I slipped into Maître Aristide Lamprois’s sanctum, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me. His notary office screamed old-world power: polished mahogany desk gleaming under chandelier light, leather armchair creaking under his frame, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the bustling street below. Velvet curtains muffled the outer world’s gossip—Thérèse’s bile, Glandu’s snarls about my boss’s tie-less rebellion. Here, exclusivity reigned. Aristide, nearly forty, judo-honed body taut in his white shirt, eyes devouring me. His Huguette. Twenty-three, untouched until him, curves like Jane Fonda’s fever dream. I locked the door. He lunged. Lips crashed. Tongue invaded. ‘I hardened the moment I saw you,’ he growled. Fingers tugged my blouse. Heart raced. This elite lair, our forbidden playground.
He pinned me against the desk’s edge, cool wood biting my ass through thin skirt. ‘Not fully naked,’ I whispered, cheeks burning. But his hands ignored. Blouse ripped open. Chambray and gray fabric parted. Black bra shoved up. Heavy tits spilled free, nipples thickening in cool air. Skirt hiked. Cotton panties—black, simple—yanked down thighs. Bare pussy exposed, dark curls matted with arousal. His strong palms cupped my ass, lifting. Back slammed desk. Legs splayed. I bit my fist. Tongue assaulted first. Lapped my bush, stiff against soft hairs. Clit throbbed, hood peeled back. ‘Oh Ari…’ Waves built. Finger probed my tight rear. Tongue lashed swollen nub. I shattered. Juices flooded his mouth. Hips bucked. Muffled screams. Orgasm ripped raw.
The Privilege
Still quivering, I dropped between his thighs. Zipper down. Cock sprang—thickest I’d known. Heavy shaft, veined lance. Three dicks in life; his the prize. Kneeling on Persian rug, tits swaying, I stroked. Pearl of pre-cum beaded. ‘Your tits on my cock,’ he commanded. Brows arched. New game. Brows natural, untouched by fashion folly. I pressed globes around him. Soft flesh enveloped steel. Nipples grazed shaft. Leaned in. Lips swallowed glans. Sucked deep. Tits milked. He groaned. ‘Huguette…’ I frothed saliva down length. Hand between legs now. Fingers plunged sopping slit. ‘I’m cumming again…’ Mouth full, words slurred. His palms crushed tits tighter. Cock pulsed. I pulled back. Thick ropes erupted. Hot cum splattered cleavage. Valley glazed white. I slid tits up-down, milking last drops. Pussy clenched empty. Bliss.
Desk wiped clean. I freshened in his private bath—marble sinks, gold taps. Blouse buttoned over bare tits. Skirt smoothed over naked ass, no panties. Sat on his lap, leather warm against skin. ‘Give them back,’ I begged. ‘No. Bare all day.’ Thrill sparked. Pussy wept anew. Gossip swirled outside: his no-tie heresy, my ‘Barbarella’ strut. But here, discretion ruled. Walls of privilege guarded our secret. ‘Stop the games,’ I pleaded. ‘Wear the tie. Parade it.’ He smirked. Nodded. Copper plaque gleamed: Maître Aristide Lamprois, Notaire. Power’s hush. Kiss sealed deal. I rose, thighs slick. Afternoon promised more—tits bared again. Elite lust, perfectly veiled.
