Back in our family’s opulent bourgeois mansion in the provinces. Five lavish suites, each a private sanctuary with marble bathrooms. My wing: vast, like a luxury pied-à-terre. Parents host their elite circle here. Weekends pulse with crystal clinks and hushed power talks.
The Leroy trio arrives Saturday afternoon. I’ve glimpsed them before. Classic pedigree: him in bespoke tweed, her pearls gleaming, Agathe—Catholic school polish, my age, curves hidden under modest wool. I linger upstairs. My rotin armchair cradles me, Emmanuelle poster above—a wink at bourgeois rebellion.
The Privilege
Downstairs salon: leather sofas sigh under weight. Bises exchanged. Agathe’s cheek: silk-soft. Conversations flow like vintage Bordeaux. I scan her. Plump cheeks, heavy 95E breasts straining blouse. Belly folds softly. Seated, her ass a mystery. Long skirt veils thighs. Yet my cock twitches. Imagines her bare. Nude. Waves of flesh.
Catholic strictness? Retro discipline? Mind flashes: her over nun’s knee, skirt up, panties down. Ass reddening. Cock hardens. I cross legs, hand shields bulge.
Mother leads to rooms. Agathe rises. Eyes lock. Turns. Jesus, that ass—elephantine glory. Fesses balloon, each cheek dwarfing my palms. Waves roll as she sways. Stair climb tempts, but etiquette binds.
The Excess
Post-dinner twist: parents off to Gauthier gala. Champagne lingers on tongue, bubbles sharp. Agathe stays. Revisions. Math help. My cock approves, strains boxers. Clock ticks: 22h, alone. Stratagem brews: dice for probabilities. Gags to strip her.
Salon clears. ‘Agathe, probabilities app? Dice here.’ Not bedrooms—gentlemanly. She grins: ‘Free night, no parents, no nuns.’ Accent on free. Coquine spark?
Dice roll. She nails doubles odds: 1/6. Dorm tales spill. Girls’ game halted by nun. Gags: questions, strip, mime sex. One braless. One doggy-masturbating. Blonde bush flash. Hers: darker. Pipe confessions. Her gage interrupted: skirt up, panties off, six spanks per cheek. Three landed. Pleasure admitted.
She proposes: double-six wins all. Loser does eight gags. I agree. Rolls fly. Tension builds. My double-six. She nods, poised.
