Guests from France

After being discharged from the army, I started working as a personal driver-bodyguard for my aunt Veronika Rostislavovna, the CEO of a company selling Western perfumery. She was a true businesswoman: sharp, tenacious, as they say, "a horse with balls, not a woman." Her business came first, which she worked on from morning till night. No family, no children, and she didn't have any real friends either, I knew that well. She looked respectable, attractive, and her age, 37, spoke of an active lifestyle. However, during the few months I worked for her, I never once noticed any signs of femininity, especially

in her dealings with subordinates, whom Veronika, as we called her behind her back, was strict with. I was no exception. She treated her driver with businesslike coldness, keeping me at the usual distance, like everyone else. I thought it was necessary for business and didn't try to get too familiar, despite our close family ties.

That evening, I was driving the boss from the bank, where she had been conducting some serious negotiations, to a restaurant. Sitting in the car, Veronika Rostislavovna showed clear excitement. Her eyes sparkled, she impatiently tapped her fingernail on her purse, smoked quickly, and talked on the phone often. Generally, I tried not to delve into the boss's conversations, adhering to the principle: "what I don't know won't hurt me." However, it's hard not to hear what's being said aloud nearby. From the phone calls, it became clear that Veronika had received a large loan from the bank and intended to close a substantial deal that evening for the supply of a batch of elite French cosmetics to the country. Preliminary negotiations had been conducted; all that remained was to finalize the formalities and seal the deal.

 — Wait for me near the restaurant, — said Veronika Rostislavovna. — I'll be back in a few hours. We might have to drive our partners from France around the city. At any rate, there was talk of a cultural program. For now, get the car in order.

I went to the car wash and cleaned the interior of our "swallow" — an Audi A6 — then prepared for a long wait near the restaurant. However, I didn't have to wait long — less than two hours. My aunt came out of the "Astoria" doors with two middle-aged blondes. All three were a bit tipsy; one of the Frenchwomen spoke Russian quite well, the other was actively studying our language, so the women chatted a lot, laughed, correcting each other, pronouncing difficult words several times. Judging by the friendly atmosphere, the deal had succeeded to mutual satisfaction.

 — Andrey, — said Veronika, — our guests want to see nighttime St. Petersburg, let's show them our city.

I nodded and started circling the center: St. Isaac's, Kazan Cathedral, Palace Square, Senate Square — in short, the route was quite standard. The women got out at the monuments, took photos. A bottle of good cognac appeared from somewhere, and the businesswomen continued celebrating their commercial success in the car. By one in the morning, they were quite "tipsy." The Frenchwomen, laughing contagiously, began whispering with Veronika, asking where the "red-light district" was in our city where they could continue their relaxation. They were clearly disappointed to learn that such districts weren't established in Russia yet, but my boss assured them that the full spectrum of pleasures for body and soul was available in St. Petersburg. Veronika started calling elite establishments, but, judging by the conversation, the Frenchwomen insisted on a home setting. Veronika Rostislavovna invited the foreigners to her home and got back on the phone, asking how many men to order for "escort." But that night, fate had a surprise in store for me. One of the Frenchwomen, Irène, the one who spoke Russian less fluently, smiled slyly and, nodding her head at me, said:

 — Maybe André will join our company?

 — Join our company… — Veronika automatically corrected her, doubt in her voice. — Actually, Andrey is my subordinate at work, but if you like him, I can't refuse our best business partners.

While I was figuring out what kind of company I'd have to keep for the guests and estimating how much I could drink to be able to drive without problems tomorrow, the car pulled up to the "Stalin-era building" on Moskovsky Prospekt where Veronika lived. The women went up to the apartment, and I parked the car in the underground garage and headed to my boss's residence, where, honestly, I hadn't had a chance to be before. The apartment door was unlocked. In the hallway, I found a pile of three pairs of fashionable shoes and marveled at the actions of Veronika Rostislavovna, who was a model of neatness among the company's employees. But an even greater surprise awaited me in the living room, which I entered after taking off my shoes and putting on guest slippers. On the wide sofa, I saw another pile, this time of three kissing female bodies, intertwined quite intricately. So Marie, having tipped Veronika onto the couch, positioned herself beside her, kissing her knees and, lifting her skirt, moving higher. The second Frenchwoman, Irène, was licking my boss's mouth from behind Veronika's head. With one hand, Irène was feeling for Veronika's breast under her business blouse. Irène's other hand was rubbing the crotch of her compatriot. The women didn't notice my arrival and continued their manipulations. Veronika responded to Irène's caresses and held her head with both hands, catching her tongue with her own. Marie buried her nose in Veronika Rostislavovna's crotch and began kissing the panty-covered pubis and the area around the narrow strip of fabric. At that moment, my boss's eyes caught movement in the room; she saw me and sat up, pulling away from her "business partners."

