October 14, 2002. I’m Florence, 48, 5’1″, curvy redhead with perky little tits. Married 20+ years to Daniel, two grown daughters. Normal life, okay sex—sucking, pussy, even anal, but always left hungry. Then this business trip changed everything.
Train from Bordeaux pulls into Gare Montparnasse at dusk. Hugues, my 46-year-old coworker—tall, slim, charmingly balding—grabs our rolling suitcases. Metro ride to Etap Hotel near Champs-Élysées. Beep of magnetic key cards, elevator hums up to floor 3. Hallway carpet muffles our steps, distant traffic buzz from Paris streets.
The Stopover Arrival
Meet in lobby at 8:30 PM. Walk to Bistrot Romain. Aperitifs, dinner blurs—steak maybe. I forget to call my friend Christine about lunch tomorrow. Dial her up right there. ‘Still unsatisfied, huh? Daniel’s quick, lights out after.’ She pries. I spill: post-sex hunger, wanting more.
Hugues pretends not to hear, but his foot brushes mine under table. Hands graze. Back to hotel, he lingers for a smoke. I shower, slip into nightie and panties. Phone rings. Unknown voice: ‘Madame, dined near you, overheard your number. You’re charming.’ It’s him, playing stranger. Heart races. ‘I’m married.’ ‘Me too. Heard your frustrations—same with my wife.’
Voice trembles. My nipples harden, pussy wets. ‘Open your door, room 332?’ Adrenaline surges. Knock. He presses behind, hands on hips. ‘Hugues Allegri. And you?’ ‘Florence Leclaux.’ Palms cup my tits. ‘Gonna devour these pretty little tits, suck your pussy till you scream.’ Crude words ignite me—Daniel never talks dirty.
‘Oh yes, suck my tits, my cunt.’ Vouvrement fades. ‘Fuck me in every hole.’
The Intense Transit and Departure
The Transit: Bed. Kisses trail down. Nightie off, panties soaked. Sucks tits quarter-hour, nipples ache hard. Fingers through crotch, clit throbs. Tongue dives deep, two fingers piston my flooded slit—wet sloshes echo. ‘Fuck me now!’ ‘Suck first.’ Pants drop: 20cm thick steel rod vs. Daniel’s 14cm limp.
Kneel, gorge it. He face-fucks. ‘Cum in your throat?’ ‘Yes, flood my mouth, stomach!’ Jets blast, I swallow greedily, nearly choke. He kisses remnants off my lips. Cuddles, hard again. ‘Doggy.’ Expects pussy, but saliva on ass—thrust rips anus. Pain scream: ‘Bastard, pussy first!’ But crave it. ‘Deeper, wreck my hole!’
Pounds brutal, balls slap pussy. ‘Your married ass takes it like a whore.’ Cums deep. I clean shit-taste cock orally, revives. On back, legs over shoulders—second anal marathon, 20 mins irritation burn, then bliss. Another load. Sleep entwined.
Morning: Blowjob wakes him bull-hard. Finally pussy—floods womb ecstasy.
Days 15-16: Nonstop fucks. October 16, checkout. Magnetic card beeps return at desk. Train home, finger my sopping cunt under skirt. Affair blooms into love. He wants divorce; I hesitate—family, money. But if asked again… yes, Hugues, I love you.