March 6th. Nine-ten PM. Penthouse pinnacle. City lights pulse below, park stirring in twilight hush. Pierre strides in, suit crisp, power etched in his stride. Emma, our five-year-old jewel, wrapped in Egyptian cotton towel. She squeals, ‘Daddy!’ He scoops her, feather-light. I finish her silk pajamas. Laughter echoes off marble floors.
He reads Little Red Riding Hood. Voice velvet. Her eyes droop. I linger at door, brunette waves framing my face. Twenty-six, his forever. Back in vast salon, leather divan sighs under me. Floor-to-ceiling glass: stars mock the elite below. ‘She’s dreaming,’ he whispers. ‘Need the big bad wolf tonight.’ Eyes lock. Heat rises.
The Privilege
Champagne flutes wait, crystal chilled. Bubbles burst on tongue, crisp as his touch. Neck on his thighs, firm through wool trousers. Fingers smooth my brow, cascade through brunette silk. Lips part under his pad. Chin trembles. Second hand claims ear lobe. Pinch. Electric. I arch. He knows. Blouse unbuttons, lace bra yields. Breasts heave, nipples peak.
Turn. Back exposed. Clasp snaps. Hands roam. Tongues duel, fiery. Sofa leather sticks to skin, warm, supple. Privilege pulses: this aerie, our empire, no eyes pry.
He shrinks into cushions. I straddle. Cock strains, thick vein throbbing. Guide it home. Velvet glove swallows steel. Hips grind, slow burn. Breasts bounce. His palms knead ass, slap echoes. Moans build, raw. Climax crashes—his seed floods, mine quakes. Collapse. Fingers trace nipple curve, shoulder silk. Lips smack skin. Immortal here.
The Excess
One-thirty AM. Bedroom sanctuary. Silk sheets cool on fevered flesh. He slips in. Air currents tease. ‘Warm me.’ Gulp kiss. Hand finds cock, rigid again. Straddle. No prelude. Sink onto shaft, slick from before. Ride hard. Palms on pecs, nails dig. Basin rolls, clit grinds base. Rhythms savage. Rale erupts. Cum jets, walls clench. Collapse, front to front. Last kiss seals.
March 7th. Nine AM. He departs, empire calls. Emma to private nanny. Me, lipstick slash, heels click marble. Reins ache, delicious reminder. Bentley purrs, leather scorches thighs—sun-baked. Traffic snarls. Twelve-twenty-five. Red light. Pedestrians amble park edge. Window cracks. Air sweet, spring tease.
Green. Lurch. Truck brakes. Agitation sidewalk. Twelve-twenty-seven. Sting. Wasp? Hornet? Fire lances neck. Veil drops. Black hole yawns. Cloches toll silence. Dolls dance: Emma’s grin, Pierre’s gaze. Night relents—cock deep, spasms shared. Light pierces, fingers graze sun. Silence absolute. Lunch late. Eternal.
