I crack an eye in our lavish suite at Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Bay views shimmer through floor-to-ceiling glass. Two king beds dominate, silk sheets cool against skin. Me, Simon, nestled with Clotilde—her fellatio skills fresh from last night. Adjacent bed: Marie and Julie, my running team. Three stunners, one cock. 6:15 AM. Perfect timing. Breakfast three hours pre-10:30 start. No rush.
I grab my phone. Clotilde stirs. Her hand snakes down. Grips my morning wood. ‘Fuck, girls, he’s hard!’ Marie snaps back: ‘Clotilde, no! We race soon!’ Chaos erupts. They bolt for the bathroom. Showers hiss. I wait. Wise boss move.
The Privilege
Twenty minutes later, they’re primed. Julie: ‘Simon, hurry for breakfast.’ I shower fast. But privacy? Zero. They parade in. Critique freely. ‘Not huge.’ ‘Sporty build.’ ‘Balding but hairy.’ I smirk. Dry off. Dress. ‘Table for four downstairs. Save my seat, or I run 2km/h slower. 1:15 finish.’
Restaurant gleams—marble floors, ocean breeze. Balanced brekkie: oats, fruit, eggs. Fuel without bloat. We linger. Check out. Race kits on. Girls modest. Mystery below: thong? Bare? Fuel for later miles. Gentleman me eyes Decathlon racks in mind. Never stalls.
Stadium pulses. Two 5km loops. Diving boards near start. Finish straight classic. Hydration mid-race inside. Sas sorted. Julie eyes 50-min pack. Clotilde, Marie aim 55. Drag me in. ‘Follow our asses,’ I joke. ‘But no waiting. I drive.’
Warm-up trot. Light. Conserve. Puces on laces. Gun cracks. Km1 chaos: dodging elbows, curbs. Clear by km2. Pace solid. App beeps 6:10 first split. Clotilde glances: ‘Good, boss?’ Thumbs up. Save breath.
Mid-race stadium. Water sip. Head cool if hot. Average under 6min/km. Km5-8 grind. Mental war. ‘Why run?’ Eyes lock fesses. 70% commando odds—my sample. Legs burn. Good pain. Visualize finish. Catch them. Breathe steady. No redline.
Km8: Roll. Fantasies flare. Firm cheeks bounce. Marie checks: ‘Maxed but good.’ Gap widens. They surge. Sprint soul-search: masochism? No—proof alive. Track welcomes. Moist turf soothes joints. Names flash: sub-58. Cross alive. Hugs slick with sweat. Pure team bliss.
The Excess
Chocobar. Bananas. Laughs. Sun warms. Wind whispers. Wait 15 for showers—avert post-sweat drip. Girls beam: ‘Great time, Simon!’ Stroll to car. Marie: ‘Change where?’ Julie: ‘Lockers yonder. Open. Spacious. Simon, join?’
Lockers: renovated luxe. Vasistas glow. Benches gleam. Julie scouts: ‘Showers! Hot water!’ Steam rises. She strips. Nude dash. Marie echoes: ‘Simon, in!’ Stats: Marie bare. Julie string. Clotilde shorty. Sample grows.
Twelve heads. Soap dispensers flow. They lather free. I join bare. Smiles. ‘Intimidated?’ ‘Nah. Old nudist beaches—de-sexed equality.’ Marie grins: ‘We like you. Or you’d be out. No boss here. Shut up. Think cock.’ Grabs flaccid shaft. Warm grip. Strokes firm.
‘He’s hardening, girls. Clotilde, guard door. Watch too—nice tits, ass. Julie, balls. Now jerk.’ Julie warms. Marie frees: ‘Your turn, Julie.’ I roam Marie’s firm 40+ tits. Pinch nipples. Finger slick pussy. ‘Cum soon. Warn.’
‘Coming, Marie.’ She kneels. Sucks deep. Pulses hit. She pulls: ‘Julie, finish.’ Guides head. Julie swallows last drops. ‘All sucked Simon. All swallowed. Seal of Simon’s Sperme Secret. Four S’s.’
Out silent. Assume. No regrets. Race talk only. Drive home buzzing. Next: half-marathon. Running bonds.
