The screening room hummed in Canaille But’s glass-walled fortress, a velvet bunker for the elite. Chesterfield leather sofa gleamed under dim spots, vast screen loomed like a bedroom window to depravity. Alix Averseng perched beside me, her bare arms glowing against black crepe skirt, shoulders bare in sleeveless turtleneck. No jewelry but a man’s rectangular watch ticking power. Her short brown hair tousled, bottines laced tight. Mid-thirties steel in a Croft-killer frame.
We’d screened my Quebecois-dubbed porno disaster—Shaddokh railing blonde Shakwanna. Laughter sealed our pact. Now, rescheduled voices: legends like Robert C. and Marthe V., Fanny A., Fabrice L. Her eyes devoured me post-dubs. ‘Your voice, Paul. I love it.’ Micros primed, Momo in the booth. She pulled me to stools, eyes wicked. ‘Our turn.’ Screen flared: warrior claiming queen. Her murmur started, husky French silk over grunts. Mine joined, deep timbre syncing thrusts.
The Privilege
Privilege pulsed. Champagne chilled nearby, bubbles sharp on tongue from earlier toast. Her perfume, green and feral, cut the AC hum. Legs crossed, heels today—sky-high pumps baring endless stems. We bantered scripts, her laugh low, exclusive. No footeux pricks, just us in this soundproof lair. Momo’s voice crackled: ‘Ready?’ Her nod, my pulse. Intimacy of elites: voices weaving porn into art, her gaze promising more than deal.
She rose post-dub, deal signed upstairs. But now, final take. Bâche tricolore hid Momo: ‘Ce soir, on les met toutes au fond!’ Laugh rippled. Skirt rode high, blouse taut over small tits. Tension hummed. ‘Not like usual,’ she purred. We sank into Chesterfield, leather cool, supple under palms. Screen reignited: insults flew, cocks plunged.
Excess erupted. Her voice dripped venom, mine growled back. Hand grazed cheek, neck, dove into blouse. Buttons yielded. No bra—pierced nipples gleamed, chrome bars framing hard peaks. Tongue circled, sucked, bit. She moaned into mic, real filth spilling: ‘Salope!’ Screen bitch raged; Alix arched, real. Skirt zipped down, stockings rasped under fingers, lace garter snapped. Tanga peeled, pussy bare, slick.
The Excess
She yanked my shirt, nails raked back. Fought like film—fake fury, true fire. Tied wrists in blouse fabric; she yielded, eyes begging ravage. Tongue plunged her folds, clit throbbed. ‘Oui!’ not scripted. Cock freed, rammed home—no rubber, raw grip milking. Sofa creaked, leather slick with sweat. She bucked, pierced tits scraping chest. Flipped her, ass up; pounded savage, balls slapping. Her cries peaked—VU meter redlined.
Rolled to floor, she mounted, cunt devouring, grinding fierce. Eyes locked, she owned rhythm till I burst, flooding deep. She quivered, came again, body bowed like bowstring snapped.
Discretion cloaked us. Breath ragged, leather sighs faded. Momo buzzed: ‘Exceptional!’ Unseen, oblivious. She dressed swift, skirt smoothed, blouse buttoned. Kiss lingered—soft, promise. ‘Accident,’ she whispered, eyes conflicted. Left me hard, aching. Bureau ascent: contract inked, but heart raced. Glass walls sealed secrets; elite games thrived in silence. Momo’s ‘Chaud!’ echoed. Her laugh trailed. Power’s afterglow: champagne flat, but taste lingered. Voice bound us—hers velvet command, mine deep surrender. Penthouse views paled; this den was our throne.
