The elevator hums to the top of my Paris penthouse, floor-to-ceiling glass framing the Eiffel Tower’s glow. Leather armchairs sigh under us as we sip Dom Pérignon, bubbles sharp on my tongue. Clément lounges opposite, Alain by the bar, Aurélie tracing the marble edge. I lean in, silk robe whispering. ‘Let’s love like Gauls.’ Their eyes spark. We shove the ebony dining table aside, moquette plush underfoot. Clothes drop. Velvet air kisses bare skin. City lights bathe us golden.
Naked, we circle in the vast salon. Alain grabs my shoulders, rolls me down. Soft Persian rug cushions the fall. I’m no wrestler, but I grip his hips, flip him. Greco-Roman? Heresy for Gauls. Our cocks clash—his hardening against mine—no, wait, I’m the queen here, but in this rite, boundaries blur. Mine brushes his ass as we grapple. Erections flicker, unbidden. Pride surges. I claw his firm cheeks; he squeezes my balls. Sweat gleams. Match draws even. Pudeur vanishes.
The Privilege
Valérie’s voice—mine—echoes Jacques Chancel: ‘And Priape?’ Alain perches on the onyx stool, head high, phallus limp. I kneel, fingers coaxing it horizontal, lips vertical. Priape rises, god of gardens, ithyphallic glory. Clément joins, we worship. Mouths alternate, divine suction. But it flags. ‘Help me,’ Alain pleads. I stroke, then suck deep. Clément follows, theology not homosexuality. His tongue works wonders, birthing vigor. Minutes stretch in reverence.
Now, Gauloise frenzy: grivoiserie, paillardise. ‘I’m farting!’ I declare. ‘Perfect! Fart in silk!’ Silk sheets rustle nearby. ‘Silk’s thirteenth century!’ Clément protests, wilting. I revive: ‘Hanneton versus morpion? One beetle, one glued to balls.’ Laughter roars. ‘Stroke to my fart. Mix gas and cum.’ He does, hand flying, our fluids mingle amid champagne haze.
The Excess
Aurélie bursts in from the study, notes in hand. ‘Smells off.’ ‘Gauloise fucking—no roses till Middle Ages.’ Cum drips my thighs. ‘Jealous?’ ‘Maybe. Latin prof’s dead tongue lacks spice.’ She shares: ‘Mulier equitans—woman astride, dominating.’ We demo. Clément lies on leather divan, I mount. His cock spears my heat, visible plunge. I control: slow, fast, halt. He fades. ‘Wait.’ I piss hot, farting, flooding him. Vigor returns. Aurélie crosses herself before Priape reborn.
‘Join, co-pine.’ Threesome brews, ultimate gauloiserie. Alain returns: ‘Etymology wrong—francique galer, fun not Gaul.’ Deflation. Like Vercingétorix. We dress, sink into cashmere throws, city silent witness. Secrets sealed in glass walls.
