing but a blank space, my sweet.”

Smirking, she swapped hands, because, yeah, ambidextrous, and bent to her task once more. “You have a never-ending well of smooth lines, Nico, you know that?”

Before I had chance to reply, she encased my dick in a heavenly wet warmth. A swelling symphony of sensations coursed through my bloodstream as, with an achingly soft touch, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked. I whimpered. Each backwards glide on sensitive flesh, each exquisite dip of her tongue into my slit, and each warm exhale feathering across my groin brought with it a fresh flood of heat, an incendiary mix of innocence and determination.

My rush of orgasm caught us both by surprise.

“Éti, you might want to… Éti, sweet, I’m… “

In a surge of pleasure, the energy left my body, shooting out my dick, taking my brain and ability to communicate with it. With no time to duck, some she swallowed, coughing and retching. The rest hit her square in the face, glazing it like a donut. Her spluttering laughter broke through my post-orgasm whiteout.

“I’ve got octopus ink in my eye. Beurk."

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