Wandering the secluded Breton harbor, sea breeze caressing my skin like silk sheets. Sun glints off yachts moored in this elite cove, far from tourist traps. Thirst hits. Spot a discreet brasserie, floor-to-ceiling windows framing endless blue. Velvet chairs, polished oak tables. Order coffee. Nearby, lads chatter football. Blond one catches my eye: tall, chiseled profile, green eyes. I sidle closer. ‘Sugar, please?’ Voice clear, teasing. He passes it blankly. Try again: ‘Paper?’ Same. Flop. Sigh, exit to iodized air.
Evening chills. Back to brasserie, now buzzing with discreet power players. Cider flows, crisp, golden—better than my father’s artisanal brew. Nose in plate, ignore world. ‘Sugar?’ Male voice. Pass it limp. ‘Paper?’ Hand it over. Wrist grabbed. Warm breath: ‘Must I strip on the table like a Chippendale to make you look up?’ My blondinet—Alain. He sits, eyes devouring. Heart races. We talk. Sparks fly. Weeks blur: his place immaculate, minimalist luxury—white linens, leather sofa gleaming. Mornings, croissants, coffee steaming, newspapers strewn. Debates rage: Breton pride vs. his cop life. ‘France owns us,’ he says. I fire back. Lips crash, tongues voracious.
The Privilege
His secret drops: specialized cop hunting bombers. Rage boils. ‘Imperial dog!’ But love twists it. Leap on him. Yank jeans down. Cock hard, throbbing. Straddle, bare ass grinding. Hands pin shoulders. Ride fierce, hips slamming. Cum shatters me, owning the enemy. Collapse, sweat-slick.
Police party: crystal flutes, champagne bubbles sharp on tongue. Captain sneers. ‘Stole our man?’ I smirk. ‘Best of the foe.’ Alain pulls me: ‘My future wife.’ Dance, his grip possessive. Nights ignite.
He frets bombers. I distract: improv ideas. Sex follows. Friday, tense. Probe his mind, then body. ‘Last night ever,’ I whisper. Eyes blaze. Clothes rip. Tongue ravages neck, breasts heaving. Dives to pussy, lips sucking clit. Fingers plunge ass. I buck, flood his mouth.
The Excess
Flip. Worship his chest, muscled. Lick firm ass cheeks. Cock left-leaning tower, veined, hot. Suck deep, balls tight. Cheat: finger prostate. He erupts, cream floods throat, salty victory.
The Discretion
Phone shrills. Alert: bomb in garage, phone trigger, my name tagged. He bolts. I watch taillights fade through misted glass. Hours later, news: vaporized. Picked up rigged cell. My voice whispered goodbye.
Funeral: black veil, polished oak coffin. Colleagues’ pity stings. Medal gleams mockingly. Mourn lost lover, his cock filling me, sweat-glued skins, every hole claimed. Tasted his piss in frenzy, no shame. Elite secret sealed in granite walls, sea whispers discretion. Brittany’s black and white: privilege claimed, excess devoured, silence eternal.
