Saint-Malo’s walled city fades behind me. Tuesday night, 10 PM sharp. Heart pounding, I approach the seaside luxury villa. Towering glass walls overlook crashing waves. Palm-lined drive. This isn’t some rental—it’s elite, whispered fortunes hidden in Breton stone. Laura invited me here. Seven clothes exactly, she insisted on the phone. My cock twitches at the mystery.
I ring. Deeper voice answers: ‘Jimmy?’ Door unlatches. Inside, polished marble floors gleam under crystal chandeliers. Leather sofas scent the air—rich, supple hide. Laura lounges there, auburn waves framing her sly smile. I kiss her deep, taste champagne on her tongue. ‘Not me at the intercom,’ she teases. Vanishes. Returns with Julie.
The Privilege
Blonde curves, blue eyes piercing. Voluptuous opposite of Laura’s sleek lines. ‘Friend of my friend,’ Julie purrs, voice gravelly honey. Chips and flutes of Dom Pérignon flow. Laughter bubbles. Then Laura spills: ‘We’re playing strip poker. You’re hot, Jimmy.’ Table set: cards, fake euros. Seven items each—shoes, shirt, jeans, boxers, cap, sunglasses for me. Rules barked by Julie, croupier-sharp. Bets climb. Hands dealt.
My first: trash. Julie’s eyes gleam—queens trip me up. Chips dwindle. Glasses drop first. Caps next. Tension crackles like sea spray. Girls buzzed, skin flushing. Hour in, Laura’s shirt reveals bikini top. My shoes gone. Julie’s luck sours—down to bra, thong. Hers: heavy C-cups spilling, black string barely veiling plump lips.
The Excess
Laura’s jeans slide off—perfect ass cheeks flex. Then thunder: Julie’s bra snaps free. Tits proud, nipples rock-hard. Thong follows. Blonde bush trimmed, pussy lips glistening pink, clit peeking swollen. She twirls, round ass begging touch. Laura’s bikini top yields B-cups, pert nipples uptilted. My shirt off, girls whistle. Cock strains jeans.
Laura’s bottoms drop—bald mound, smooth dark lips. Pure. We’re hooked, villa’s ocean roar our soundtrack.
