Jet-lagged from Auvergne, I swipe the keycard into aunt Adèle’s dim Paris apartment. It’s my temporary crash pad during her hospital stay—impersonal, vast rooms shrouded, like a forgotten hotel wing. Valise thuds in the hall. Metro rumbles echo below. City lights flicker through grimy windows. No one knows me here. Perfect anonymity. Tomorrow? Back to studies or her release. Urgency thrills.
Tante’s cat ignores me. Plants watered. Her request: handle Mr. Leloup’s laundry. Tall, gaunt, knife-face, salt-pepper mustache. Art dealer, globe-trotter. His room has private entrance—transient vibe. I iron shirts, intimidated. Drop them off. Door ajar. Knock. Empty. Stale air hits. Messy bed, art books. Pull curtain. Easel hidden. Fusain sketch: nude girl post-shower. Dripping hair, puppy pendant, left-breast mole, landing-strip bush, childhood scar. Me. Exact.
The Layover
Head spins. Sit on bed. Rage boils. Spyhole in my bathroom mirror? Check. Coin-sized. Locked adjacent room: keys from kitchen drawer. Dusty closet. Fresh charcoal stub. Eye to hole: full view—tub to door, my nightie hanging. Gotcha, pervert.
Plan brews. Tech-savvy classmate rigs phone: snap pic, auto-SMS Mylène ‘Assailant on photo, call cops!’ Bait set. Pose slow in bathroom. Makeup lingers. Arch back, press nipple to hole like weapon. Nothing. Dreams turn wet: him ravaging me. Frustrated heat builds.
Saturday. Raid his room again. Carton of sketches: lesbians groping. Mine included—nail polish on tub edge, pussy parted; three-quarter back, bra dangling, tit thrust. Trouble stirs, not anger. Evening kitchen. Tea brews. Phone SOS ready. He looms: ‘Thanks for shirts. Curious girl.’ Busted. I snap: ‘Spying nudes?’ He: ‘Immortalizing beauty. Pose clothed?’
Agree. Fusain scratches. Chat flows—Buenos Aires, New York. Resentment fades. His assured virility shines. Laugh over my ‘heavy’ features. Offer dinner. Duck confit salad. Cahors flows. Dizzy. Shower door cracked. Nuisette on. He watches. Lead him to bed.
Nude before him. Hands cup tits. Rough palms spark. Kiss: mustache tickles, tongue invades. Fingers trace slit, circle clit. Pinch, stretch. I gush, scream, bite. Collapse. Wake alone. Ghosted?
The Transit
He returns Friday. Strip slow: jeans drop, blouse unbuttons. Dance. Kiss fierce. He kneels, mustache on thighs, tongue devours. Flood him. Reveal: cancer stole his cock. Drawings? Proxy fucks.
Pity turns fire. Gifts arrive: red lycra mini, boots, sheer black lingerie. Tight squeeze, cleavage spills. Dinner at Dino’s Italian joint. Owner ogles: ‘Bella regazza!’ Upstairs banquet room: nude art walls. Sambuca flames. Hands roam. String yanked. Blazer unzips. Tits freed.
Dino dives pussy. Brutal. Condom on his stubby dick. Folds me, pounds. Cums quick. Leaves me hanging. Enzo finds me: gentle touch ignites. Table on all fours. His long cock teases slit. Back-ram him in. Dad face-fucks. Double rhythm. Swallow, squirt, explode.
Hours: tag-teamed, drained dry. Marks bruise. Home in dawn traffic. Truckers hoot at flashing thighs.
Sunday ache. Tante scolds: ‘Men just cum and dump.’ Alone, slip into his bed. Cuddle. Promise more. Hand grazes limp dick. One day, revive it.
Morning flight looms. Keycard out. Paris blur. Body hums. Naughty transit etched forever.