Saturday morning in our Seine-view penthouse. Silk sheets cling to my skin after a restless night. Pierre’s absence aches, a carnal void no solo play fills. I crave his touch. Time to shop: steak tartare, Bordeaux breathing on the marble counter, oozing Camembert, vanilla ice cream for his ritual drown in hot chocolate and Chantilly.
Supermarket detour yields lace temptation. Minimalist panties, garter belt, bra pushing my breasts skyward. Back home, I transform. Mini-skirt hugs my long, toned legs—my pride. Black stockings, towering boots’ leather supple against calves. Sheer silk blouse with jabot, flesh-toned push-up. Trench coat draped open. Accessories gleam: chunky necklace, bangles clinking, dangling earrings, oversized sunglasses. Hair tousled, perfume intoxicating. Mirror verdict: vamp, not whore. Garce with pedigree.
The Privilege
Roissy airport, Terminal 2 arrivals. VIP lane whispers exclusivity. SMS fires: ‘Waiting in arrivals. No panties. Pussy burning for you.’ I slip to the restroom, peel off lace, stuff it in my bag. Cool air teases my exposed slit. Trench shields, but escalator breeze flirts dangerously.
He emerges, valise trailing. Tall, commanding, eyes lock. Heart races. I leap, body molding to his. Tongues clash, fire ignites low. His hardening cock presses my mound. Onlookers gawk—jealous, shocked. Fuck them. He’s mine.
Parking garage. Dim lights, concrete echoing heels. He loads the trunk. Spins, grips waist, kisses fierce. Hand hikes skirt, palms bare ass, discovers garters. ‘Ideal woman: beautiful, smart, loving, scorching.’ I melt.
‘Fuck you here, now.’ Urgency throbs. Back slams hood’s cool metal. Skirt up, his cock springs free—thick, veined. One thrust impales. I cry out, legs hook his back, pulling deeper. Four strokes, orgasm rips—fulgurant, raw.
Autoroute home. Semen stains skirt, pussy leaks. Spleen hits. ‘This passion terrifies. Too intense.’ He laughs. ‘You women never satisfied.’ Silence. Past contrasts: weekly duty sex starved him. Now, endless.
The Excess
Penthouse door swings. Trench drops. He strips skirt, shoves me into leather armchair—legs splayed on armrests. Gartered, booted slut offered. But he kneels. ‘Eyes closed.’ Pssht—Chantilly floods my folds, nozzle dips inside.
‘That pussy’s my favorite dish.’ Tongue devours: laps cream, invades vagina, sucks lips, swirls clit. I grip his head, grind. Vertigo builds. Armchair soaks in my juices and cream.
Table next. Cloth swept, I sprawl edge, boots off. Blouse unbuttoned, bra stays. Legs hoisted, split wide. He watches cock breach, cream-slick walls gripping. Legs clamped, feet on shoulders—anvil deep. Slow withdraw, violent plunge. I grip edge, body pistons. Vagina screams pleasure, no clit needed.
Deeper waves build—vaginal, profound. Truck-crash force, not F1 spark. I beg: ‘Don’t stop. Hold back.’ Tension peaks, vision blurs. Final thrust detonates. I shatter, milking him. He floods. Near blackout, fused.
‘Never like that. Pure vaginal nirvana.’ He suggests geisha balls. News: promotion, but China trip. Spleen lifts. ‘Stroke me.’ Mouth engulfs, reviving him. Luxury lingers: Bordeaux awaits, Seine twinkles beyond glass walls. Our secret, velvet-sealed.
