Our penthouse crowns the city skyline. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame twinkling lights below. Nearly two years commuting by private rail with Christine. Petite brunette. Her mystery pulls me. No man in her life, I sense it. Warm evenings, her skirts ride up on leather seats. I stare openly at smooth thighs. She feigns modesty, hand tugging hem, eyes sparkling trouble.
“Cute skirt,” I say, gaze climbing to hers. She smiles, legs parting slightly. Talks of femininity flow easy now. She leans in, teases back.
The Privilege
Friday night, quai glows under chandeliers. I invite her up. Elevator hums to our floor. Clara greets us, silk robe hugging curves. She knows my hunger. Wide smiles exchanged. Plush leather sectional cradles us. Crystal flutes brim with chilled champagne. Bubbles burst sharp on tongue, fizzing desire.
Christine sinks in, thighs brushing Clara’s. Laughter bubbles like the vintage. Simple plates arrive—caviar, foie gras—paired with rare Bordeaux. Clara rarely indulges; tonight she does. Glasses empty fast. Mood shifts as dusk paints the glass in amber.
“Stay for dinner,” I urge. Hesitation flickers. “Transports late? Crash here.” Clara nods, eyes gleaming. “Please do.” Won.
Clara slips to refresh. Returns in sheer black lingerie, legs endless, breasts full. We circle the marble table. Grins widen, alcohol warms veins.
Clear plates. Back to sectional. Lights dim. City pulses outside. I grab the camera. “You two look stunning. Closer? Clara, kiss her cheek?”
Christine’s hand cups Clara’s face. Peck ignites. Lips lock, hungry. Tongues dance. I freeze, lens forgotten. Silence thick. Clara breaks it: “Join us.”
I slide beside them. Christine between. Hands wander under fabric. I watch, pulse racing. Passive. Theirs the lead.
Christine’s head drops to my lap. Clara unbuttons her blouse slow. Fingers trace jaw, neck, lace. Skin velvet-soft. Impatient, I snap bra clasp. Breasts spill—round, nipples hard peaks. She fumbles Clara’s top. Mutual unveiling.
Skirt slits wide. Legs part. Clara’s hand trails thigh to damp panties. Blue lace matches fallen bra. Wet spot blooms. Mine joins, pressing fabric. She arches, moans low.
The Excess
Panties glide down. Trim bush, slick folds. Fully bare now. I strip frantic. Couch too tight. Scoop her up—light, yielding. Carry to king bed, silk sheets cool. She smiles wicked.
More space. She shifts. Kneels, swallows my tip. Tongue swirls, hand cups balls. Ass high for Clara’s mouth.
“Switch,” I gasp. Lay her back. Clara straddles face, dripping. I dive into Christine’s slit—tart nectar floods. She bucks. Clara grinds, pinched lips quiver.
Fingers probe. Juice slicks ass. Dip in anus slow. “Like being filled, slut? Tongue-fuck my wife’s cunt while I raid your holes.”
“Yes… deeper…”
She shudders first. Contractions grip fingers. Clara follows, collapsing wet.
“Your turn.” Clara mounts. Christine guides me in—hot, slick. Balls caressed. Switch. Christine’s tight grip milks. Thrusts build. Explode inside her.
Emboîtés long. Clara fingers self beside.
Night blurs. More rounds. Dawn creeps through glass.
