That sweltering July in our family’s Paris penthouse, high above the glittering cityscape. Balcony doors framed endless rooftops. Leather sofa hugged my skin like a lover’s whisper. Post-bac summer, parents away, boyfriend Geoffrey vanished to the provinces. Boredom reigned until the scaffold arrived.
Three workers in the nacelle. Mustapha descended first. Forty-four, Tunisian, skin bronzed by sun and labor. Paint-splattered overalls clung to his muscled frame. He knocked on the half-open salon window. I approached in tiny summer skirt, navel-baring tee. His dark eyes devoured me. ‘I’ll paint here for days, mademoiselle. Leave keys or stay.’
The Privilege
Midday siesta on the supple leather. Woke to his gaze, bold and hungry. Fled, heart racing. Later, clearing dishes, he called. Apologized for watching me sleep an hour. Eyes traced my curves. Forty-four, single, fresh from Tunisia. Chatted endlessly. ‘You’re a pretty flower.’ Blush burned. Legs trembled carrying plates, his stare on my ass.
Next morning, parents gone. Shower steam faded when he tapped. Rushed out in silk peignoir, damp hair dripping. Eyes widened at my barely covered body. Opened window. Nacelle rose with his mates: young one, Black guy, elder whistled approval. Arabic laughter echoed. Mustapha chatted compliments. Natural beauty, he purred.
Dressed deliberately. Pink beach dress, mid-thigh, whisper-light. White lace string bikini underneath. Salon TV on, ignored him. Whistle of admiration. Talk flowed. Boyfriend far away? Pity for such beauty alone. His perch on ladder gave plunging views. Crossed legs teasingly. He stared.
Midday nacelle. Lunch invite declined. Alone, string soaked. Post-meal, magazine in hand. Stretched on sofa, feet balcony-ward. Feigned sleep. Legs parted slightly. He approached. Eyes locked on lace crotch. Five minutes of his greedy stare. Stirred, chatted more. Flattery poured.
Thirst struck. Chilled lemon water on silver tray. Sat opposite in armchair. Legs crossed, uncrossed. Flashes of white lace. Heat thickened air. Sweat beaded. Spread thighs slowly, eyes locked. His gaze dropped, fixated on open invitation.
The Excess
The leather armchair creaked under his weight. Atmosphere crackled. No escape.
Panic surged. Fled to bedroom. He followed, blocked door. ‘Too beautiful.’ Backed to bed, tumbled. Grabbed thighs, spread wide. Protested weakly. Hands roamed greedily. Dress hiked, lace string ripped off. Stared at my RATP-ticket wax. Tongue dove in, expert swirls on clit. Teased, tormented. Waves built. First orgasm shattered me, screams echoing off marble floors.
Blouse off. Naked beneath, cock thick, veined, dwarfing Geoffrey’s. Condom from pocket. Flipped me doggy on silk sheets. Fumbled entry, then thrust deep. Slow at first, building frenzy. Grunts in Arabic, French filth: ‘Take it, slut.’ Railed hard. Ass high, face buried. Fifteen minutes of pounding. Second climax ripped through, howling. He exploded, collapsing sweaty on my back. Hands kneaded tits under dress.
Nacelle rumble. Colleague called. He withdrew, condom bulging, dashed out half-dressed. Laughter in Arabic below.
String discarded. Wrapper on floor. Shame flooded. Scrubbed furiously in marble shower, erasing his touch, scent of sweat and paint. Pyjamas on. Mind whirled. Guilt faint against afterglow. Mother queried workers. ‘All fine.’ Early bed, body spent.
Tuesday done. Week stretched ahead. Secrets in glass walls.
