I step out of my boss’s office, stomach knotted. Big CAC 40 client facing financial crisis. My shot to prove myself. Short night, endless coffee. Taxi drops me at a quiet Paris suburban airport. Empty parking lot, mechanics swarm the Falcon 2000DX. Push open the VIP lounge door. Elegant steward smiles. ‘Mr. P?’ Black coffee, no sugar. Brahms lieder whispers. Only three passengers expected. One no-show: the DG. Just me and Madame G., the CEO. Or her alone.
Tires crunch outside. Steward leads me to the jet. Four steps up, hostess takes my trench and briefcase. Luxe cabin: gray, bordeaux, leather and polished wood scent. ‘Sit! We’re late!’ Imperious female voice from the cream leather club seat. Manicured hand points. ‘Pierre de P.’ ‘Madame G. Call me Madame President.’ Mid-50s, brunette bob with white streak, hard face softened by plump glossed lips. Chanel mohair dress, black satin heels.
The Layover
She barely glances from Financial Times. I pitch crisis strategy: cash gen, internal resources. Eyes flicker. She folds paper, kicks off heels, feet on opposite seat. ‘Your boss is a friend. Expected the best.’ Probes my age: 31. Orders me opposite. ‘Whisky? Yoichi 1987, world’s best single malt.’ Door shuts. ‘Casual. Lose tie, jacket.’ Feet in nylons between my thighs. Red toes peek through sheer gray. Torpor sets in. I doze.
Her foot presses my crotch. Panic. Both feet now, stroking expertly. Cock swells despite me. ‘Open pants, lower them. More comfortable.’ Voice calm, eyes shut. I hesitate. ‘Do it.’ Temptation wins. ‘You too, Madame President.’ She smirks. We strip in sync: blouse reveals black Leavers lace bra, skirt zips down. Torsos bare. Bra unhooks—heavy opal breasts, bumpy areolas, thick nipples. Pants drop. Her thick bush surprises; mine, rigid cock half-out hood.
We spread legs. Fingers part her lips: pink, glistening. Mine strokes shaft. Mutual masturbation, eyes locked.
The Transit
She kneels, laps balls, sucks deep. Gagging rhythm, finger teases ass. I push back, flip her to seat. Dive into soaked bush. She’s a squirter—flooding my mouth. Legs clamp face. I hoist knees, slide in slow. Perfect fit. Eyes lock, hips roll. French kiss devours. Pace builds: slap, squelch, sweat. Climax crashes— I pump deep, she spasms.
We pant, entwined. Her hand in my hair. ‘Consequences?’ Voice soft now. ‘Our secret. You’re on the team. I’ll tell your boss.’ Jet hums on. Berlin awaits, but this stopover’s etched forever.
Touchdown smooth. Crew discreet. She dresses first, nods. ‘Hotel later. Business first.’ I grab briefcase, step off into Berlin chill. Taxi to Brandenburg Gate view. Swipe keycard—impersonal suite, city lights flicker. Replay every thrust. Renders keys at dawn. Back to Paris. One-night jet fuck: anonymous thrill, no strings. Perfect transit high.