After her shuddering orgasm on that hidden bench by the Medici Fountain in Luxembourg Gardens, Melanie nestled against me. I had already summoned a premium Club Affaires taxi. Spotting the sleek black Audi A8 at the corner of Rue de Medicis and Vaugirard, we slid into the back. I gave the driver the address: 131 Rue du Bac, 7th arrondissement. But detour via Ile de la Cite, Louvre, Invalides. Twenty minutes of shadowed privacy.
She kicked off her heels, stretching her legs across the leather bench. We chatted easy—her flight tomorrow to join her husband across the globe, our online dating escapades. Lips brushed in quick, heated kisses, careful not to draw the driver’s eyes via rearview. Hands roamed free from sight. I cupped her full breasts. Her fingers teased up my thigh, unzipped me, slipped into my boxers. She stroked slow, my cock swelling hard.
From Luxembourg Gardens to Luxe Limo Ride
“Your cock’s gorgeous,” she whispered. Glancing at the mirror, she leaned down, lips parting crimson, engulfing me in wet heat. Tongue swirled my glans, lapping pre-cum beads. Eyes locked on mine, she licked like melting ice cream, up and down the shaft. Deeper now, sucking, teasing the slit. She knew her way around a blowjob—balls in her mouth, cock on her nose. I fought the edge, hands light on her back. No guiding her head yet. She pumped with hand and mouth, relentless.
Pulling up Rue de Grenelle, I stopped her. “Not yet. Bigger plans.” She pouted but fixed her lipstick. We stepped out at Le Bon Marche’s back entrance. Her face lit up at the art deco sign on Rue du Bac and Babylon.
Escalator up, past security gates. Into the new lingerie wing—intimate, luxe, seduction central. Stella McCartney, Simone Perele, Andres Sarda. She grinned: “Buying me lingerie?” “Try first,” I said. We browsed, touching lace, silk. She picked Bahia blue night set from Andres Sarda, Ellie Leaping Stella string set. I pushed Amour push-up and anthracite shorty, plus black Look body.
Lingerie Trial Turns Intense
Cabin 22, isolated. I waited in the deep armchair. First, Bahia. She spun, lace hugging her tits, shorty sculpting her ass. I groped those cheeks, kissed her neck. She arched, nipples poking through. Mirror showed every angle. “Perfect,” I breathed, stepping out.
Stella was too girly—skipped. Then Amour set, heels back on. Towering, erotic. Lace and satin perfection. We kissed fierce, tongues dancing. She ground against my bulge, pushed me to the bench. Kneeling, boxers down, she worshipped my throbbing cock. Lips on glans, kitten licks, deep throating smooth—no teeth. Eyes up, balls fondled. Fast sucks, slow swirls. I bucked.
“Gonna cum.” She swallowed whole, lips to pubes. I exploded, jets flooding her throat. She gulped every drop, cleaned me tender. “Now we’re even—your park orgasm, mine here. More?” “Body next. Wear it out.”
Look body fit divine. She dressed over it—robe, heels, coat. I paid for the sets, ditched Stella. Employee’s knowing smile as we left, bags in hand. Her flight loomed. My train tomorrow. Perfect anonymous fuckover—raw, urgent, gone by dawn.