 — Andryusha, — she said, smiling, — go to the bathroom, fill the jacuzzi, and we'll be right there…

The Frenchwomen smiled slyly, adjusting their clothes. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment on their faces. They looked at me encouragingly and promisingly, nodding in agreement. I realized that a somewhat different role was intended for me in this company than I had assumed. I became intrigued; the night promised to be fun. The presence of the strict boss — my own aunt — in such company added a special piquancy.

I went into the bathroom and understood — my aunt was not only wealthy but also loved life in all its manifestations, not denying herself small weaknesses. The jacuzzi was impressive. This bathtub with many hydro-massage jets could fit about five people if needed. Three or four would feel quite comfortable. I started filling the tub with water, wondering — maybe I should undress and wait for the "business friends" right in the jacuzzi. The thought was tempting, but unlike them, I was still completely sober. The relationship between Veronika and me made itself felt; I didn't want to see her disapproving look — she paid me quite well, and crossing the line of subordination and close kinship so abruptly wasn't easy. The water was rising quickly. I froze in indecision. Suddenly, the door behind me opened. I decided to pretend I hadn't heard the creak over the noise of the water and stood looking at the streams. From behind, two gentle palms covered my eyes. I wanted to turn my head, but the same palms firmly held my head so I could only look straight ahead. I realized they were imposing a "guess who" game on me, submitted, and accepted the conditions. The light went out, as if to make my task harder. It wasn't completely dark — light came through the doorway, but because it was far enough away, I couldn't make out the woman. One thing was clear — she was alone for now.

The woman ruffled my short hair and rubbed my neck. Her right hand slipped under my armpit and leisurely unbuttoned my jacket. Then the same hand caressed my chest and stomach through my shirt, as if warming me up. Suddenly, the hand pulled back, the palms took hold of my jacket shoulders, removed it, and threw it far aside. The tie was next, its knot loosened by an experienced hand. The palms began wandering over my back, shoulders, lower back, gradually bringing me to a state of mild arousal. The shirt's turn came; its buttons were freed easily and casually, as if the owner of the gentle palms had spent her life unbuttoning men's shirts from behind in the dark. An interesting moment arrived. The right hand unbuckled my belt, freed it, and unzipped my fly. After that, the shirt tails were pulled out of my pants, and the shirt followed the jacket's fate. In principle, I could have been undressed faster and more efficiently, but it seemed the process itself gave the performer pleasure, and I didn't rush, surrendering to the power of hands that knew their business. Meanwhile, the hands untied my shoelaces, loosened the tightness of my shoes, which I stepped out of, lowered my pants, and helped me free myself from that part of my wardrobe. I wanted to bend down and take off my socks, but that operation was done for me too. I didn't wear undershirts or T-shirts under my shirt, so I was left only in my boxer briefs. The undressing paused. Caresses began. The palms wandered over me, stroking and kneading my body, as if before a sports competition. Soon, the caresses moved downward, and I realized my seductress had knelt. Her hands slid to my knees, moved up… and stroked under my briefs, first my testicles, then my cock, which had already taken a vertical position. The briefs didn't stay on me long, as they were clearly in the way. And now, completely naked, I felt palms caressing my genitals. The woman moved to the side. With one hand from behind, through the perineum, she fondled my testicles, supporting them from below. To make it more convenient for her, I had to spread my legs wider. With her other hand, the seductress rubbed my cock from base to tip, grasped the shaft with her fist, and began moving up and down, now exposing, now covering the head again with skin. The rhythm of her movements was unhurried, tender, and I was enjoying it fully. Then the woman left my testicles and moved on her knees, taking a position right in front of me. I didn't dare lower my head to see who was giving me such pleasure. What difference did it make, really? Especially since, looking into the seductress's eyes, I might well break the game.

