Tuesday, 8 PM sharp. Rotonde, by the Tourist Office. She stands there in a beige blazer, glances darting. Nervous. It fuels my edge. I stride up. ‘Good evening, Madame Carrielle?’ ‘Maxime?’ Envelope in her hand—payment sealed. ‘Let’s go. Cours Sextius.’
We chat en route. Real estate queen in Aix. Successful, single, mid-forties. Regular client. Fills the void. Petite brunette. Classic curves, poised class. No bombshell, but money sharpens allure.
The Privilege
Gallery hums with pretension. My art history scraps suffice—vague nods, clever deflections. Aix’s old money drips from ochre facades. Cours Mirabeau beckons beyond. Pigeons shit on perfection. She tires quick. ‘Now, Bastide du Cours.’ I follow. Silent command.
Bastide glows. Velvet banquettes cradle us. Champagne flute chills my palm—crisp bubbles burst, pear and brioche notes. Foie gras melts, truffle shavings tease. She probes; I dodge with smirks. Myth intact. Portions tiny, prices obscene. Service whispers luxury. Cours Mirabeau twinkles outside, plane trees shadow-dancing.
‘Negre-Coste’s steps away.’ ‘As you wish.’ Her ‘I want’ lingers—double entendre. Keys ready. Pro.
Suite envelops. Heavy silk drapes frame Aix’s lit veins. Bed vast, linens crisp as fresh bills. TV murmurs mute. She: ‘Shower.’ I obey. Steam clears my head. She bolts in after.
Back, towel-clad. Kiss soft. Tongue probes. To bed. Breath ragged—her nerves crack. Neck kisses. Hand on breast—firm, average yield. Eyes lock, deep stare. Downward trail. Lips tease nipples. Gentle bores her.
The Excess
Grip hard. Suck fierce. She arches. Groans low. Wet already—flooding. Clit touch: jolt. ‘Finger me.’ Two plunge easy, slick butter. She grabs, rams deeper. Challenge met—three, brutal thrusts. Legs sky-high. Exposed. Cock throbs.
Condom on. Hips seize. Full thrust. ‘Fuck, hung like a stallion! Pound me!’ Fury unleashed. Classic fades; slut emerges. ‘My bitch, cum-dump whore.’ Irony grins—gigolo calls client puta.
Pull out. Eyes beg. Flip doggy. Re-enter savage. Hair yank. Ass slap—red blooms on pale. She drops head. Croup offered. Spread cheeks; watch cock vanish. Her fingers frenzy clit.
Climax builds. She quakes first—I flood after. Collapse. Condom tossed.
She crawls, sucks remnants tender. Salt-sweet mix. Bed claims us. Silk sheets cool sweat. Windows seal secrets—glass walls guard elite sins. Dawn nears. Myth preserved. She dresses. Envelope richer. Aix sleeps. Our night, eternal whisper.
