I pull up to Dominique’s penthouse, the city lights sprawling below like a conquered empire. Valet takes my keys. Elevator hums to the top floor. Doors slide open into opulence: floor-to-ceiling glass walls framing the skyline, Italian leather armchairs sinking under my weight, a crystal decanter of vintage champagne chilling nearby. Dominique greets me with a firm hug. ‘Corentin, old friend.’ We sink into the cushions, the leather cool and supple against my skin. Bubbles fizz as we toast. Two months apart, but our bond endures.
He grins, eyes gleaming. ‘Got something special.’ He rings a golden bell. Kt1 enters—mid-forties, curves poured into black latex: thigh-high boots hugging thick legs, corset cinching her waist, exposing heavy pierced tits linked by silver chains, shaved pussy adorned with golden rings glinting under the chandelier. Collar with leash. Red whore nails, crimson lips. She stands, hands behind back, offered.
The Privilege
‘Dominique’s latest,’ he says. We chat her training: the ad he posted, her novice eagerness molded into this. Piercings fresh—healed fast. She spreads legs, fingers parting lips, showing five rings framing her clit hood. Champagne tastes sharper now, arousal mixing with fizz.
He demonstrates. ‘Safeword: Kali.’ She kneels, language unknown: ‘Mikum kwo denkaas?’ ‘Povaam.’ He unzips, cock rigid. She engulfs it, throat working deep. Ass swaying, tits swinging. He slaps them, tugs chains. ‘My thing.’ She mounts reverse, rings clinking as pussy swallows him whole. Hips grind, pierced labia flashing. Then cleans him, tongue lapping her juices.
‘Your turn.’ Leash in my hand. She approaches sinuous, kneels: ‘Your cock, Sir.’ I let her unzip me, lips hot on my shaft. Leather creaks as I lean back. Tongue swirls, balls massaged firm.
The Excess
The city pulses outside, oblivious. Power surges—hers surrendered, mine absolute.
She spitslides my length between her tits, tongue flicking the tip. Then balls: both in her mouth, sucking velvet fire. I stand her doggy on the armchair, condom sheathed. Pussy yields slick, hot. Thrusts deep, her moans muffled in leather. Pull out, aim anus. Gland breaches ring, tight resistance. She spreads cheeks: ‘Fuck my ass, Sir!’ I ram, tearing cries, tears. Balls slap flesh. Chain yanked like reins: ‘My mare!’ She bucks, fingers her clit. I explode deep, her spasms milking me dry.
We collapse, sweat-slick on silk throws. Champagne refills, cool against fevered skin. Glass walls seal our secret, city whispers below.
Days later, supermarket aisle. Her voice: ‘Hello, Sir. Kibom Soyaam.’ Normal clothes, Catherine again. We chat low—consent confirmed, cravings shared. ‘See you Saturday.’ She sways away, heels clicking promise. Penthouse awaits, our elite game unbroken, discreet in luxury’s veil.
