That April Wednesday evening, exhaustion pinned me to the supple leather armchair in my penthouse overlooking the glittering city skyline. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed the urban sprawl, champagne flutes chilling in the marble kitchen. At nearly thirty, managing a chain of elite European garages brought wealth, but my bachelor life echoed empty.
The doorbell pierced the silence. There stood Elodie, raven hair in a chignon, Mediterranean fire in her dark eyes, clutching a hefty encyclopedia set. Worn skirt hugging her curves, faded blouse hinting at firm breasts beneath. No phone, no rings—just conviction selling her wares. How she breached the coded lobby intrigued me more than her pitch.
The Privilege
Amorphed, I let her in. Her heels clicked on polished oak floors. She crossed the threshold, eyes widening at my six-meter automotive library: rare volumes on vintage Ferraris, Lamborghinis, leather-bound catalogs climbing two meters high. Niches cradled scale models of Porsches, Bentleys. ‘Garage owner?’ she asked. I nodded, hiding my ownership.
She deflated, tears welling. I knelt, hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay for dinner,’ I offered. Pride flared—’No charity!’—but hunger won. In the kitchen, her fingers danced over caviar-stuffed fridge shelves, heirloom tomatoes, artisanal cream. Asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, then gratin dauphinois heavy with truffles and lardons. We sipped vintage Kir, peanuts in crystal bowls, city lights twinkling beyond.
Greece bonded us—her ancient knowledge rivaled my Cyclades escapes. Single, proud, starving for more than food. Her R4 sputtered dead outside. I gripped her arm, dragged her back up. ‘Pay in kind,’ I teased. Shower steam filled the air; she claimed my king-sized bed, shoulders bare, sheet teasing pert breasts.
Dawn’s glow filtered through blinds. She nestled close, vanilla scent enveloping. Her hand gripped my hardening cock, stroking slow, firm. Lips brushed my chest. I caressed her slick folds, clit swelling under fingers. Side by side, my shaft nudged her soaked lips, teasing till she shattered, pussy clenching air.
She guided me in, raw, deep. No condom—reckless heat. I pounded, twisting nipples, her cries echoing off glass walls. We exploded together, sweat-slicked, spent.
The Excess
Sunrise bathed her nude form—perfect tits rising, red lips parted. Morning fury: I rode her reverse, ass grinding back. Fingers probed her tight anus, cock buried deep. She cleaned me with eager tongue, cum-glazed.
Shopping spree: luxury boutiques, not bargains—silk skirts, designer heels. My garage lent her a sleek Twingo. Confessions poured: her fall from grace, compromises survived. I claimed her fully.
Christmas eve, candlelight danced on her satin micro-dress, navel bare, thighs sheathed in black stockings. No bra—nipples peaked. Fruits de mer on silver, champagne bubbling crisp.
She bared her trimmed pussy, invitation blatant. On the sheepskin rug, tongue delved her juicy slit, clit throbbing. ‘Fuck me to make our baby,’ she begged. Ring slid on—diamonds flashing. I thrust home, balls-deep, her walls milking every drop. Walls of glass guarded our secret, city blind to our primal union.
Now, she studies, works, carries our child. Penthouse pulses with her—luxury alive, lust eternal.
