After a lavish breakfast in our Venetian palace suite, linen crisp against skin, fresh cornetti crumbling sweet on the tongue, lagoon sparkling beyond arched windows. Mathilde devours with gusto, eyes bright. I suggest Murano. Vaporetto slices water, wind whipping her dark hair. Island docks swarm touts, but we slip into quiet alleys. Cobblestones underfoot, canals mirror faded facades. Houses restored in bold ochre, viridian shutters closed tight. Vine trellises drip shade. Nets piled high, authentic life pulses away from tourist hordes.
Hand in hand, her palm warm, soft. She halts every ten paces, gasps at a sunlit canal glimpse, snaps photos. Selfies hourly, our faces close—no posting online, I warn. We reach a shadowed square under ancient arcades. Artisan shops hum. Giuseppe’s dusty vitrines gleam with crystalline baubles, colors alive. He emerges, greets us. Explains hand-blown mastery. Mathilde marvels at delicacy. He leads to the furnace room. Heat slams like a fist. Massive maw glows orange-red, radiating fever.
The Privilege
Mia works there. Bare arms slick with sweat, tank top slashed low. Breasts spill, brown nipples peek through damp fabric. Blonde strand sticks to her cheek. She gathers molten glass on iron pipe, swings it graceful. Lips seal, thumb plugs, she blows. Bubble swells. To the bench, molds hiss steam, tongs shape. Giuseppe joins, fuses his disk. Precise. Mia snaps free her piece. Ballet of fire and sweat. Mathilde watches, rapt. No finish today—hours of annealing. Her pout forms. I ask about the ‘Inferno.’ Giuseppe nods. Mia leads up creaky stairs.
Room intimate, stifling cozy. Spots halo translucent wonders in niches. Divan in corner, leather supple. Armchairs face low glass table. Then, revelation: shelves of glass dildos. Every shape, girth, curve. Plugs anal beside, varied bulbs. Geisha balls last. Mia smiles. ‘Try one.’ Mathilde stares, shocked. ‘Dildos? You knew?’ My grin. ‘Elite secret. Pick for your pleasure.’ She hesitates, fingers trace spirals, arcs. Mia picks a twisted dual-diameter beauty, curved slight. Cleans it. ‘Suck first. Lounge there.’ Door locks. Privacy absolute.
The Excess
Mathilde blushes crimson. Strips pants, panties. Reclines on divan, cushion under hips. Legs splay wide. Pussy sealed tight, lips frilled subtle, darker rosebud below. She weighs the glass cock, tests heft. Tongue laps shaft cool. Lips form O, sucks deep, gags soft, repeats. Eyes lock mine—challenge, lust. Free hand parts her folds, rubs slick. Glass kisses slit, petals bloom pearl-pink. Fingers spread, she thrusts. Slow in, out. Builds frenzy. Clit pinched, she shatters. Legs quake, toes curl, breath rasps.
‘Insane,’ she gasps. I urge the plug. She slicks it saliva, probes anus. Finger first, relaxes. Egg pops in, flange seats. ‘Presses G-spot. Wild.’ Re-sucks dildo, re-enters pussy. Friction fiercer. Waves crash harder. Body arches, sweat sheens, frozen deep. ‘Never like this,’ she pants. ‘Your fault.’ Mia peeks. ‘Ladies first.’ My cock strains, denied. Vengeful: keep plug till night. She protests, but walks ginger. Each step grinds bliss. Pauses, near climax, panting like labor.
Hotel suite welcomes, silk sheets cool. She strips frantic, sprawls legs akimbo. I yank plug—wet plop. Anus gapes, winks shut. Tongue circles, laps hypersensitive ring. She floods anew. Clothes shed. I plunge her cunt, velvet grip. She offers ass. Rosette striates fine, unfurls. Cockhead breaches, tunnel hot, slick. She impales, grinds fierce. Peaks sync—collapse fused, spent in luxury hush. Secret sealed in palace walls. (To be continued)
