My leather armchair sighs as I slump behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of my elite apartment. Overlooking the manicured private park, Geneviève’s mansion gleams opposite. She’s insatiable, forcing me to stroke myself thrice already. Revenge for my last flop? She presses naked against her glass, mimicking the doctor’s savage fuck. Lips moving: ‘Tomorrow.’ She wants me watching her lover claim her. I signal yes.
I cancel revisions with friends. Isabelle arrives alone—my plan. She’s sharp, lithe, in a silk blouse hugging pert breasts. We kiss cheeks, platonic. Spread notes on the mahogany table. Chilled Veuve Clicquot waits, not cheap soda. Binoculars lurk by the window, hidden till needed.
The Privilege
Work drags. My eyes flick to her windows. Curtains part. Showtime. I stretch. ‘Break? Champagne?’
From the kitchen island of polished marble, I watch Isabelle jolt as Geneviève flattens against glass, doctor grinding behind. She hesitates, stares. Grabs binoculars. Game on.
I pour fizzing gold. Hands on her shoulders. She comments: ‘He’s unbuttoning her blouse.’ I mimic, fingers trembling on silk. Her nipples harden under lace. Across, Geneviève directs—top off, skirt drops. Isabelle echoes, skin glowing in chandelier light.
Nude now, she braces arms high against cool glass, mirroring perfectly. Pubic curls crush the pane. Shame burns her cheeks, but thrill pulses. Elite game: exposed, desired, untouchable yet raw.
The air thickens with privilege. Silk whispers off. Champagne bubbles on tongues. Park shadows hide us from the world. Only they see.
Doctor thrusts. Geneviève arches. I align, cock rigid against Isabelle’s slick heat. Rhythms sync. Her walls clench. Poised on glass edge, we fuck like beasts in a crystal cage.
Excess unleashes. No mercy. Her gasps fog the pane. I pound deep, balls slapping. She cries out, eyes locked on Geneviève’s writhing form. Doctor’s hands bruise hips. Mine dig in. Sweat beads on marble floors. Her pussy grips, milking. Pubes mash glass in unison—hers, Geneviève’s.
The Excess
Orgasm rips her. Eyes squeeze shut, then snap open. Geneviève’s arm drops—she came too. My jets flood Isabelle, hot spurts claiming. Doctor vanishes. We collapse, spent against luxury’s chill.
Women linger, breasts heaving, stares electric across void. Geneviève curtains drop. Show ends.
Isabelle sinks to leather sofa, thighs slick. Lack gnaws her—I see it. Wanted Geneviève’s fingers on herself, mimicking that too. Next time.
We kiss. My cock stirs. She smiles, arches back. Second round on cushions, private now. Shower after—steamy marble, her first yielding to my soapy hands on curves.
Days later, her husband dies. She leaves mansion, stripper dreams. Orphans Francine to boarding school. Last gift: solo window tease, body undulating like forbidden ballet.
Years blur. DESS done, job in capital awaits. Pack last boxes. Windows stare back empty. Memories fade—Geneviève’s curves blur. Francine dances in mind’s lawn, skirt flaring.
Glass walls seal secrets. Park whispers nothing. I lock up. World calls.
