Lunch break hits. I ditch my notes and pen into the Hermès satchel, slip out of the amphitheater lecture hall without a glance back. Thomas is laid up in the private infirmary suite atop the elite residence tower—twisted his ankle pulling a dumb stunt to impress Melissa on the marble stairs. Her ass could raise the dead, that brunette bombshell with wide eyes and endless curves. But today? Not her tale.
Grab gourmet ham-beurre sandwiches from the members-only cafeteria: crusty baguette, artisanal butter melting into Jamón Ibérico slices, paired with chilled Perrier in crystal flutes. A hand lands on my shoulder in line. Marjolaine. Mousey charm: long light-brown hair, oversized frames, pert ass in tight jeans, flat chest. Sweet, but no wet dreams for us hormone-raging heirs.
The Privilege
“News on Thom?” She slides behind me. We chat en route to the tower’s top-floor suite. She’s chatty: boring lectures, older boyfriend with his corner-office grind, dragging home exhausted to their pied-à-terre. Routine at twenty. I half-listen. Boring life. But veterans sense it—the bored woman’s golden opening.
She pushes the frosted glass door. Empty opulence: Italian leather daybeds, panoramic campus views through floor-to-ceiling glass, faint scent of vetiver air mist. Nurse’s out for her power lunch. No one in the building. Thomas lounges on the first bed, chiseled footballer, devilish Maghrebi-Berrichon features, endless conquests. Me? Atypically handsome, sculpted by years of polo, tennis, rugby—lean muscle under bespoke casuals.
Hand him the sandwich. We perch on the adjacent leather bed, devouring. Marjolaine rises for his Voss water bottle, backs up—lands pressed between my thighs. Stays there. Air thickens. We all feel it. Her casual perch unlocks possibilities. Heart pounds, mouth dry. Hands on her hips. She chats on with Thomas, ignoring. His smirk eggs me.
Fingers slide under her cashmere sweater, graze warm skin. No flinch. Unzip her jeans. One hand belly, other cheeks. Silk-soft. String thong. I trace it, push denim down mid-thigh. She kicks off Louboutins, sheds jeans and thong, spreads legs. Fingers find short pubes, then slick heat. First pussy I touch. Slow strokes. She’s drenched, moaning low.
The Privilege fades into raw need.
The Excess
Thomas unzips, hauls out his thick, veined cock—shaved balls gleaming. “Your turn, Marjo.” She leans, tongue laps his length, sucks that swollen brown head like melting candy. My fingers plunge her pussy, probe her tight ass. Surreal: first time, hand in her holes while she blows my best mate.
I shove the bed aside, free my throbbing dick. Press it between her firm globes, thrust her crack. She grabs, jerks clumsily, guides my purple head to her sopping slit. Pushes back—deep impale. Raw fuck, no rubber. Stupid youth.
Grip hips like lifelines. Pound erratic, balls slapping. She bucks wild, starved. Thomas erupts down her throat; she swallows, licks spills, slaps him playfully. I unload deep, flooding her pulsing core.
The Excess crests, then ebbs.
We disentangle in hushed afterglow. Clothes realign. No words. Life resumes. Nothing repeats with Marjo or Thom. She wed her bore, kids, messy divorce. Him? Vanished into privilege’s haze. Lesson etched: wrap it up, darlings.
