Spring Saturday in Hauts-de-France. 4:30 pm. My husband grabs the suitcase. I slip into my sexy black dress, sheer stockings, killer heels. Minimal makeup. Heart races. We’re transiting through this anonymous city. Gone tomorrow. No one knows us. Pure freedom. Car ride starts slow. His hand on my thigh. Fingers tease my thong, graze my clit. I purr, swat him away. ‘Save it for later.’ He sneaks into my bra, kneads my right tit. ‘Eyes on the road!’ We laugh. I squeeze his bulge. ‘You do this to me.’ Love in our eyes. Anxious thrill bubbles. What if I’m not enough? He reassures. Pull into the chateau’s wrought-iron gates. Park in the lot. Massive manor looms. Reception hands keycard. Suite des Hérons, attic hideaway. Park view from salon windows. He kisses me, gropes tits. ‘Pick dinner.’ I scan menu. He preps: rearranges bedroom, bathroom, secret side room. Orders food. I whine playfully. Read my book. Stroll salon corners. 7 pm park walk. Fresh air. 19h sharp: keycard beeps. Up creaky stairs. Door thuds open. Salon glows. Photos first. Pose sexy. Click click. 20h. Blindfold ties tight. No peeking. Guides to side room. Soft music, floral scent. Strips me slow. Kisses tits, ass. Fingers pussy lips, spreads cheeks. Lie face-down on massage table. Towel over butt. He vanishes. Warm oil drips. Neck, shoulders relax. Back, legs. Four hands now. I jolt. ‘Trust me, love.’ Unknown hands on calves, thighs. Effleurage ass. Squeeze cheeks. Spread them. Finger traces clit, lips, asshole. I moan. Flip me. Hands roam belly, tits. Mouths suck nipples. Tongues swirl. Kiss: his or stranger’s? Hands everywhere. Pussy stroked. Fingers circle clit. Tongue laps it. Two digits plunge wet cunt. I buck, cum hard. ‘Ouuuiii!’