His penthouse towered over the city, walls of glass framing glittering lights below. I stepped in, heels clicking on marble floors, the air thick with leather and anticipation. Bottles of chilled Dom Pérignon waited. He poured, voice gravelly from our one call, that massive frame—1m90, 90kg—lounging on a cream leather sofa. No head shown online, just that boasted cock. Now, here he was, face far from ugly, eyes hungry.
We clinked glasses. Bubbles burst on my tongue, crisp and golden. TV flickered with music clips, ignored. I slid closer, skirt riding up, boots soft against his thighs. His scent—musk and cologne—hit me. We’d traded filth for weeks: my soaked panties mailed with a prep video, him jerking cum onto the crotch live. Fights over pics, my ass for his endless streams. ‘Old slut, you’ll never go real,’ he’d taunted. I proved him wrong.
The Privilege
Champagne loosened us. Half bottle down, I straddled his lap. Puller off my tight sweater, breasts free. His hands gripped my hips, rough. My thong pressed his bulge, rock-hard through pants. We knew each other raw—clips of me sucking a water-filled condom, fingering wild. Now, flesh met flesh. City skyline mocked our elite bubble. This was privilege: anonymous power play in opulent isolation.
Heat built. His mouth claimed mine, tongue invading like his cyber commands. I ground down, feeling that ‘grosse queue’ throb. Unzipped him. Out sprang the beast—thick, veined, real. No fake. I stroked, velvet steel pulsing. He growled, fingers digging into leather boots, hiking my skirt. Ripped thong aside, he teased my slick folds. ‘Show me everything,’ he’d demanded online. Now, I did.
The Excess
I sank onto him. Inch by girthy inch, stretching me wide. Pain-pleasure gasp escaped. Walls of glass reflected us—me riding, tits bouncing, his hands mauling. Champagne glass tipped, fizzing on his chest. I licked it off, salty skin mixing with vintage tang. Faster. Harder. Sofa creaked under our weight. He flipped me, ass up, pounding deep. Slaps echoed, my cries muffled in cushions. No limits. His balls smacked my clit, building fire.
Sweat-slick, we chased release. Fingers in my hair, pulling. ‘Take it, cyber whore.’ I clenched, milking him. He roared, flooding me—hot jets, endless. I shattered, waves crashing, vision blurring city lights. Collapsed together, breaths ragged. Excess pure: luxury fueling primal fuck.
Afterglow settled. He drew a cashmere throw over us, king-size bed visible through open doors. Silk sheets waited. We sipped remnants, city humming distant. No names fully shared, just codes. Walls of glass sealed our secret—elite discretion. I dressed slow, boots zipping soft. Kissed his jaw. Elevator hummed down, panties pocketed with fresh cum stains. Back to power circles, richer in filth. He’d message soon. Cycle eternal.
