I strode towards the couple outside the Haussmannian building. Tires screeched. Drunk driver in the van yelled, ‘Watch it, slut!’ I snapped back, ‘You mark crosswalks after apero, asshole?’ Fury boiled. Bad night. Ghosted by a limp-dick date. Paris traffic. Late. All men are pricks.
Forced a smile. They stared, frozen in their dowdy suits. Passersby gawked at my short skirt suit, red hair, briefcase. I owned those looks. ‘Bonjour. Paris hates pedestrians. Shall we go up? Check docs while waiting for the team.’ She fumbled keys. We entered the serene courtyard. Stone moldings. Geometric stained glass. Concierge swept. Ignored her timid hello.
The Building Tension
Stopped. ‘Bonjour, Madame. Valérie M., antique dealer. Movers coming for furniture. Can you back the truck here?’ Phone buzzed. ‘They’re here!’ She unlocked the carriage door. Truck backed in. Three burly guys piled out, reeking cigs and booze. Chef Bertrand air-kissed. I dodged. Handed list. ‘Third floor. Elevator. Owners upstairs.’
Upstairs, heat hit like a wall. Everyone waited. Gave Bertrand the inventory. Big furniture out. Bibelots crated. Noticed him then. Quad in prime. Tight pants hugging that ass. ‘Hot brute. Boss’s boyfriend. I’d grab that.’ Blushed. Movers left. Sophie eyed Bertrand’s bulk, flushed. ‘It’s hot, right?’ Dumb line. Radiators off. Cracked window. Street noise rushed in, then died.
Spread papers. ‘Sophie Renoult, Jacques your husband. Selling mom’s antiques.’ She leaned in, breath short, ass arched. Jacques peered over, perfect view down my satin blouse. Lace peeking. Stomach twisted. Heat? Ungloved jacket. Saw it: Jacques kneading Sophie’s ass under her skirt. She cambered more. Excused myself. Apartment vast. Empty rooms. Movers fast.
The Explosive Release
Hallway hot from bedroom. Hesitated. Entered. Radiator cold. Bumped the fat one. Greasy hair, beer gut. Mustached grin. Slapped my ass. ‘Careful, doll. Don’t impale on our tools.’ Bulge twitched. Ignored. Felt his paw return. Others brushed past. Sweaty, musky. Pressed tits to Bertrand’s chest. He shoved my ass towards salon. ‘Check your clients. We’re emptying bedroom.’ Door clicked shut behind him.
Back in salon, skirt hiked on Sophie’s thighs. Bas noir. Skin folds. Jacques fingered her soaked thong. She moaned. Hiked higher. Bare ass kneaded. Mover passed; she covered quick but kept his hand. Thong off. Fingers plunged. Clit rubbed. She bucked. ‘Fuck me now!’ Pushed him to chair. Impaled reverse cowgirl. ‘Am I your slut?’ ‘Yes, bourgeois whore.’ She ground. He thumbed her rosebud. ‘Fuck my ass!’ Slid in. She cried out.
I froze. String on floor. Picked it up. Drenched. Watched her ride anal. Succubus unleashed. She beckoned. Crawled close. Lips to her clit. Sucked hard. Fingers in my pussy, hers. Juices everywhere. Bedroom heavy. Movers dismantled bed. Fantasies hit: Bertrand fucking me, owner sucking. Heat wave crashed. We came together. Her sandwiched. Him deep in ass. Me fingering flood.
Movers entered. Pants stained. Heads foggy. We dressed fast. Groggy smiles. Ten minutes: apartment bare. Papers signed. Door locked with final click. Coffee-perfume scent lingered. Back to open-space life. Briefcase shut. Heels clicked out. Adrenaline buzzed. No one knew.