Hey, foxy friends.

This year, you'll come with us to every European country, where we explore the sexual adventures of each nation and one of its regions.

Porto Orchugal.

I woke late the morning, sun already bearing down, too hot for my liking.

It was an ideal.

I'd planned a trip to the market, but there was no changing the weather.

The only solution was to make peace with it, wear something light and move on.

For the past five years, I'd worked as an accountant.

My job gave me stability and income, but it gave me no joy.

People say you can't live in Portugal without passion, and I believe them.

That's why I searched for it elsewhere.

In food, in the ritual of cooking, whenever life felt dull or colorless, I would lose myself in a new recipe, recreate a favorite dish.

It wasn't just about making dinner.

It was a ceremony.

First, I sourced the best ingredients, even if it meant crossing the city.

Then I choose the perfect wine, cue up some music, and lose myself in the process.

Only when the meal was plated imperfect, did I feel a whole again.

Today was meant for one of my favorite meals, and nothing, not even the oppressive heat, was going to stop me.

I wore a white skirt and a pale green shirt, topped off with a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses to shield my eyes from the sun.

Even with them, I could feel the burn on my skin each time I stepped out of the shade.

Everyone on the street moved slowly, as if wading through honey.

I wasn't any better.

I could already feel sweat sliding down my back, and I craved the cold of a stone's interior.

My first stop was a shop on the far side of the city, famous for its butter.

They wrapped chase an ice to keep it from melting.

I flirted with the shopkeeper, hoping for a discount.

I always got one.

I loved this part of the city, the history, the family run shops, the feeling of having slipped into a different century just by standing on those narrow, cobbled streets.

Next, I went to the market.

I picked up fruit and spices, saving the fish my main ingredient for last I pause when I reached the familiar seafood stall, remembering how awkward it had been last time.

But there was no avoiding it.

Vincent had the freshest fist in the entire market.

I walked into a small shop, separated from the others, clean and bright, with tanks of live fish swimming in clear water.

It didn't have the usual pungent smell of seafood, and Vincent stood behind the counter with that smile I'd come to know too well.

The moment he saw me, it widened.

I blush and fumble for words.

I shouldn't have walked past.

I didn't, and now I would pay for it.

He didn't move toward me, giving me space, which I appreciated, but he watched me.

Vincent was my age, with dark hair and even darker eyes.

Even when I wasn't looking at him, I could feel his gaze.

Eventually I broke the silence and asked him about the fish I wanted.

Vinstant, ever cheek heath, stepped out from behind the counter and approached.

He asked if I was here to buy fish for my special services.

My cheeks flushed.

I turned toward him, trying to compose myself.

There was no shame in his eyes, only mischief and desire.

He thought I wanted more, but he was wrong.

I told him clearly I was only here for fish.

He didn't seem convinced.

He reached out his fingers, brushing my back.

My shirt was thin, too thin.

I felt his touch like it was skin to skin.

I turned again and smile, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I'd been in the back room of a shop more times than I cared to admit.

Each time, I promised myself it was the last.

It never was.

He leaned and again, his breath warm on my ear, and whispered that I should follow him to the back, that I wouldn't regret it.

I hesitated, thinking of all my internal promises, then dismissed it.

Who was I kidding?

I wanted it.

My body made that clear.

The heat between my legs was more urgent than any food could fix.

I nodded, vincent lit up.

He quickly locked the front door, took my hand and pulled me into the back.

There wasn't much space, but there was enough.

He pressed me against the wall and kissed me.

I kissed him back.

Our tongues met, our lips crashed.

His hands roamed my body, squeezing, caressing, making me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

I lifted one foot onto a nears by stool, spreading my legs slightly.

He understood the message.

Still kissing me, he ran his hand along my leg, slowly drawing it up to my hip.

His touch was rough, his hands calloused from work, and I loved the contrast on my skin.

He reached my legs, fingers resting against my panties.

I instinctively pushed forward, silently pleading.

He smiled, pleased with my eagerness.

His fingers slipped under the fabric, finding my soaked slit.

I moaned my hips, grinning against him.

He teased my clip with maddening precision, drawing soft whimpers from my throat.

I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to stay quiet.

He chuckled and said that at this rate, I might become his best customer.

I should have slapped him, but I couldn't.

I was too lost in the heat building inside me, the pleasure that clouded every thought.

I craved more.

I needed his fingers around me, and I needed his cock inside of me.

I turned around, presenting myself to him.

He didn't hesitate.

He lifted my skirt, pulled my painties down, and undressed just enough.

To slip on a condom.

I looked over my shoulder watching him.

He looked as thrilled as I felt.

I arched my back, offering myself.

He pushed inside me in one smooth motion, and a deep moan escaped my lips.

His cock filled me completely, stretching me in all the right ways.

The teasing from before was nothing compared to this.

His hands gripped my hips as he thrust hard and deep.

My moans grew louder.

He held me close, kissing my neck, careful not to leave a mark.

He knew the rules which eth thrust.

I felt tension coil tighter.

I kneeded it.

I needed this release.

It had been come part of my ritual, part of the cycle of my life, my cooking, my pleasure, I cried out as orgasm hit legs, trembling, vision blurred.

I turned my head to see Vincent, flushed and satisfied.

He looked like he was about to speak, but I beat him to it.

I still need the fish, I said, breathless.

He laughed, nodded, and we straightened ourselves, clothes back in place.

We returned to the front of the shop.

After I chose my fish, I invited him to dinner.

He agreed, smiling in that familiar way.

Maybe it was time to start a new tradition.

Thanks for listening, Foxy Friends.

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