I’ve been perched at this velvet-lined bar in the penthouse lounge of Le Meurice for hours. Crystal chandeliers drip light over marble counters. Views of the Eiffel Tower sparkle through floor-to-ceiling glass. I politely rebuff every advance. Too bulky. Too aggressive. Too loud. Too dumb-looking. Too hairy. None measure up. They know why I’m here alone at this hour in this elite spot—not just for vintage champagne.
“Mind if I sit?” Another one. I glance up, mouth opening for no—then pause. Why not him? Handsome, soft aura. Not overly macho, yet no trace of effeminacy. Classic jeans, crisp shirt. No tells. His voice timid, eyes bold. Fearless.
The Privilege
“Sure.” My pulse quickens. A threshold crossed.
He sits. Studies me. Sips his chilled Krug. Silence hums. I signal with my gaze: you’re the one.
“Not easy, is it?” he murmurs.
“No. How’d you know?”
“Everyone here gets it. Even if they’ve forgotten—or pretend contempt.” He shares his story. Worlds align. We talk lives, passions, deals in shadowed power circles. Laughter flows like the champagne bubbles on my tongue. Bar empties. Closing nears.
“No pressure,” he says, leading gently.
“Thanks. Your place? Mine’s tricky.”
“Your call. Always.”
We stroll Haussmann avenues. Tiny Parisian elevator forces us close. Silk shirt brushes his chest. He hardens. Notices I notice. We chuckle.
“Flattering,” I grin.
His penthouse salon: vast, glass walls framing Seine lights. Plush leather sofa sighs under us. His hand strokes my thigh, slips under shirt. I close eyes, yield. His lips near—I turn away. “No.”
He respects it. Caresses deepen. I stiffen. Trust builds. Shirt falls open. Jeans unzip. His grip on my cock—first man ever. I whisper it.
“I know,” he says, eyes locked, holding firm.
I touch his cheek. Smiles exchange. He strokes slow. I unbutton him: smooth, muscled torso beyond his slim frame.
The Excess
He kneels. Mouth engulfs me. Hot velvet. Tongue swirls. Hands cup ass. Clothes vanish. Naked on buttery leather, better than any woman.
He edges me masterfully. Hands tease near my hole—no rush. Eyes meet. I’m close. He pauses. Question in gaze. I nod.
I rise, cock throbbing. He stands, half-dressed. I guide his head. Lips meet. Tongues dance. Pants drop. Boxer strains. I free him. Same size as mine. Relief.
Kiss deepens. Cocks clash. Balls bump. Thrilling novelty. I stroke him. He yields. I kneel. Sniff musk. Tongue tastes salty glans. Sigh spurs me. I suck, swirl, tease balls, rim with nail.
He trembles. I stop short.
“I want it,” I say, eyes fierce.
He nods to sofa. “Knees first. Trust me.”
Humiliating pose. Faggot image flares. But trust wins. On knees, elbows on leather, ass offered. Fear grips.
Hands soothe: back, hair, cock, thighs. Finger circles hole. Tongue licks from balls to pucker. Divine. Gel squelch. Finger slides in, lubed. Twists. Mind blanks. Trance shatters at condom rip.
Pressure builds. Hole yields. He fills me. Shock, twinge. Overwhelming. Soft man, total possession.
“Okay?”
“Yes… good.”
Full thrust. Belly slaps ass. His hand jerks me in sync. Va-et-vient builds. I moan, scream. Climax hits as he pulses inside.
We collapse on silk rug. He holds tight.
The penthouse hush returns. Champagne flutes refill. City lights guard our secret. Glass walls seal discretion. Elite bond forged in excess.
