I arrive first at the hotel suite, hidden under a black hat. Silent. I grab the keycard, ride up. In the bathroom, I unpack: toothbrush, contact case, scented lotion. Long shower. Teeth brushed spotless. Huge robe on. Makeup check. Back to the main room.
I set up: phone speaker, power strip for laptop, chargers. Gel. Snacks from the gourmet shop: white grapes, apricots, dark chocolate, Poilâne bread, pickle slices. Cider and water bottles chilling.
The Fever
Bach’s concerto by Glenn Gould blasts from my phone. I stretch on the massive American king bed—built for giants like us, 6’2″ and 6’1″. Eyes shut. Drift off.
Feather-light stroke on inner thighs wakes me. Shivers ripple. Tiny sighs escape. Eyes closed, I guess whose fingers. That old joke with Francis hits: easier for a man to recognize a girl by her blowjob, or vice versa? We laughed hard.
A kiss. Sweet taste, familiar lips. Francis, my youth love. Married 25 years, passion faded, but he keeps hunting me. Eyes open. He’s naked beside me, grinning, eyes devouring. Full kiss. Urgent caresses. I melt, pussy soaking. Water runs in the bathroom. He smirks, knowing.
Planned. Still, I tremble. His touches spark orgasm one. I try to impale on him. He holds back. Lifts me, strips robe. Right breast to his mouth—wet, hot tongue. Sigh rips out. Fresh gush from deep inside.
Water stops. Head pokes: ‘Wait for me!’ Jérémy. Left him 10 years ago for marriage, kids. He became happy husband, father. But memories won.
Fear spikes. What if this erases my friend Francis? No. He’s the spark for all this fire. Eternal buddy, lover.
His scent floods— that addictive cologne from every perfume counter I’ve sniffed for years. I cum again on memories.
Jérémy drops robe. Eyes lock. Unchanged. Smiling glow. Francis caresses possessive, then pulls back, hard as rock.
The Blaze
Jérémy lies close. Hands shake on my breast, roam. Tender rough grab of ass, yanks me to him. Cock throbs. Francis blocks instant thrust.
Ache! Craving cut short. But for longer burn. I breathe deep. We kiss. Love his lips, menthol blonde cig taste. Hot expert tongue licks mine. Another orgasm crashes.
Francis tugs arm. Positions head-to-toe on vast bed. My pussy over his face. He licks—gentle, skilled, precise. Jérémy behind, tongue like rose petal. They make me cum together. Tongues brush, no dodge.
Breath quickens. Harder. Moans. Then scream—like pain to strangers. Hold back. Juices flood Francis’s face. Jérémy tongues ass. Francis unreal caress. Pleasure surges from cunt to kidneys. No tongue feel. Bach masks filthy cries.
Francis lies back. I straddle. He teases entry, denies. Jérémy behind, doggy. Butt-fucks slow. Worry flash. Like yesterday. Cockhead presses anus. Hand up—he pauses. I relax sphincter. He slides in. Full. Steady pump. His body pressure ignites. Cum, scream. Relax, cum, scream.
Jérémy lays me gentle on Francis, stays buried. Francis enters pussy. Tingles circle walls. Deeper. Clit grinds his body. Jérémy syncs, hits G-spot. I scream! How not? Wild orgasms. Don’t know who cums first. All together?
Sweat-soaked, gasping. Collapse. Towel off with robe. I pass out in four arms. Jérémy kisses, showers.
Wake: Francis gone. Gives us space. Jérémy: ‘So! Why scream so loud?’ Laughter. Back to old days. Demand details.
Hard to voice: thigh fingers—shivers, unknown fear like rape, then recognition calms, heightens. Kiss vibrates clit. Water sound contracts pussy, tickle-tingles in belly. That’s my cum.