Autumn morning chill bites at 10 degrees. I bundle my three kids for school drop-off. At the lotissement exit, neighbor waves frantically. Her sleek new car won’t start. ‘Problem injection,’ dashboard blinks. Her two girls cram in back with mine. Chaos ensues, but I oblige. Drop kids at maternelle and primaire. Return to troubleshoot. Electronics glitch, I guess. Offer ride to her work. ‘Sandrine,’ she says. ‘Jean-Louis.’ We chat. She insures lives nearby my firm. Skirt flares black trapezoid, turquoise top hugs 90C tits. Knees bare, calves sheen in nylons. Garter flash? Porte-jarretelles suspected. But that ass—46-inch glory, disproportionate to her fine features. Curves I crave. String lace black haunts my thoughts. She owns it, no shame.
Rendezvous at noon? Medical, rue Gustave Flaubert 5. Confirm via Outlook. Drop her at agency. Mail seals it. Google reveals: piercing shop, intimate specialists. Cock stirs. Pick her at 12:15. She slides in. Skirt hikes—garter clip confirmed on thigh-highs. Tanga dreams harden me. Divorce talk flows. Hubby fled for young thing. ‘Miss real cock over plastic,’ she quips. Bold. Park near. She darts to Songes de Cuir—sex shop at 7. Emerges with tiny bag. Enters 5. I fire up laptop, stream ‘Mode’ XXX. Nurses with dildos, cunnilingus in salon. Time flies.
The Privilege
13:10, she returns. ‘Piercing on intimate lips,’ she admits. ‘See?’ Skirt up. Black lace-split tanga frames shaved pussy. Metal ball gleams on labia. Fresh. ‘Hurts? Enhances cunni.’ Suggest to wife Chrystelle. ‘Need tongues now,’ she hints. Invite to simple resto. Lunch banal: weather, jobs. Coffee at her agency? ‘Amateur,’ I say. Cosy haven: leather armchairs supple under palms, dim lights filter venetian blinds, soft music hums. Brew strong, suave shots. Phone rings—Chrystelle. Explain saga. Sandrine approaches, unzips me. Cock springs free. Her mouth engulfs. Tongue swirls glans. ‘Sublime,’ I gasp to wife. ‘Better than mine?’ ‘Different.’ Wife laughs, urges details later. Hang up. Explain open marriage. She sucks fiercer, balls cupped—freshly shaved.
The Excess
Agency phone shrills. Her mom. Sandrine chats faith, masses. I kneel. Thighs part. Garter straps taut, tanga damp. Fingers trace. Pussy lips slick, piercing cool. She squirms. ‘Double call,’ she ends abruptly. Tanga off. Top shed, skirt follows. Nylons, garters, heels with crystal straps. Ass spills over leather. ‘No pussy—use other holes.’ Legs on shoulders. Tongue rims anus. She moans. ‘Wet it from cunt.’ Dip fingers in juices, probe ring. Two, then three knuckles deep. Tits pinched. Floorward, 69. Her throat milks me. Switch: me supine, her reverse cowgirl. Maori tattoo arches over cheeks. Tight ring resists average girth. ‘Force it.’ She impales. Velvet vice grips. Slow thrust builds fire. Ass cheeks slap.
Door creaks. Maria, Portuguese cleaner, 50s robust. Eyes widen on sodomy tableau. ‘Seen worse in sex shops. Carry on. No cum on carpet!’ Toilets claim her. Mood dips. She revives with mouth, then doggy. ‘Make me bark.’ I pound. She climaxes, quivering. Mine fades. Photo her pierced slit for Chrystelle. Dress amid leather scent. Secret sealed in plush confines.
