The limousine’s tinted windows shield me from prying eyes as it glides to the rear entrance of Fnouk’s flagship store. Supple leather seats cradle my thighs, warm against my skin. I step out in distressed designer jeans hugging my curves, ivory blouse dipping low, grey Milano jacket sharp. Jimmy Choo daim pumps, 10.5 cm heels, click on marble. Pain shoots up my calves—stars suffer silently.
My loge awaits: no broom closet. I demanded Cristal Roederer, chilled to perfection. Bubbles burst on my tongue, crisp, golden. Jacques Sohn-Faïvhe, my publisher, grins. We sealed the deal nude on his Courchevel chalet bearskin, raclette digesting, my lips around his cock as negotiations peaked. Yves-André Pérhémer, agent extraordinaire, fusses over stacks of my recueil. Twelve tales, Noémie’s gouaches glowing.
The Privilege
Crowd swells outside: 200 elite RVBB faithful. Radagast first, eyes hungry. I sign with flourish, pen gliding, whispering how his words stir me. Patrick Paris, silver fox, gets a tease about our co-writings. Domi Dupon, baron of banter, rails against the rigged Gourdins. L’Artiste, my corrector god, two books: one for the team. Melle Mélina’s gaze lingers on my cleavage.
Amarcord, Jimmy Chou—my number one fan—poses for selfies, his hand brushing mine electric. Hummmpff, bearded enigma (Nicoli incognito), grunts approval. Olga sweeps in, brunette power. Pierre, weathered sailor, evokes sea-slicked fantasies. Charlie demands dues; I deflect with a signed copy.
Piles dwindle. Geoffroy Denldo scrambles reserves. Press upstairs: I eviscerate snide Bernard Tichot, fans cheering. Questions fly—humor, trains, scandals. Jennifer Ahre-Passaih flirts; I invite her later. Spontaneity rules.
The limousine’s tinted windows shield me from prying eyes as it glides to the rear entrance of Fnouk’s flagship store. Supple leather seats cradle my thighs, warm against my skin. I step out in distressed designer jeans hugging my curves, ivory blouse dipping low, grey Milano jacket sharp. Jimmy Choo daim pumps, 10.5 cm heels, click on marble. Pain shoots up my calves—stars suffer silently.
The Excess
Cocktail beckons in the upstairs salon, velvet ropes parting for select few. Cristal flows endless. Jacques pulls me aside, hand on ass. ‘Celebrate properly.’ Yves-André locks the door. Jimmy Chou, eyes wild, strips first. No words needed.
Jacques pins me to the oak table, jeans yanked down, cock thrusting deep. Leather scent mixes with sweat. I gasp, nails raking his back. Yves-André feeds me his length, salty pre-cum on lips. Jimmy kneels, tongue delving my clit, relentless. Bodies entwine: Radagast joins, fucking my mouth rhythmic. Domi grips hips, pounding raw. L’Artiste suckles breasts, teeth grazing nipples.
Orgy erupts. Pierre’s callused hands spread me wide, entering slow then brutal. Hummmpff grunts, taking ass tight. Women too—Mélina’s fingers inside me, Olga grinding pussy on thigh. Cum sprays: hot ropes on skin, swallowed greedily. Screams muffled by flesh. Limits shatter in luxury haze—crystal clinks amid moans.
Spent, we disentangle. Servants averted eyes clear traces. Limo waits, engine humming soft. I sink into leather, body aching deliciously, champagne aftertaste lingering. Secrets sealed in glass walls, elite bonds tighter. Dawn breaks; normalcy resumes. They whisper my name in shadows.
