We arrive at the chalet Wednesday afternoon, after two and a half hours from Lyon. Perched high above Bourg-Saint-Maurice, this gem is one of ten exclusive rentals, perfect for summer escapes or winter thrills. Lucie and I settle in, eager to ditch husbands and kids. Fridge stocked, we lounge on the vast wooden terrace wrapping the place. June sun bathes us in golden warmth. Bikinis cling to sweat-kissed skin. No crowds here.
Lucie suggests topless. ‘Men love pale tits anyway.’ I’m hesitant. ‘My husband gets them all.’ But she insists. ‘Your 44-year-old body is killer. Seins that’d stiffen a corpse.’ I yield. Untie the strings. Breasts spill free, firm, proud. I stretch my 1.65m frame languidly. Eyes shut, mind drifts to Paul. 46, 1.85m dark hunk, fit from sports. Married 19 years, he fucks me thrice weekly, deep, tender. Explosions in my core. Our kids: Mathieu, 17; Capucine, 15. Bliss.
The Privilege
Lucie’s husband Charles and Paul studied engineering together, now in renewables. We met through them. Her red hair, green eyes, voluptuous curves draw stares at 42. Friday hike: cable cars to 2200m, descend via Arcs 1800 golf, then 1600 funicular. Back, spot Harleys gleaming next door. Chrome apes, high handlebars, forward pegs. Lucie drools. ‘Virile biker fantasies.’ She admits lovers spice her marriage. Shocker.
Two studs emerge: Richard, blond giant; Alain, tanned Med, both 1.85m ripped. Lucie chats them up, invites for 7pm apero. I shower off the hike, annoyed. Evening: her in ass-hugging leather skirt, sheer blouse flashing black lace bra, dark areolas peeking. Me: knee-grazing white wrap skirt, pale yellow blouse hugging my bourgeois-sexy vibe.
Champagne pops. Bubbles fizz crisp, golden. Richard shakes Lucie’s hand first. Alain’s grip firm, warm on mine. His gaze pierces. Ravaging smile, perfect teeth. I flush like a teen. Sofa: me sandwiched between them, Lucie opposite. Talk flows: their Lyon nightclub, his bar. Alain’s insolent charm, dry wit. Laughter. Richard rougher. Tension builds. Lucie’s skirt hikes, black lace thong exposed. They ogle shamelessly. Hands wander. I fend off, tipsy after hours. Paul’s face flashes. I bolt to bed, Alain’s lips grazing mine too long.
The Excess
Lucie cranks sultry tunes. Slow dances Richard, grinds his hardening cock. Her hand dives: ‘Nature blessed you.’ He rips her blouse, bra off. Massive tits kneaded. Alain grinds her ass from behind, hikes skirt, rubs her slit. Clothes shed. Naked Lucie sandwiched, cocks teasing front and back. She quivers. ‘Fuck me now.’ Bedroom: Richard slams in missionary, her legs lock him deep. Alain sucks tits, tongues her. She bucks, cums shrieking.
Switch: doggy with Alain pounding, Richard throat-fucked. Hour of frenzy. I wake to slaps of flesh. Peek: Lucie reverse cowgirl on Richard, Alain double-penetrates her ass. Guttural moans. Heat floods my thighs. Lucie spots me: ‘Join us.’ Alain pulls me in, kisses soft. His rigid shaft presses. ‘Superbe.’ Palms my breasts. Nuisette gone. Pubes grind his cock. ‘No, married.’ He ignores, tongues deep. Bedroom whirl: he devours my bushy pussy. I moan, lost. Missionary, doggy, first anal—stretching burn to bliss. Long thin cock hits spots Paul misses. Orgasms cascade, endless. Two hours, collapse sweaty, sated.
Saturday 10am. Phone: Paul. Voice thick. Alain fingers my slit mid-call. Giggle slips. Repel him. Shower shame hits. Betrayed Paul. Lucie teases: ‘You screamed loud.’ Remorse chokes breakfast. Call Paul, voice quavers. Lie holds, barely. Secret sealed in alpine hush.
