We pull up to our exclusive chalet perched high above Bourg-Saint-Maurice, after a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Lyon. Part of a elite cluster of ten rentals, this wooden haven gleams with polished pine and floor-to-ceiling glass walls framing the savage Alps. Lucie and I, escaping husbands and kids for fifteen days of pure indulgence, unpack into sun-drenched rooms. Fridge stocked with chilled whites, we lounge on the vast wraparound terrace. June sun bathes our bikinis. No crowds. Just us.
Lucie unties her top. ‘Ditch yours. White lines are tacky.’ I’m hesitant. Forty-four, body toned, breasts firm. But they’re Paul’s alone. She persists. I yield. Fabric slips. Nipples harden in the breeze. I stretch out, 1.65m of curves, eyes closed, drifting to Paul—1.85m of dark-haired strength, still fucking me thrice weekly with tender fire. Our kids, Mathieu 17, Capucine 15. Perfection.
The Privilege
Lucie, fiery redhead, 42, voluptuous. Her husband Charles and Paul, engineer buddies in renewables. Our sons bond over basketball. Friday hike: cable car to 2200m, descent via Arcs 1800 golf greens, then funicular. Back, sweat-slick, we spot them. Rutilant Harleys next door—ape hangers, forward pegs. Symbols of raw power. Lucie fantasizes aloud. ‘Virile bikers.’ I blush. She admits lovers spice her marriage. Shocker.
Two gods emerge: Richard, blond 30s Adonis; Alain, tanned Mediterranean hunk. Both 1.85m, built. Lucie chats them up. I shower off the trek. She invites them for apero at 7pm. I protest. Fidelity to Paul. But curiosity stirs.
Evening. Leather skirt hugs Lucie’s ass, blouse sheer over black lace bra, dark areolas teasing. My white wrap skirt mid-thigh, pale yellow blouse clinging bourgeois-sexy. Champagne pops—crisp bubbles, pear notes on tongue. Richard shakes hands. Alain’s grip firm, eyes piercing mine. Smile lethal. We sink into leather sofas, glass walls glowing sunset over peaks. They run a Lyon nightclub. Humor flows. Laughter. Refills. Lucie’s skirt rides up—black lace thong exposed. Eyes devour. Hands wander. Mine resist Alain’s thigh graze, Richard’s arm brush. Two hours, tipsy haze. Paul’s face flashes. I flee to bed. Alain’s lips brush mine too long.
The Excess
The Excess. Noises wake me. Moans. Flesh slapping. Door ajar. Lucie nude, sandwiched. Richard beneath, cock buried in her ass. Alain front, double-penetrating her soaked pussy. She writhes, cries sharp. Heat floods my thighs. She spots me. ‘Join.’ Alain approaches, naked, erection throbbing. Kisses soft. Hands cup my breasts. Nuisette vanishes. Pubic fur grinds his shaft. ‘No, married.’ Weak. Tongue invades. He devours my bush, tongue lashing clit. I moan. Legs spread. World spins.
His room. Missionary: long thin cock splits me, fireworks eclipse Paul’s. Doggy: ass high, he pounds. First anal—burn to bliss, orgasms chaining. I suck Richard clean of Lucie’s juices. Fellatio deep. Cunnilingus endless. Two hours. Cum-smeared, shattered climaxes. Collapse.
The Discretion. Phone buzzes. Paul. Alain’s finger in my slit as I answer. Voice thick. ‘Sorry, hike tired us. Champagne.’ Giggle slips. Shower guilt crashes. Betrayal stings. Lucie grins over coffee. ‘You screamed loud.’ Shame chokes me. Call Paul—voice shakes, lies limp. Glass walls seal the secret. Alps stare back, indifferent.
