July heat lingers as we wrap village games. I invite Manon, my 21-year-old volunteer, to my penthouse overlooking the city skyline. Divorced elite, child in alternance, this week’s mine. Marble floors gleam, vast Persian rug cushions us. Crystal glasses chill pastis, hers splashed grenadine. She’s average height, brunette waves, joyful spark. Full hips sway in tight black leggings, white tee hugs her plump ass. Tanga lines tease. I crave those curves.
We sink into the rug, apero platter: olives, artisanal crisps. Dressed sharp—basket socks, pants, tee, gold chains glinting. She’s braless vibe, carefree. 7 PM, second rounds down. ‘Strip Questions on Stranger Things?’ I propose, laptop ready with 30 enigmas. She grins. ‘You’ll strip first.’ Eleven, Mike? She knows actors’ lives. I lose first five. Socks, shirt, pants gone. Laughter echoes off glass walls.
The Privilege
She drops four, I six more. Boxer clings. Her bra falls next—small, firm pear breasts, milky white, pink nipples crowning lush areolas. My thick cock strains. Third pastis flows. She wins, exults. Boxer drops. Veiny shaft rigid, not long but girthy. Her eyes lock, appreciative. Hard question. She loses. Tanga slides off. Facing me, legs akimbo: neat brown bush, tight slit promising nectar, hooded clit.
‘Massage heads, three minutes,’ I say. She wins. Fingers knead her scalp, firm circles. She melts. Next: chest massage. She wins again, lies back. Palms glide belly, flanks, circle tits. Tease nipples last seconds—hard peaks under circling palms. She sits, pussy lips parting, glistening. Pastis power or innate hunger?
‘Mouth massage next.’ She loses. Five minutes on my torso. Lips trail, tongue flicks belly. Cock brushes cheek. She turns, licks base, laps pre-cum, engulfs. Swirls slow, expert. Deep throbs before alarm. She pops off smirking.
Same gage. She wins. Between her thighs, hands part lips. Tongue savors apricot folds, laps slit, sucks clit swelling. She quakes. Alarm cuts bliss.
The Excess
Butt massage. Easy question—she wins. Cushion under belly, legs spread over mine. Chubby cheeks spread, pink rosebud, gaping wet slit. Ten-minute cheat. Knead globes, thumbs ravage lips, plunge inner folds. She floods cushion, bucks back. Gasps ragged.
Time. Cock aches. ‘Stop or final gage?’ Her eyes fix my shaft. ‘If I win, you ride me. Lose, spoon.’ Eyes widen. Hard question. She nails it.
Condom on, I lie. She straddles, guides thick head to slick entrance. Slow sink, pause, rise. Full hilt, she arches—gorgeous, curvy power. Gyrates, moans deep. Kisses fierce. I suck tits, nipples taut. Hand grinds clit. She shatters—squirting flood, cries pierce penthouse. Still strokes her.
She remounts, urgent. Hands grip fat ass. Thrusts buck wild. Eyes lock: her intensity mirrors mine. Climax hits—balls tighten, pulse deep in her grip.
She curls beside, whispers: ‘First real fuck.’ I confess obsession. ‘More games soon?’ She blushes, dresses, cheek kiss, gone. City lights wink below. Next game’s brewing—tame or wild?
