We glide into the private wing of the institute, a gilded sanctuary for retired tycoons. Marble floors gleam under crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame manicured gardens, infinity edges blurring into horizon. Roméo greets us in the penthouse lounge, Francine pouring vintage champagne. Bubbles burst sharp on my tongue, crisp linen suits brushing as we air-kiss. ‘You’ve saved us,’ he whispers. The air hums with anticipation. Leather armchairs cradle our forms, soft as whispered secrets. Pierre’s hand squeezes mine under the table—our shared hunger unspoken.
We descend to the special suites, walls paneled in rare woods, Egyptian cotton robes waiting. Anselme awaits in Suite A, vicomte’s eyes lighting like heirloom gems. ‘My dear, your return is divine.’ His baisemain lingers, frail fingers velvet on my skin. I lift his silk robe. His cock twitches, veined and eager. Champagne breath mingles as I sheath him, latex snapping taut. He sighs into damask pillows.
The Privilege
Pierre vanishes next door. I hear murmurs. My pussy aches from last week’s memory. Anselme’s hands roam my curves, silk whispering. We sink into the act, his aged thrusts demanding, my moans echoing off mirrored ceilings.
Fatigue claims my cunt by evening. Pierre appears, eyes glazed. We lock into room B, king-sized bed drowning in satin. ‘Your pussy tired?’ he grins. I nod, pulling him down. Sixty-nine ignites. His tongue laps my slick folds, greedy. I swallow his cock, salty pre-cum flooding. His balls tighten against my chin. We devour, hips grinding, luxury cocooning our frenzy.
Earlier, Pierre confessed over caviar bites: Étienne entered, timid. Pierre caressed through fabric, cock swelling thick. Impulse struck—he engulfed it. ‘I sucked him deep, tongue swirling like you do me.’ Étienne’s fingers tangled in hair, gentle. Cum erupted, hot jets down Pierre’s throat. ‘I swallowed every drop, rewarding myself with your ghost.’ My kiss probed his mouth later, tasting echoes.
The Excess
These ‘chores’ spice our marriage. No more secretary flings for him, no voids for me. Patients like Gaston stretch me wide, Pierre’s ass blooms under Roméo’s toy. We crave it now, openly.
The strike ends, but residents revolt—demanding us. Staff relents. Permanent weekends. Joy surges. Saturday lunch seals it: ‘Help us again?’ Francine pleads. We feign sighs, hearts racing.
Anselme thrusts now, grunting. Pierre gulps Étienne beside. Cum spatters silk. We reunite, spent, champagne refilling flutes.
Dusk falls. We retreat to the penthouse spa, steam rising from marble tubs. Robes shed, bodies entwined in bubbling jets. Secrets seal behind glass walls, city lights twinkling below. Pierre’s fingers trace my spine. ‘This is us now.’ I nod, pussy pulsing anew. The elite’s discreet vice—ours forever. Champagne toasts our pact. Silk sheets await, veiling tomorrow’s cravings.
