I glide into the opulent ballroom of the city’s finest five-star hotel, where the charity congress hums with whispers of power. Crystal chandeliers drip light over marble floors. Velvet ropes cordon off the elite. I settle into a leather armchair, its buttery touch caressing my skin. Speakers drone on national figures. Then, she drops her bag beside me. Christel. Plush curves, 95D breasts straining her blouse. Voluptuous, unapologetic. Not fat—pure temptation for hands craving fullness.
Our heads clash retrieving her things. Pain sparks laughter. ‘My fault,’ I say, rubbing my forehead. ‘No, mine,’ she insists, eyes dark pools. A swelling rises on my brow. ‘Let me make it up with a drink at the break,’ she offers. Her voice velvet. We escape to the rooftop lounge. City skyline sprawls below, penthouse views teasing infinity. Champagne flutes clink, bubbles sharp on the tongue, crisp pear notes exploding. She confesses: new to town, fleeing a creep. Twenty-something, single, fierce. Petite against my frame, twenty centimeters shorter. We skip back to congress? No. Lunch instead.
The Privilege
Her penthouse looms nearby, floor-to-ceiling glass framing the glittering horizon. Boxes hint at fresh move, but luxury screams: silk rugs, leather sofas supple under touch. She ices my bump, fingers cool silk on skin. Tenderness ignites. At the bistro self nearby, she fusses—loads my plate, adjusts my chair. ‘I feel awful,’ she murmurs. My gruff rebuff clouds her eyes. Tears flow. ‘Not used to kindness,’ she whispers. I soothe, charm. Laughter erupts, throaty, freeing. Bonds form. Meetings multiply.
One night, cards slip into talk. ‘Strip-poker?’ I tease. ‘Only battle,’ she counters. Rules evolve: loser sheds chosen garment, by winner’s fantasy method. Last nude orchestrates finale. Her penthouse again. Door opens. She’s post-shower glow, damp hair scenting jasmine, peignoir whispering silk. Bouquet placed in crystal vase. ‘Equal clothes,’ I decree. She reveals: string, front-lace bra cupping heavy breasts, mini-skirt, sheer blouse. I match: shirt, pants, briefs, her scarf knotted at neck. Game on.
First round: she loses. ‘String, with teeth only.’ Head under skirt, mouth hunts fabric. Teeth graze lips, clit. She gasps, shudders. Down legs it slides. Second: her top. Fingers brush nipples to diamond peaks. She moans, lost. My losses: scarf untied in hot kiss; pants off, her palm teases pre-cum bead from my straining cock; shirt gone, breasts grind my chest.
The Excess
Her skirt falls. Equal now: bra, briefs. Palms slap fesses, finger circles rosebud, hand claims dripping pussy. Words spill: submission, love. Champagne break. Glasses empty, bodies press. Nipples poke lace. Pubes tickle my escaped tip. Final draw: tie, king, then ace. I win.
She peels briefs, engulfs cock. Tongue laps frenulum, swallows balls. Edges me. Behind her. Hands cage breasts, knead over lace. Nipples pinched, areolas massaged. Turn: lips worship globes, suck, lick. Belly kisses, navel tongued. Dive: nose in folds, clit erect. Legs on shoulders. Love juice floods ass. Fingers probe: one, two, thumb joins. She writhes.
Pillow under hips, ass cambered. Guides me in. Deep, still. She rocks. Pistons start. Balls slap wet. Screams beg more. Switch: cleans cock feline, grimacing at earthy taste. Legs lock neck. Sucked into cunt. Thrusts tease lips, gland grinds. She cums, gooseflesh ripples.
‘How do you finish?’ Breasts compress shaft. Firm, soft tunnel. I pump. Warn. Jets arc: throat, lips, hair, tits glazed.
