Early 2001. Rennes. A health congress pulls me from my Morbihan gulf home. I’m 32, 6’2″, lean at 154 lbs, dark hair, gray-green eyes. Vegetarian by choice. Engineer in health tech. The group lunches at a reserved spot. Nothing fits my diet. I wander off.
She does too. Mid-40s, 5’3″, slim curves, brunette, brown eyes behind slim frames. Black tailored suit, knee-skimming skirt. Geneviève. We bond over veggies. Find a cozy bistro. Chat flows: diets, jobs, life. She’s cultured, sharp. Lunch ends. Afternoon sessions drag.
The Privilege
She corners me post-conference. Dinner? Yes. Back at that bistro, 7:30 PM. Same outfit. Wine loosens tongues. She’s 42, divorced two years, two kids—7 and 12. 11 PM closure. Bar hunt fails: too loud, crowded. My hotel bar’s shut. Minibar in my suite? She nods.
Plush suite. City lights gleam through floor-to-ceiling windows. She perches bed-edge, leather armchair cradles me. Chilled champagne pops, bubbles crisp on tongue. Talk turns intimate. Celibate two years. Legs cross, recross. Sheer stockings flash. Lace tops. Pale thigh skin.
I flush. ‘Gorgeous legs. Keep flashing, I’ll sport a raging hard-on.’ She blushes. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Didn’t think at my age I’d arouse a boy 14 years younger.’ Legs part slow. Black panties peek. Full view: stockings, lace, damp crotch.
The Excess
I rise. Kiss tender. She yields, confesses thrill, uncharacteristic heat. Cheeks pink. I lay her back. Lips devour hers. Hands stroke hair, cheeks. Hers rake my back. Fingers trace neck, swell of small breasts. Unbutton blouse. Black lace bra. Palms graze tits, belly. She shivers electric.
Sit her up. Off with blouse, bra. Petite breasts, perfect. Tongue flicks nipples hard. Heart hammers. Breaths ragged, moans escape. Kisses trail stomach. Fingers climb knee, thigh. Linger at stocking lace. Skirt hikes slow. Tease higher. Closer to heat.
First graze on soaked panties arches her back. Loud moan. Rub firmer. Wet silk clings. Mouth descends thighs. Musky arousal hits. Peel panties. She grabs my head, kisses fierce. Rips shirt, belt. Pants down. Cock springs free. ‘Fuck me now.’
