The Plaza Athénée’s penthouse suite envelops me like a silken glove. Crystal chandeliers cast diamond sparkles on marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Eiffel Tower’s glow. Champagne chills in a silver bucket, bubbles promising oblivion. Aurélien steps from the elevator, eyes wide behind those round glasses. Six months since that madman’s gun forced our first touch in a filthy alley. Now, here, in this elite sanctum, he’s mine by choice. I rush him, lips crashing. Tongues duel hungrily. His hands tremble on my waist, pulling me close. We shed clothes like secrets—my tight tee, his shirt—trailing fabric to the bedroom. Silk sheets whisper under us. His gaze devours my 95E breasts, firm and proud, nipples hardening in the AC’s chill. No paparazzi. No entourage. Just us, in this fortress of privilege.
He lays me back, reverent. Fingers trace my golden skin, from high cheekbones to the Aztec curve of my hips. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, that adorable tic. I laugh, guiding his mouth to my tits. He suckles gently, tongue circling dark areolas. Electricity shoots straight to my core. My pussy aches, lips swelling. I push him down, straddle his face. No, first the tease. I nestle his cock between my breasts—cravat de notaire, they called it once. Velvety shaft slides in cleavage, my tongue flicking the glistening head. He groans, hips bucking. Salty pre-cum coats my lips. I swallow his load as he cries out, hot jets filling my mouth. ‘Good for the vocals,’ I purr, licking clean.
The Privilege
Revived, he dives between my thighs. That new tattoo—a cherub Cupidon—winks above my mound. His kisses trail inner thighs, breath hot. Tongue parts my slick folds, finds my clit. He learned well: circles, sucks, fingers probing. I buck, flooding his face. Orgasm crashes like waves on the Seine. Now, I need him inside. He positions, hesitant. I guide his perfect cock—thick, not monstrous—into my dripping heat. Slow thrusts build. I wrap legs around him, heels digging ass. We fuck missionary, raw rhythm. Guttural moans mix—English, Spanish, French cries. He flips me atop, tits bouncing as I ride. Hands knead them delicately, pinching nipples. I shatter again, walls milking him dry inside the condom. Sweat-slick, we collapse.
Bath time. Carrara marble tub steams, foam mountains. We splash, laugh, fingers exploring. His cock hardens underwater. I mount him reverse, buoyant tits floating. Up-down on his pole, Archimedes’ push aiding each plunge. Nipples graze his chest. ‘Do you love me?’ I whisper, vulnerable. ‘More than life.’ Tears mix with bathwater. We climax together, water sloshing. Towels plush as clouds dry us. Room service: juicy steaks, crisp frites. We eat naked, feeding bites. Outside, Paris twinkles indifferently. Walls of glass shield our secret. No traces left but racing hearts. This elite bubble holds our story—luxury’s purest lust, forever ours.
