I arrived first at the penthouse suite, veiled under a black hat, silent. Snatched the magnetic keycard. Rode the private elevator up. Unpacked in the marble bathroom: toothbrush, contact case, scented body milk. Long shower, steam fogging mirrored walls. Brushed teeth meticulously. Slipped into the massive Egyptian cotton robe hanging behind the door. Checked makeup. Emerged into the main room, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the glittering city skyline.
Set up my essentials. Phone speaker. Multi-plug for the laptop. Phone chargers. Lube. Provisions from the fine grocer: white grapes, ripe apricots, dark chocolate, Poilâne bread sliced thin, pickled herring, chilled cider, petite water bottles restocked in the bar fridge. Pulled Bach’s concerto, Glenn Gould’s masterful rendition, from my smartphone. Stretched out on one of the enormous American hotel beds—1.87 meters by 1.85 meters, perfect for giants like us. Closed my eyes. Drifted off.
The Privilege
A feather-light stroke on my inner thighs woke me. Shivers raced up. Soft sighs escaped. Eyes shut, I traced those fingertips. Recalled our joke, Francis and mine: ‘Is it easier for a man to recognize a girl from her blowjob, or a girl her man from giving him one?’ We laughed hard. A kiss. Sweet taste, familiar lip texture. Francis, my youthful love. Married twenty-five years, yet he hunts me still.
Opened my eyes. Him, naked beside me, grinning roguishly. Full kiss. Urgent caresses. I melted, soaked already. Then, water running in the bathroom. Francis’s smile turned conspiratorial. Planned. I trembled. His touches ignited orgasm instantly. Lunged to impale myself. He held me back. Lifted me, stripped the robe. Drew my right breast to his mouth. Hot wet tongue. Another sigh, fresh gush from deep within. Water stopped. Head at the door: ‘Wait for me!’ Jérémy.
Left him ten years ago for the father of my children. Left a hardened bachelor. Now happy husband, father. But memories lured him back. Ten years! Optimal conditions. Fear flickered—could I erase our friend? No. Francis sparked my constant arousal. Eternal accomplice, friend, lover. His intoxicating scent filled the air, one I’d sniffed in perfumeries for years. Another climax from memories alone.
Jérémy approached. Robe pooled at his feet. Eyes locked. Unchanged. Radiant smile. Francis caressed possessively, then eased back, aroused. Jérémy lay beside me. Hands trembled on my breast, roamed. Tender brutality: gripped my ass, pressed me to his hardness. Francis tsked, pushed him gently. Not yet. Agony of denial. For endurance. I breathed deep. We kissed. Loved those lips, menthol blonde cigarette tang. Expert tongue licked mine. Another orgasm.
The Excess
Francis tugged my arm. Positioned head-to-toe on the vast bed, pussy over his face. Licked with precision, dexterity. Jérémy behind, rose-petal tongue on my ass. Climax built. Their tongues brushed occasionally, unshy. Breathing quickened. Moans. Then a scream—raw, primal. Held back. Juices dripped on Francis. Jérémy tongued my anus. Francis’s unreal caress. Pleasure surged from cunt to loins. Bach muffled the obscene explosions that might summon neighbors—or cops.
Pleasure ebbed. They withdrew, wiped faces, sheathed cocks. Francis on back. Mounted him—but he pushed away. Unknown script, tacitly agreed. Jérémy behind, doggy. Eased into my ass. Moment’s worry. Like yesterday. Sphincter relaxed. He filled me fully. Steady, gentle thrusts. His full body pressure sparked screams, orgasms. Eased me down onto Francis. He entered my pussy. Jérémy stilled deep. Tingles circled my walls. Francis deeper. Clit ground against him. Jérémy synced, hitting G-spot. Endless climaxes. Screams. Who came first? Together? With me? Unknown.
Sweaty, gasping, sprawled. Dried with robes. Passed out in their arms. Jérémy kissed, showered. Woke alone with him. Francis gone tactfully. ‘So! Tell me. Why the screams?’ Laughter. Old times. Demanded details, clear-voiced.
Hard to articulate: Thigh fingers—shivers, fear of stranger, rape, force. Recognition soothed, relaxed beyond tension. Kiss vibrated, clit relay fired. Water triggered cunt contractions, tickle-not-tickle in belly. That’s orgasm. Pure, distilled.
