Luggage dragged over gravel, I swipe the communal keycard for Le Couvent. Old private school turned gite, anonymous vibe despite the reunion label. Six girls, six guys, ten years post-bac. No one knows my life now. Olivier back home, texting futile protests. Room key buzzes green. Corridor echoes with distant snores from St. Jacques pilgrims next door. Suitcase unzips on creaky bed. Tomorrow’s flight looms—urgency spikes the pulse.
Dinner winds down in laughter, Loire rosé flowing. Boys joke heavy about its ‘transparent robe, body, thighs.’ Laure hikes her white skirt, playful minx free from her dull boyfriend and married lover. ‘Hotter with stockings!’ She eyes me. ‘Sophie, flash yours.’ Lilac panties peek. Frédéric smiles, gray eyes soft. Laure drags the tease for inevitable strip-poker redux. But Liliane grabs Goose games—two boards for tourists.
The Layover
Christophe scoffs, but Liliane insists: first rounds tame, then spicy. I’m referee at my table: Christophe, Frédéric, Thierry opposite with Karine, Laure. Karine’s blue goose hits 26 fast. I’m on 7, prim woman case. Losers strip choice, leaders self-strip. Thomas sheds shirt first—sparse chest hairs. Thierry leers: ‘My darling, your blouse.’ Ex from years back. Fingers tremble unbuttoning. New lace bra, new hands on these tits now. Not yours, Thierry.
Karine kicks off a shoe. Shoes count half, socks too—guys in socks ridiculous. Laure’s stockings? Taker’s call. Next round, I’m last. Frédéric! Fingers graze his bare chest nubs. Eyes cloud. Karine bares small apple tits, no bra. Christophe kneels, unhooks my skirt, breath hot on mound through panties. Skirt pools. Bra next—tits out, nipples peaked secret tweaks. Heels stay. Someone else claims those.
Frédéric leads, drops pants. Blue boxer bulge eyes me. Laure tops, sheds blouse—pink tips strain red lace. Christophe’s shirt flies. I lag, punish Frédéric barefoot. Kneel for his loafers—long second toe, no clit duty tonight. Thierry shorts off, tiny briefs strain old cock. Memories flicker, imperfect now.
Thierry peels my panties slow. Bare ass on plastic chair. Frédéric wins round, hand pins cock to navel, releases staring. Farce satyr. Laure wins overall. ‘Take your prize to room.’ Eight rooms, twelve us—random hookups. Frédéric grabs Laure, gone.
The Heat
Thierry wins next, scoops Karine. Palms her cute ass, fingers dive bellies. Christophe grins: ‘No need to finish?’ I hesitate, kiss. ‘Idiot.’
Under table invention: prison case. Frédéric dives, knees spread, lips suck swollen clit, tongue dances. Bliss. Emerges slick-lipped. Laure’s well? Six to escape. Karine lags, yanks Christophe’s boxer—majestic cock springs.
Nude all, kisses cover. Thierry sucks my tits long. Not bad. Under grass later, hands weigh balls—Thierry right, Christophe left. Karine thighs part reluctant, tongue darts her fresh-trimmed slit, Thierry’s finger still quivers there.
Thierry cheats win? No, Karine claims. They vanish. Christophe and I bolt corridor, keycard beeps. Door slams.