There was a party at the Comte de Brailles’ estate in the countryside, about 100 kilometers or so outside Paris. It was a small gathering, about 8-10 couples, but for the entire four days of the holiday weekend.
He and his wife arrived late in the morning of the first day. The weather was perfect, that end-of-summer warmth that made driving fast with the top down not just essential, but mandatory. Another couple, and of course the hosts, were already there, and after a nice intimate little luncheon for six, and a game of tennis or a nice swim in the pool…the other two couples arrived in time for dinner.
People were naturally expected to “dress” for dinner. That is to say, formal attire — suits and ties for the gentlemen; and floor-length dresses, heels for the women — as befit this luxurious mansion. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were served at 8:00, with dinner at 9:00. All through the evening, whether in the Great Hall of the château, or the formal dining room, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She was stunning. Period. The way her dark hair hung down in a tumble of loose curls over her shoulders and down her back, except for that one strand which insisted on remaining tantalizingly nestled between the soft swell of her breasts. The way the evening gown revealed her cleavage, her curves, her bare back. And her startlingly piercing blue eyes, the color of sapphires…
He was speechless. But had a difficult time taking his eyes off of her…even with his wife on his arm. He had to look away, had to mingle, but as often as he could, as subtly as he could, he would look at her…even during dinner, when his wife took his hand and slipped it between her thighs — and certainly other men found his own wife stunning; he found his own wife stunning, and regularly had to pinch himself, disbelieving his own great fortune — he still found himself glancing in her direction.
And worse yet: she was looking at him in much the same way.
The events of the next day started with breakfast, a horseback ride through the country, lunch by the river, more tennis, lounging around the pool, etc. Whether they were in close proximity or out of sight from one another, he couldn’t stop envisioning her, thinking of her, fantasizing about her.
Evening came, and it was much the same as the night before. Aperitifs and hors d’oeuvres, followed by an impeccable dinner with magnificent wines, and then back into the Great Hall for after dinner drinks and conversation.
The tension that existed between the two of them was unbearable. And yet, when he forced himself to look about the room, he convinced himself no one else could see it, knew of it — especially not her husband, nor his wife. Looking back at her, he saw her nod imperceptibly, and take a sip of her Port. Then, holding his gaze with her eyes, she set her glass down, turned her back and left the room…
He swallowed. Glancing around the room, he saw everything was normal. It seemed no one had even noticed she had left. Was he imagining, or — no, he didn’t think so. Forcing himself to slowing his breathing, and attempting to slow his racing heart, he finished his Cognac, glanced at his wife then around the room, and followed her out the same door.
The hallway was empty, save for the massive family portraits of Counts past. He walked down as far as the powder room, which was empty, and then returned to the stairs and slowly climbed to the next floor. This hallway, too, was empty, but there was a light spilling from the room at the far end of the hall.
Slowly, he walked towards it. Pushing open the door, he found he was in the Library. And so was she. Standing on the far side of the room, in front of the fireplace, with one elbow resting on the mantle. She was gorgeous! He closed the door behind his back and locked it. And stood there, transfixed. Her hand moved, as she brushed that one curl from her breasts; then, she slipped her hand inside, and he could see she was caressing herself…the cut of the gown left no doubt she was not wearing a bra; the outline of the nipple of her other breast pressing against the fabric confirmed that.
It was clearly giving her some pleasure as a soft moan escaped her lips. Without really realizing what was happening, he started to rub himself through his clothes and felt his already hard shaft twitch involuntarily as it swelled even more, straining against the material.
She saw this, and reached down with one hand, grasping the slit in her skirt and pulling it open to reveal her lingerie — stockings, sheer panties — and she, too, began to rub herself there.
Seeing her in turn, his eyes flared wide. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he unzipped his pants, freeing himself, and he began stroking himself in front of her. This in turn spurred her on, as she pulled aside her panties and began to finger her wet pussy, her hard and swollen clit. Soon, she was so wet he could hear her fingers working as well as see them…he, too, felt the wetness of his precum, and rubbed it around, all over the head of his hard cock. She felt that all-too-familiar heat rising within her, that tension tightening within her belly, as she stared at his thick, hard cock while he masturbated himself before her. He, too, felt his orgasm beginning to build, and she sensed that too, as she quickened her pace, fingers dancing over her enlarged clit, fingers being thrust in and out of her wet, open cunt until — she thrust the back of her other hand into her mouth to muffle her scream as she came and came all over her fingers, as her juices ran down her thighs…
He forced himself to stop at that moment, lest he cum too, sending ribbons of hot cum all over his host’s antique carpet. He could hear her breathing hard, fast from across the room, and walked towards her…his throbbing cock leading the way.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/czbphk/le_château_m_f
Can’t wait to read what happens next!