The high-security warehouse near Paris hums with crates of rare editions destined for elite boutiques. Leather-bound firsts, gold-embossed tomes for billionaires. I’m twenty-eight, stock handler in this velvet-gloved operation. President’s office gleams upstairs, all smoked glass and mahogany. Salary modest, but CDI secure. Claire, my pearl, three years younger, sharp as a stiletto. Met during VIP author signing rush—I delivered gratis on my day off. She fed me escargots with the star. Now we share a sleek Paris pied-à-terre, Seine views through floor-to-ceiling panes.
Her lithe frame curls into me on cashmere throws. Tousled brunette locks, pert breasts under silk. Bed play fierce—her playful bites under my ear, hips grinding. She tolerates my solo sessions, even peeks to spark herself. Rare oral from her: timid laps, needs my edge first.
The Privilege
Lunch in the polished break room. Kamasutra deluxe edition sparks talk. Patricia yawns: ‘Blowjobs? Fun start, tedious repeat.’ Étienne, twenty, effete geek in slim wool pants, Nirvana tee hugging his toned frame: ‘I adore giving.’ I joke: ‘Wish women matched you.’ His wink lingers.
Next day, restrooms’ cool marble. He washes hands, drops: mimic of eager suck. ‘If you want…’ Dead serious. Tall, precise voice gravelly. Clean-shaven jaw, waxed quiff. I email: ‘Unload this big file?’ He replies: ‘9:45, right stall.’ Heart hammers. Curiosity, not cheating. Just guys.
Cabin clicks shut. ‘Relax, baby.’ Kneels on heated tiles. Unzips, nuzzles through cotton. Bites fabric. Drops drawers, inhales musk. Tongue worships shaft, balls sucked velvet. Engulfs deep-throat heaven. Waves crash. I flood his throat. He swallows, winks. Paradise.
Home: Claire’s floral chiffon skirt hikes. Champagne fizz on her tongue—wait, amber beer actually, but velvet lips. Straddles, wet heat swallows me. Quick fury, her fingers chasing peak atop my spent cock.
Rhythm ignites. Toilets, desk, car leather gripping as he slurps driving. Office thrill: Alice chats commitment while he rims, fingers prostate-milks under desk. I fake type, gush silent.
The Excess
Friday stall: ‘Fuck me.’ Ass peach-firm, lubed by pre-cum. He impales reverse. Tight vise milks. I grip hips, thrust passive. We spurt synced.
Sunday penthouse solitude. He invades post-gym. Hands roam sweat-slick abs. Kneels, rims obscene. Then breaches me over dining oak. Filled, owned. Dual climaxes shatter.
Midweek cinema night. WhatsApp: ‘9pm, surprise.’ Claire departs, ear-nibble promise. Doorbell: Étienne, Pulp Fiction tee beside Naïm—ebony tower, bespoke suit, relaxed power.
Couch sinks under us. Shorts yanked. Twin tongues duel my crown. I erupt fast. Rotations blur: suck black velvet shaft, salty new texture. Étienne begs: ‘Fuck me.’ I pound, Naïm reams me piston-cruel. Guttural roars.
Door swings. Claire freezes. Jaw drops. Trio halts, sandwich-locked. ‘Claire, love—it’s not…’ ‘Totally not,’ she snaps.