My testicles felt a gentle but imperious little tongue. Its moist tip now tickled my balls, now licked the entire scrotum from bottom to top. Sometimes lips touched me too, and then they slightly drew pieces of my body into her mouth, not ceasing to caress them with her tongue. Suddenly, there was a pause: the palms and tongue disappeared from "their places." I began to worry, as I wanted it to continue. But the continuation turned out better than expected. My head was enveloped by moist, firm lips, and my cock began a rhythmic plunge into the female head being put on it. The blowjob was top-class. The cock wandered tightly behind her cheeks, was licked with her tongue and sucked. In the intervals, the tongue descended and didn't forget to pay attention to my testicles, as if not wanting to offend them either. I began to sway my hips, catching the rhythm of the blowjob as my cock entered the wonderful mouth. The owner of this mouth interpreted my movements in her own way and began to deeply immerse my shaft. It seemed to me that it was rubbing against the palate, passing into the throat, and the seductress's lips tightened at the base of my cock. Probably, that's how it was — the average size of my member quite allowed experienced lips to take it completely. However, my sexual experience suggested: whenever I tried to achieve such actions from women, they usually either couldn't handle breathing or were squeamish about deep-throating, gagged, and as a result, quickly finished with such things. I tensed up and expected to hear familiar sounds. But that wasn't the case. The cock entered the throat rhythmically and to its full depth. I pushed it forward, no longer fearing for my partner. My thrusts became more and more energetic but didn't cause negative results. And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to truly have a woman in the mouth. Emotions overwhelmed me, excitement grew. The woman grasped my hips with her palms, slightly adjusting the rhythm, and it seemed to me I could easily come, bringing myself to orgasm just like that, orally.

However, distracted by the game, I still tried to guess who was kneeling before me. Aunt Veronika? Well, no — that was unlikely. Yes, I had learned a lot of new and interesting things about Veronika's morals that night. But I was her close relative. And secondly, where was the guarantee that her behavior was based on sexual interest and not economic? For the sake of a deal involving a large sum, one could pretend to be bisexual, given such partners. But going as far as incest in that case was completely unnecessary. Soon I realized: all the time the gentle hands were caressing and undressing me, my nose was teased by the scent of perfume. Veronika, despite trading in perfumery, didn't like perfume and couldn't even stand air fresheners in the car.

 — I prefer the smell of the car's leather interior, at most a slight smell of gasoline, — she would say.

Well, our car certainly didn't smell of gasoline, not that class. So, after hesitating, I ruled out Veronika. Who — Marie or Irène? Both had looked at me like a cat at cream. And both, it seemed, were bisexual. Most likely, Irène; she seemed to me more spontaneous and capable of such things. Distracted thoughts helped me cope with sexual arousal and delay orgasm.

But my pleasure suddenly ended. In a surge of passion, I turned my head and saw Veronika kneeling before me in the side mirror. Her eyes met mine, and the blowjob ended. Laughter was heard from behind. It turned out both Frenchwomen had been standing in the doorway all this time, kissing and rubbing each other's crotches with their fingers. The switch clicked — Irène laughed loudly:

 — Who? Who did you think it was?

 — I thought it was you, — I answered her honestly, — French perfume, similar to yours.

 — Ha-ha, that's how men are. Change the perfume and you can scare a woman.

 — Mistake, — Marie corrected her.

Veronika, still dressed, stood up and, also smiling, said:

 — We bet that you wouldn't recognize me until you saw my face. And Irène shared her perfume.

 — Yes, I didn't recognize… , — I admitted, — what was the bet for?

 — If she wins, — said Marie, — then not we as guests, but she will be the queen of this evening.

 — What does that mean — queen? — I was surprised.

 — Well, queen: set the tone, give commands, mandatory to follow.

 — Are those the rules? — I was surprised again.

 — No, it's a game; it's always more interesting if everyone plays their role, and someone leads the game, — Marie explained to me as if to a child.

Yes, probably, that was more interesting. But what experience was needed to know the subject so deeply! And Veronika, meanwhile, was getting into her role.

 — Boys and girls, today is French day — so for now, sex is only oral. I've already given Andrey a little affection; now he will soap and wash you, and then fulfill all your oral sexual fantasies. Please, into the bath, mesdames and monsieur.

I stepped into the warm water. Following me, the Frenchwomen hurried, shedding their clothes and scattering them on the floor. Both cheerfully climbed into the jacuzzi, began splashing each other with water and caressing with wet hands. They sure know what to do! But I was also aware of this trick. Kneeling behind their backs, I took a bar of fragrant soap and began caressing Irène's back and hips with it, feeling a greater inner sympathy for her. Actually, caressing with soap, soapy hands sliding over the body, is good. I loved doing it myself and receiving such caresses from women. Now I had to do it at a high international level, and also try not to disgrace the country with sexual uncouthness. The Frenchwomen were already "warmed up," so

__