The TGV Paris-Marseille hummed to life. I had the first-class seat all to myself. Space. Quiet. Then she burst in. Bags flying. Breathless. Slumps opposite me. No hello. Laptops, files, phones crash on the table between us. Train pulls out. I crack open Le Figaro. Steal glances. Mid-40s business bitch. White blouse tight. Pencil skirt hugging hips. Pearl necklace. Tight chignon on chestnut hair. Black-rimmed glasses sharpening that stern glare.
She juggles work. Furious calls. I watch, amused. Train slices through Burgundy. Her phone rings. Explosion. ‘You fucked up! I’m 24 hours early in Marseille!’ Hotel full. ‘Find a room or you’re fired!’ Slams it down. My good Samaritan kicks in. Offer to grab coffee from the bar car. ‘Need to clear my head. Mind if I join?’
The Awakening: Sun-Kissed Temptation
We chat over espressos. Catherine runs a lab. Colloquium at Pharo Palace. Secretary screwed the dates. Booked at my regular spot, Sofitel Palm Beach. View of If Castle. Frioul islands. I reassure her. I’m meeting partners there. We’ll sort it. Marseille station on time. Taxi in Provence sun. Reception: she’s top of waitlist. Suggest pool to unwind. ‘No swimsuit.’ Balcony sunbathing while I meet partners? She bites.
Bag in room. Leave her to it. Partners grill me. Smirks. Three-hour meet. They bail early. ‘Call if alone.’ Wink. Reception: no room yet. Back to suite. There she is. Lounged on balcony chaise. Buck naked. Asleep. Chignon gone. Long hair spilling over shoulders. Barely hiding perky tits. Nipples hard from sun. Shaved mound. Gold rings piercing upper labia. Fuck. Heart pounds. Cough. Nothing. Hand on shoulder. She moans, rolls sideways. Pussy lips part slightly. Wait. Stare. Cock twitches.
Phone rings. Wakes her. Panic. ‘Where am I?’ I calm her. No room yet. Offer drink. She showers. Emerges in loose robe. Peeking cleavage. Sunglasses replace specs. Coke Light. She spills: divorced hubby for fucking young engineer. Runs lab solo. First Marseille trip. Suggest bouillabaisse at Catalans. ‘Don’t wanna impose.’ Lie: partners busy. She glows. Hour later, out of bathroom. Transformed. Hair cascading. Sun-kissed flush. Lace top teasing tits. Long black skirt swaying.
The Act: Unleashed Hunger
‘You look fucking stunning.’ Taxi along Corniche. Vieux Port glow. Bonne Mère watches. Table by sea. She’s mesmerized. ‘Thought Marseille sucked.’ Bandol wine flows. Prawns divine. Phones off. ‘Let fate handle it.’ Dessert: flaming omelette. Norvégienne. Calvados shots. She vents ex. Eyes on sea. Walk back? Arms linked. Tipsy stagger. Mistral wind. At Vallon des Auffes, she stumbles. I grab waist. She crushes against me. Lips crash. Tongue deep. Horns blare. Ignore. Taxi. Room.
Inside, she shoves me on bed. ‘My turn to see you naked.’ Shoes fly. Socks. Pants down. Fights my hands. Buttons pop. Boxer tented. Barefoot, she straddles. Grinds wet pussy on my bulge. I groan. Panties in my mouth. Gags me. Nails rake chest. Bites nipples. ‘Move and I tie you.’ Teeth tug boxers. Cock springs free. Lips wrap. Sucks deep. Balls tight.
Robe off. Lace bra. Garter belt. Skirt hiked. Unhooks bra. Tits bounce. One hand strokes my throbbing cock. Other fingers her pierced clit. Rings glint. She moans. Cums hard. Pussy gushes. Smears my shaft on nipples. I erupt. Ropes of cum. She catches in mouth. Swallows. Shares kiss. Semen salty. ‘Haven’t fucked a man since divorce. Those rings? My ex-lover’s wedding bands. Girl who healed me.’
We collapse. Sweat-slick. Hearts race. Dawn creeps. She dresses. Room found. Kiss goodbye. Back to Paris life. But that pierced pussy haunts. Secret thrill. Transgression raw. No one knows. My dirty high.