The manor’s gravel crunched under my moped tires. Towering stone facade, hectares of manicured lawns, fish-filled ponds glinting under the sun. Limousines gleamed in the courtyard, polished chrome reflecting my humble arrival. I rang the bell at 1:30 PM, heart pounding from Bernadette’s scented letter. Door swings open. Not her. Aline, strict brunette in glasses, smiles thinly. Behind, Aude waves, her curves straining a silk blouse. ‘Hello, cousin.’ Kisses on cheeks, perfume like orchids. They lead me to the salon. Louis XVIII armchairs, velvet cushions sinking under me like clouds. Crystal bibelots sparkle on mahogany tables. Marion bursts from the kitchen, wild-eyed, tray of punch in hand. ‘Special for you!’ Tropical fruit explodes on my tongue, rum burning sweet. We chat trivially, sisters circling, laughter light. Punch flows, third glass warms my veins. No Bernadette. Then Aude leans in: ‘Heard you groped sister’s ass.’ Blood rushes. Aline: ‘Virgin back there. Be gentle.’ Marion giggles. They taunt, call me pervert. Surrounded, drunk, I freeze in the opulent trap.
Aline spins, hikes skirt. No panties. Firm cheeks part, finger wets, slides into her tight anus. ‘Like what I did to Bernadette? Love ass play.’ Aude follows, statuesque body twists, mini-string yanked aside. Finger plunges deep. ‘Fingers, toys, cock—I crave deep anal.’ They finger-fuck themselves, moans soft against damask walls. Marion last, jeans drop, no undies, bends forward. ‘Me too. Hundreds of times.’ Her digit probes, obscene wiggle. Laughter erupts. ‘We’re sluts, whores, ass-fucked vixens. Bernadette’s fragile angel.’ They adjust skirts, wink. ‘House is yours. Her room, top floor, end hall left.’ Door slams, heels echo away. Silence. Velvet chair cradles me, punch haze lifts.
The Privilege
Stairs creak underfoot, Persian runner soft. Door ajar. Bernadette, plump beauty, naked on all fours. Moonface flushed, eyes glassy. She wets finger, inserts into puckered hole. Grabs lube bottle, slicks digits. One finger breaches, then two, stretching. Three, four fingers now, ass gaping slightly, slick sounds filling the four-poster bedchamber. Canopy silk drapes frame her. ‘Fuck my ass with your cock. Stretch me wide.’ I strip, cock throbbing. Manor quiet, only our breaths. Lube her crack, generous. Head presses her ring. Pops in, tight velvet grips. She gasps, pushes back. Inches vanish, balls-deep. Thrusts start slow, her cheeks ripple. Louis XV mirror reflects: my poor roots pounding elite flesh. Faster, skin slaps echo off paneled walls. She moans, fingers her pussy. ‘Deeper, cousin. Ruin my virgin ass.’ Sweat beads on her back, I grip hips, pound merciless. Orgasm builds, her hole milks. I erupt, flooding her depths. Collapse onto silk sheets, her body quivers.
We lie entangled, champagne chilled nearby pops open. Bubbles fizz on tongue, crisp against post-fuck heat. Manor envelops us, walls thick as secrets. Sisters’ laughter faint outside. She whispers, ‘More next time.’ I dress, moped waits. Gravel crunches exit, limousines silent witnesses. Back to poverty, ass-scent lingers on fingers. Elite privilege seals lips.
