The first Saturday of the month is sacred. Hélène, my partner, spends her afternoon with the girls. Last Saturday followed suit. She warned me she’d be at Christine’s penthouse, and I’d pick her up around seven. Rain lashed the city skyline. Nothing on TV. No mates for drinks. I decided to fetch her early, plan a night out. Arrived at Christine’s soaring penthouse before six. The doorman nodded me up. Elevator hummed to the top floor, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Christine opened the door, her kiss warm but eyes flickering. ‘Hélène, Bernard’s here,’ she called. I pushed into the vast living room. Plush Italian leather sofas. Crystal chandelier casting diamonds on marble floors. Hélène and Françoise there, Françoise scrambling to hide lacy treasures spilling from bags. Sexy bras, thongs, garters, crotchless panties, open stockings. My curiosity ignited. ‘Not expecting you so soon,’ Hélène said. ‘Wanted to surprise you all. Looks like I’m interrupting.’ ‘Tupperware party for lingerie,’ Christine explained. ‘Girl stuff.’ I grinned. ‘Let me judge your taste.’ They refused. I dove in anyway, fingers brushing satin and lace. ‘Punishment: try it all on for me.’ Françoise scoffed. Christine, knowing my games, proposed: ‘Bernard guesses who bought what. Wrong? He strips. Right? She does.’ Hélène sealed it. Champagne flowed—Dom Pérignon, bubbles crisp on my tongue. I spread the haul on the ebony table. Black latex bra, for full D-cups: Christine’s. She peeled off her silk blouse slow, nipples hardening under nude lace. We toasted, glasses chiming. Latex thong next—hers too. Off came her leather jeans. Red-black open bra? Françoise’s. She shed her mohair sweater, balconette cups lifting perfect tits. Matching thong: hers. Skirt dropped, leaving sheer black stockings hugging thighs. Guêpière? Hélène’s, I thought. Wrong. Off my polo. Françoise’s actually. Her bra next, toasting first. Black fringed bra with nipple cutouts: Hélène. Blouse gone. Lace thong? Not hers—pants off, my bulge tight in boxers. Christine’s. Her bra followed, heavy breasts spilling free. Garters tricky. One to Françoise? Wrong. Boxers gone, cock springing hard. I stripped slow, teasing them. One each for Hélène and Christine. Panties dropped—Christine bare below, Hélène still bra’d. Minimal leather push-up bra? Hélène? No. Christine? No. Françoise’s. They yanked Hélène’s panties, her pussy exposed. All naked now. Laughter echoed off glass walls, bodies glowing in sunset hues. Champagne loosened us.
Françoise sent Christine for more bubbly. ‘Put on porn for him.’ Big screen flickered with moans. They plotted my doom. Back with vintage fizz. Toasts. ‘You’re ours,’ Françoise declared. Hélène blindfolded me, silk scarf cool. Christine bound wrists—expert knots, velvet ropes soft yet firm. Kneeled before a cashmere cushion by the roaring gas fireplace. Champagne flute to my lips. Bent forward, ass high. Hands roamed cheeks, kneading firm. Legs spread wide. Cold lube trickled down crack, over anus, balls. Fingers scooped it, circled my hole. One slipped in, slick. Two. Probing deep. Not bad. Three stretched me, prostate throbbing. Nipples pinched hard against cushion—sharp sting. Fingers withdrew. Something blunt, lubed, pressed. ‘No!’ ‘It’s me, darling,’ Hélène purred. ‘Strap-on from our haul. You fuck my rosebud—my turn.’ She thrust in, filling me. Prostate hammered. Bliss. Someone dipped my raging cock in champagne, fizz tingling. Drank greedily. Hélène pounded harder. ‘Like my revenge on your thick cock?’ I exploded, cum jetting into the flute. Screams shook the penthouse. They applauded. Exhausted, ass plugged.
The Privilege
Blindfold off. Hélène unstrapped, sipped my seed-laced champagne. Kissed me deep, sharing salty tang. ‘I love you. We’ll do it again.’ Laughter returned. Naked bodies lounged on leather, city twinkling beyond discreet glass walls. Secrets safe in this elite aerie. Champagne refilled. Touches lingered. Night promised more.
