The elevator hums to the penthouse summit, glass walls framing the glittering Boukiztan skyline. I step out, heels sinking into plush Persian rugs. Crystal chandeliers drip light over leather sofas, soft as sin. Jupiter lounges there, shirt unbuttoned, cigar smoke curling. The Prime Minister sips vintage Dom Pérignon, bubbles teasing her lips. Economy Minister—tonight’s plaything—eyes me hungrily. Propaganda’s my role, but here, I’m the seductress in silk. ‘Numbers?’ Jupiter growls. ‘Bad,’ she replies. Laughter mixes with clinking glasses. We toast stability at 500 dead a day. Masks? Useless, then mandatory. Slips turned scarves—genius, relaunching kangaroo undies. I hum the partisan song, voice husky, hand grazing his thigh. Panoramix’s potion? Cholera risk, we spin. Déguelassus at 300 bucks—economy thrives. Child knocks later, but that’s Diogène’s garden interlude. Here, power pulses. Jupiter’s hand slides up my dress, fingers firm. ‘Elections? Postpone.’ Leather creaks as I straddle the Prime Minister, lips brushing her neck. Exclusivity thrums—us against the plague-ridden masses.
Champagne spills, sticky on skin. Jupiter yanks my lace aside, thrusts deep while Economy Minister watches, stroking herself. ‘Platon’s Republic,’ he grunts, pounding rhythmically. I gasp, walls of glass magnifying the city below—our empire. Prime Minister joins, tongue flicking my clit as Jupiter fills me, raw and relentless. No condoms, no limits; elite seed spills free. Ministers swap—her strap-on invades me, his cock in her mouth. Sweat slicks marble floors. Diogène’s tale filters in via video: lantern, child drinking from hands, cup tossed. ‘Unnecessary chains,’ he sneers. We laugh mid-fuck, mocking his barrel. Jupiter debates phantom-style: ‘Prison freer?’ I ride him harder, nails raking his chest. Ministers pile on—double penetration, asses grinding, moans echoing off infinity pool views. Cum drips, bodies slick. ‘Fusillate ministers,’ Diogène quips on screen. We climax to that, convulsions shaking the suite. Excess unbound, plague forgotten in this velvet cage.
The Privilege
Dawn creeps through tinted panes. Bodies entwine on 1000-thread sheets, silk cooling fevered skin. Jupiter snores, arm over Prime Minister’s breast. I sip leftover champagne, bubbles tart. Staff whisks evidence—sheets changed, mirrors wiped. Discretion seals it: NDAs thicker than cum. City awakens below, masked fools oblivious. Diogène’s words linger—’cultivate gardens’—but our garden’s this tower, fertile with secrets. Child’s innocence? A prop in his vid, untouched here. We dress, power suits crisp. Elevator descends, empire intact. Lust lingers like cigar ash, exclusive to us.
