One Time a Year Stand – A Romantic Women’s Erotica Story

An Erotic Story of Modern Romance

An Erotic Story of Modern Romance

With this short story of women’s erotica, their lives keep them apart but their reunion is worth waiting for. Follow Annette as she reunites with her lover and unleash her inner romantic.

Annette sat at the bar with a calla lily in her hair. Her hair was longer than he would remember it from a year ago, but she smiled as she tucked stray strands behind her ear and her hair brushed her bare shoulder.

She looked around impatiently. Her heart raced and she touched her chest where she felt the pounding there. She swallowed air, not even thinking about imbibing the pretty beverage in front of her with the matching flower.

The bar was called Callas, and the owners made sure there was always an abundance.

She twisted the hair at the nape of her neck, and stirred her drink. Quentin would arrive at any minute. Annette imagined him pulling at his tie, and looking domestic with her. They had an easy way about them for lovers, who only saw each other once a year.

They met at this very bar, about eight years ago. Their chemistry was undeniable, and she knew that she was not going to be able to let him go that night. Maybe she had enough drinks in her, but when she told him that she was an American girl in Paris for a few days and she wanted him there was no coyness between them after that.

Quentin took her to his apartment upstairs, and she was on fire. She had had a calla lily in her hair that night too, pulled right from her cocktail. She was exhausted from all of the traveling she had done, and the bar near her hotel seemed as good a place as any to unwind. Looking up now at Jake and Paloma the owners, they smiled at her because they remembered her the from year to year and Quentin lived upstairs so he was a regular. They had not been surprised to see them reunited the following year, and now they expected the lovers every year.

Annette had been very demonstrative about her desire that night: so drunk on Paris, Jake and Paloma’s signature cocktail a devilish spin on Le Dernier Mot—The Last Word with yellow and green chartreuse in it and brandied cherries on the bottom—and Quentin himself who let his fingers trickle under her dress. Her calla lily was in his other hand, as his fingers under her skirt caressed her thigh.

She was so turned on by that alone.

Upstairs, the first night in his apartment, he walked behind her and asked if she wanted a massage. Annette nodded,  and he kissed the nape of her neck which was bare at that time because her hair was shorter when they met.

The massage that he performed took her for a surprise, Quentin draped her legs over his, and he cupped her vulva with soft suction. She looked at him with wide eyes because she was not expecting that—it would be the precursor to all of their interludes to follow.

He was never what she would expect.

Annette pushed into his hand, as he held her pulsing sex. The inside of his palm grazed her inner bits, which were wet and she looked at him unflinchingly as he just caressed her for what seemed like forever. He took his time like he had all day to do that to her. He did not rush anything. Even when he applied lube, a delicious scented lube that she hoped tasted as good as it smelled in case he wanted to go down on her later.

He would want to.

He tugged at her clitoris softly, then rubbed it in a precious circle until she was afraid that she would come, but she did not want to come like that. She wanted to come when he was inside her, because she liked the feeling of coming when she was full inside.

From gently tugging her clit, he slipped a few fingers in her—one at a time until she was pretty full and still she would not let go because she needed more to take her over the edge.

When he ate her out, he was not greedy. He savored her, Annette was on the edge of the couch and she could have come at any point but she wanted to play a game with herself and wait until she could not wait anymore.

Quentin was making it very hard, and she did not even have a penis.

Annette squirmed on the stool at the bar presently. She felt the same level of desire for him now with her longer hair sitting at the bar waiting for him in Paris, as she had that first time she met him. She would not be bound by rules, she had wanted him that first night and she had him.

And she kept having him because she still wanted him.

On that first night, she was all about pleasure. All about the beautiful view of Paris at night that she could see over his shoulder when her eyes were not closed with the periphery of desire. His apartment was in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, which she had screamed about when she saw it for the first time in the taxi that she took to her hotel. But over Quentin’s shoulder was another level.

He bestowed between her legs the kisses her had lavished on her mouth. Annette swooned, almost slipping off of the loveseat. But Quentin held her butt, and made sure she did not slide. That was the moment she believed in him.

Believed he would not let her fall, even though she did in other ways.


She kissed his temple when she gained her balance, and he kissed her one final time on her clitoris. The taste of herself on her own lips was sweet, when he kissed her upper mouth again. He held her face, and she placed her hands over his.

She was lifted from her reverie, when he walked into the bar. He cupped her face with his hands, putting her hands over his Annette smiled and let his hand move from her cheek, down to her other cheek as he waved at Jake and Paloma who she did not have to look at to know they smiling after them.

Transported back to his apartment as she was once a year, Annette fell hurriedly into bed with Quentin. Lying on her stomach—their favorite position—her butt up in the air which he caressed and kissed. He was slow about entering her which she liked, but she wanted him inside her. Yet when he was close to entering her, she flipped onto her back. He smiled as she looked up at him.

“I missed you,” she said, even though they had been texting all day and she knew every move he was making throughout.

Tenderly, he picked up her calla lily that had fallen out of her hair and said,

“Your flower.” or “You are a flower.” His accent made it difficult to determine.

He fell to her side, and she purred into his chest.

They rained kisses all over each other—each kiss amping up her desire. She wanted him to fill her, but she wanted to postpone it too because it was sweet torture.

Wanting it and waiting for it.

When they could wait no longer, and she was on her stomach again he slipped inside her. Annette reached behind her to grab his wrist.

“Wait, I just want to savor you a bit right here.” She moaned.

Quentin caressed her butt, but he did not move even a bit more. Annette tightened around him. Her body enjoyed the incomplete fullness in that sweet lower part of her.

“More,” she said sweetly not as a demand, but as a plea.

He gave her more, filled her the way she loved him touching all her places to drive her crazy. He knew how to reach her G-spot. They had gone on a hunt for it a few years ago, because she said she could not find it herself. Now she could, and he could with his fingers or penis.

In the mirror, she saw an obscured view of them making love and it stimulated her on the same level as her G-spot did.

They collapsed onto the mattress. Annette pulled the smashed calla lily from her shoulder, looked up at Quentin as he kissed her.

She left him a bouquet of calla lilies before she left. And for the first few weeks when she was back in New York, she would see them in the background when he Face Timed her. He sent her a bouquet so she could reciprocate.

Their only tactile until next year.

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