Thursday afternoon, I wait outside her drab admin building, heart pounding. Justine emerges on sensible heels, drops her bag in shock. Her eyes widen—Boris, from Brazil? I pull her close, hand firm on her waist. We stroll to a terrace café. Champagne fizzes, crisp and golden, bubbles teasing my tongue like her old kisses. I confess: can’t forget her. Propose four days of us, till Sunday flight. She hesitates, mentions work. I grip her hands. ‘Take sick leave. You’re mine now.’ Kiss her hard over the table. She melts, responds fiercely.
City lights flicker as we wander hand-in-hand. New hi-tech towers pierce the sky, eco-pyramids mocking affordability. I spot boutiques. Buy her a sleek black dress, hugging her curves. Fitting room curtain slips—flash of thigh, nipple peek. Memories surge. At Le Couvent des Ursulines, ancient stone cloisters reborn luxury. Verrière-domed courtyard glows. Grand white piano gleams. Seated near it, langoustine and foie gras melt decadently—creamy, briny bliss. Light sparkling wine flows, her cheeks flush. ‘Trying to get me drunk?’ she teases. Dessert tower: icy peaks, fruits dripping sweetness.
The Privilege
Up to the suite. Massive two-meter square bed dominates, Egyptian cotton crisp. Marble bath steams. She sways, tipsy, presses back into me. Hands slide over silk dress to bare skin. ‘I want you,’ she breathes. Clothes shed. Her half-shaved pussy glistens, pink folds begging.
I devour her. Tongue plunges into slick heat, tasting summer salt and years of want. She bucks, moans unchanged—’Aaah, like before!’ Verge hard, I mount missionary. Slide in effortless, drenched. Pump deep, her nails rake. We explode synced—her cries, my seed flooding her core. Blackout bliss. Recover heads-to-feet; I eye my cum pearl from her slit.
Second round: rub cock on clit, lift her legs skyward. Pile-drive, balls slapping. She fingers herself, we shatter again, jets hosing her depths. She jerks me back hard. Night blurs—cunnis, blowjobs, endless fucks. Sleep entwined, sweat-slick.
The Excess
Friday dawn, she calls in sick. I ravage her anew. Continental breakfast: brioche buttery, fruits juicy. Stroll city, her red polka-dot vintage dress swaying. Chinese lunch, park kisses. Back, she dons that scandalous bikini—triangle straps barely veiling tits, pubis ring teasing. I circle, erection raging. Toss her on bed, feast on curves. Hours of pounding, her screams echoing marble.
Evening simpler feast, then suite assault. Cunnilingus till she quakes. Fuck her doggy, possessive thrusts. ‘B3!’ she cries—adult bad boy time. Lick ass, thumb rim. She offers cheeks wide. Cock breaches tight ring, inching deep. Balls smack pussy. She masturbates, ‘Fill my ass!’ I erupt inside, she anal-orgasms first time. Collapse, bonded.
Saturday, ticket in hand: ‘Come to Brazil.’ She yields—’Yes, my love.’ Day of frenzy: every hole, position. Sunday, she stays to wrap life. Three weeks later, airport: ‘You’re mine.’ ‘Trial period, connard!’ Our elite saga begins.
Suite’s glass walls seal secrets. Velvet robes cocoon us post-climax. City hums below, our gasps fade to whispers. Absolute comfort, unbreakable privacy.
