I glide into the SmileLife studio, a discreet luxury lair tucked in the city’s elite quarter. Marble floors gleam under crystal lights. Velvet ropes guard the entrance. This isn’t some chain photobooth. It’s for insiders like me—power players craving flawless profiles. The ad promised star treatment: coaching, makeup, prints. Perfect for my CV glow-up.
First session flops. Tailored suit chokes my curves. Stiff banquette bites my ass. Photographer’s warm handshake lingers. His voice, velvet smooth. Assistant, a sour bun-head, pokes at my face. Flashes blind. I fidget. Hair rebels. Too tense, he says. Results? Trash. ‘Not you,’ he insists. Free redo. Come sexy, comfy.
The Privilege
Second round, I own it. Coiffed waves cascade. Smoky eyes smolder. Slit skirt hugs hips. Sheer blouse whispers over lace bra, thong. Two mojitos buzz my veins. He greets me solo—no assistant. Eyes rake my form. Compliments drip like champagne. ‘Gorgeous.’ Heat rises. Minibar gleams: chilled Martini awaits.
Upstairs studio pulses exclusivity. Plush new banquette, butter-soft leather cradles me. We chat tastes. I sip Martini—crisp, effervescent bite on tongue. Poses flow: legs crossed, hands back, tits thrust. Lace scrapes nipples hard. Flashes pop. His gaze devours. Pause. Another Martini. Fog lifts inhibitions. ‘Less conventional?’ I nod, buzzed, bold.
Head lolls back. Hand through hair, down neck, thighs. Skirt rides up—thong flashes. He circles, handheld camera hungry. I arch, knee up. Juices soak fabric. His growl: ‘Mmm, perfect.’ Power shifts. I crave control.
He pants: ‘Lose the skirt.’ Zipper rasps slow. Leather sighs under bare ass. Legs spread, blouse shields. Then caresses—breasts swell, nipples peak. Heat pools. Fingers trace wet thong. I peel blouse. Bra strains. Eyes lock: his plead.
The Excess
The Excess ignites. Thong aside, fingers plunge pussy—slick, greedy. Two digits curl deep. Other hand frees tit, pinches peak. Hips buck. Tongue wets lips. Anal tease: finger breaches tight ring. Double bliss. I scream, exposed.
His bulge tents pants. I grab, yank free. Cock throbs, veined steel. Gulp it whole—salty pre-cum bursts. Suck fierce, balls tight. He groans, thrusts. Pushes back: ‘Gonna eat that pussy.’ No. I beg: ‘Fuck me raw.’ He slams in—easy glide through flood. Slow grinds build. I claw hips: faster.
Doggy: ass high, he spears deep. Slaps echo. I buck back, cambre. Switch: I straddle, impale. Tits in his face—suck them. Ride hard, clit grinds. He bucks wild. Climax crashes—walls clench, juices gush. I howl. He flips, pounds to eruption. Cum floods hot. We collapse, sweat-slick, spent.
La DiscrĂ©tion descends. Silk robes drape us. Champagne fizzes—bubbles dance on tongue. Studio walls, frosted glass, seal secrets. He murmurs photos soon. I smirk: I’ve broken him. Power mine.
Days later, truth whispers. Rumors in elite circles: his hidden cam DVDs, numbered archives. 1198: me, thinking I ruled. He orchestrated every moan. No shame. Just thrill. In our world, manipulation’s the ultimate luxury.
