I glance at my watch. Five minutes to closing. Exhaustion grips me after this endless Saturday in the elite silverware gallery. Pure wool carpet clings to my stilettos—’Madame’ insists on flats, naturally. Heavy silver platters sink into velvet-lined cases. That last couple: young, married, obscenely rich. He, soft-spoken to her, made me unpack the entire collection. First time for such clients in my career.
Un sly smile creeps as I recall. While displaying gleaming trays, he tilts one, head back, mirroring himself. No—peering under my flared skirt. My gray eyes widen. Legs sheathed in self-holding stockings, that thigh bulge, red thong, plump ass cheeks. He ogles. ‘Pig,’ I think. Then mischief stirs. I open the low drawer of inclined platters. Position perfectly. Reflections beam my intimates under spotlights. I wink. Complicit. Friendly tease.
The Privilege
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Darling, see this collection.’ She leans over. Full view: my curves in silver glow. Her grip clamps my wrist. Heat floods my cheeks. Boss distant with an old regular. Madame at the register, oblivious. I freeze. No scream. No scandal. She releases. Smiles. I shift, irked yet intrigued.
Grabbing another tray, hand trembles. She mirrors my pose. Drawer low. Curiosity pulls my gaze. No panties. Gray stockings halt mid-thigh. Tanned cheeks bear bikini tan lines. Shaved mound. She spreads slightly, knees flex. Pussy lips protrude, slick with arousal. Spots glint wet flesh. Breath catches. Exhibitionists. My core throbs. Clit swells. Heat waves crash. In the shop? Absurd. Yet my thong soaks.
‘Mademoiselle!’ Madame snaps. I bolt. Coat, bag, out to the bus.
A soft hand on my shoulder. Her. ‘One drink? Please.’ Crowd shields. Curiosity wins. Two steps to the smoky bistro. Dim lights, leather banquettes, cigar haze veiling the elite. Achille rises. Fine hands, gold signet. ‘Achille. My wife, Isabelle.’ We sit. Intimate corner.
The Excess
‘Thank you for earlier,’ she whispers. ‘We crave such thrills. Rare boutiques allow it.’ ‘Vice?’ I quip. They beam. ‘Did it excite you?’ Her eyes pierce. I hesitate. Thong drenched then, aching now. Old man nearby eavesdrops, flushed.
She leans, breasts on marble. ‘Me? I fingered myself in the loo.’ Achille smirks, hand pocketed. I lean in. ‘Your bare slit, lips dripping nectar… Yes. Soaked me.’ They glow. His hand kneads her thigh under table. Her breath hitches.
‘What next?’ she urges. ‘Thong drenched. No relief.’ ‘Come.’ She pulls me to the toilets. Lock clicks. Lips crash. Tongue invades—velvet, hot. First girl kiss. Divine. Hands claim my small tits, nipples harden. No bra. Fingers trail stockings, silk electric. Thong aside. Expert nail circles clit. Knees buckle. Thumb plunges. I buck, moan. Hips grind her thigh.
My hands dive. Skirt up. Firm ass cheeks yield. Spread them. Fingers probe her sopping core. She gasps. We grind, fingers frantic. Climax rips us. Panting, spent. Soft kiss. ‘Thanks.’
