Old floorboards creak under my bare feet. Dawn light filters through cracked hallway windows of Le Couvent. My austere pajamas hang loose after Christophe’s night. Kitchen empty. Thank fuck. No bleary-eyed boasts, no unwashed bodies reeking of cum and sweat. Tea bag steeps. Honey on toast.
‘Tiens, Sophie, déjà levée?’ Laure’s voice whispers from the doorway. Her sheer nightie clings. Nipples poke through. Frédéric’s marks glow faint on her tits. Replete. Jealousy stings my gut.
The Contact
We murmur. Night noises. Karine and Thierry banging loud. Chambers swapped. Thierry saw us bikinis from pilgrims’ house. Questions on me. ‘Good with Christophe?’
‘He won’t let go.’
‘Veinarde!’
‘Come pry him off.’
Her laugh bubbles low. Nuisette flies off. My pajamas drop. Back up creaking stairs. Hallway shadows hide us. Pilgrims next door sleep. They poked around gîte last night. Doors locked but moans leaked. Thin walls. Risk prickles my skin.
Room door clicks soft. Christophe sprawls naked, cock limp on thigh. Dead to world. Laure slips beside his face. I flank other side. His eyes flutter. ‘Sophie?’
‘Here.’ Laure’s lips claim his. He pushes. ‘Where’s Sophie?’
‘Right here. Laure joins. She likes you.’
Eyes wild. ‘You only, Sophie.’
The Indiscretion
‘Look at her. Pretty. Makes you hard?’ Cock twitches. Mine.
Laure vaults me, kisses me fierce. He grabs her back. I feint toward door. His hand hooks my hip. Harpoon.
She mounts fast. Cock vanishes in her slick cunt. Balls slap wet. Pubes mash my dried juices. We face off. Fingers pinch tits. Harder. Who yields first?
His tongue flicks my clit. I lean. Lips seal. Tongue dives folds. Rose petals slick.
I release her nipples. Pain wins. She grins triumph. Christophe growls. Cums hard in her. She drinks deep. Her spit tastes honey-sweet on my lips.
Hands roam lazy. Lips tease. His gear flops soft. We lick. He laps tits.
‘Debout! Wash quick!’ Laure down in fifteen. Him out till noon.
But pilgrims stir? Footsteps next house? No. Heart hammers.
Pimpante, we descend. Hallway echoes soft. Kitchen light spills. No one. Secret sealed. Cunts drip. Slips forgotten. Thrill buzzes. They slept through our grunts, creaks, slurps. Close call.