Chapter I – The Hotel Suite
As I opened the hotel room door as agreed, I was met with a breathtaking sight. Now I understood why Monsieur had made me wait so long. A luxurious honeymoon suite unfolded before me. Rose petals carpeted the floor, a jacuzzi stood in the corner, and a bridal bouquet alongside an intricately decorated crown of orange and deep red roses rested on the bed. On the living room table, three mysterious packages seemed to eagerly await my attention. Before even diving into the sealed instructions tied with a heart-shaped ribbon, my impatience led me to the first package. Inside, a pair of ten-centimeter stilettos. I finally understood why, over the past three months, Monsieur—who had forbidden any physical encounters with him—had paid for lap dance lessons, through which I became accustomed to heels I never wore.
The second package contained high-end hygiene products, their quality and price far beyond my reach, adding a layer of sophistication to the intrigue. Mascara, lipstick, perfume—each promised a sensory transformation. Expecting to find a sexy wedding dress in the third package, I was instead faced with bridal lingerie. My ample chest was adorned with a barely-there bra, its color and texture perfectly matching the garter belt and classic stockings. The panties were equally perfect, designed to accentuate my generous curves and add a touch of mystery to the night ahead. A high-cut bikini bottom was also included, undoubtedly meant to enhance moments of relaxation in the jacuzzi. As this was my first time with a man, it all felt a bit too spicy, but I was already wet at the thought of his chiseled abs and comforting chest.
Chapter II – Monsieur’s Proposal
Truthfully, all my friends had already slept with young men of North African or Black descent. Given the culture, these encounters happened discreetly in cheap hotel rooms, basements, or stairwells. It didn’t appeal to me, especially since some of my friends regretted it. With the inexperience of their partners, it wasn’t what they had hoped for. Monsieur, also from the Maghreb, was someone I had only met once. I was accompanied by Amira, a beautiful brunette with whom I shared my only good moments. But unlike me, Amira also collected good times with men. One day, she dragged me to a party where I caught Monsieur’s gaze. He had this mysterious aura that intrigued me. We exchanged a few words, but I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes seemed to hide stories and experiences far beyond my imagination. The admiration for his well-sculpted body awakened a deep, unexpected desire within me. Despite Amira’s insistence, he declined her offer with elegance and instead proposed to guide me in discovering my femininity, on the condition that I remain respectful and obedient—an offer I accepted. We exchanged contacts.
Chapter III – Secret Preparations
That Friday at noon, I was at the airport. Excitement and curiosity mingled in the air as I eagerly awaited instructions for this mysterious escape. Moments later, my smartphone buzzed, revealing an email from Monsieur. My pulse quickened as I opened the message, discovering a plane ticket and the name of the hotel where we would spend the long weekend. I was ready to embark on an adventure to the colorful streets of Barrio del Carmen, leaving all boundaries behind.
Chapter IV – The Pact
Opening the heart-shaped ribbon-sealed envelope, two documents revealed the exceptional nature of this adventure. The first detailed the instructions, while the second proposed a pact of friendly solidarity. Intrigued, I began reading the pact, which outlined not only the clauses to respect but also my own temporary prohibitions and fantasies. The possibility of updating them after five scripted encounters was offered. Stunned, I took time to reflect and prepare. A perfect waxing, a styled hairdo thanks to the gift cards left in my mailbox—all that remained was to focus on my intimate grooming and refresh my body while preserving my pretty braids. A meticulous preparation before making the final decision, granting me the luxury of time to optimize every detail. After slipping into my special bridal outfit, pearl earrings, and a plunging pendant, I placed my bridal crown on my head. All that remained was to make my decision before sending the text to Monsieur and donning the satin bondage beneath the glittering mask. If I didn’t sign, the suite would be mine alone for three days—Monsieur had even left me pocket money to enjoy Valencia. But I could never imagine that.
Chapter V – Monsieur’s Art of Living
I hadn’t spent three long months learning to walk in stilettos, perfecting lap dances, improving my oriental dance skills, and learning massage techniques just to walk away empty-handed—without even walking arm in arm with him, without even kissing him, without even seeing him.
Manipulative as he was, Monsieur tried to convince me through emails that this lengthy preparation had nothing to do with his narcissistic sadism. According to him, to become a woman, one had to start at the right time. In his eyes, my friends were merely naive girls who jumped at the offers of others, only to be discarded after being used. I needed to refine my look and gait with the help of two coaches to highlight my curves and attract envious glances in a sexy yet elegant outfit. In intimacy, I was also to awaken desire through the skills acquired from private lap dance and oriental dance lessons. Monsieur also placed great importance on what he called the art of living. For him, becoming a woman meant adopting a lifestyle.
Chapter VI – The Encounter
Facing the selfie tripods set up to immortalize the pact, I sent my confirmation text before plunging into the glittering darkness. I hadn’t expected this so-called pact of friendly solidarity. All I needed was to discover my femininity with a handsome, well-built, and experienced man—end of story.
This so-called friendship I had just sealed with my signature defied all norms: we were to share everything!
The seconds felt long, but the pleasure of anticipation tickled my soul and body. Suddenly, I heard the door open. The sound of footsteps intrigued me. The door closed, and the steps approached me, facing the tripods.
“Marquise, how are you?”
“Very well, Your Majesty.”
“Good, good, my beloved little Marquise.”
“I am yours, Your Majesty.”
Monsieur gently brought his nose close to mine. I felt his warm breath before he placed a tender kiss on my lips, then on my cheek, several on my neck, and finally took me in his arms.
The game seduced me, binding me even closer to Monsieur. I imagined myself on a private beach, following the instructions of a professional photographer capturing the photos of my wedding, striking every possible pose. We laughed a lot.
Enchanted by this improvised photo session, I began to appreciate Monsieur’s mysterious aura even more. As he held me in his arms, his gestures—a mix of gentleness and virility—left me dizzy. My senses oscillated between excitement and apprehension. Seeing that I took pleasure in exploring his body through the tuxedo he wore, while I stood nearly naked and thankfully well-masked, he gently pulled away.
“Marquise, you are ravishing. These photos are the prelude to an exceptional weekend.”
He then asked me to unbutton his shirt. His deep voice penetrated me as I mischievously complied, taking my time to remove each piece of his attire. Imagining his gaze on my exposed breasts awakened my inner exhibitionist. Avoiding his eyes allowed me to overcome my shyness while fulfilling the beginning of a fantasy: to one day sunbathe topless and attract admiring glances. My ample chest seemed beautiful and harmonious with my figure, but I eagerly awaited my weekend companion’s opinion.
After the photos were taken, Monsieur stepped away to turn off his phone and place it in the dark case where I had already stored mine. Without the mask, the risk of hacking was unacceptable for our pact. When he began to caress my neck with his lips, I realized he was no longer wearing a mask or pants. His soft, fitted boxers hinted at his excitement, and mischievously, I made two delicate movements. Suddenly, as he held my wrists gently in his hands, his nipples brushed against mine.
“Marquise, I have a gift for you.”
Tender lips met mine, and a pair of soft breasts awakened memories of the delights I had shared with Amira. Except it wasn’t her. Monsieur gently pulled away, and the wedding night took a different turn. Madame—or perhaps Mademoiselle—was very skilled. Helpless, I imagined the visible pleasure of His Majesty. When I was completely naked, legs spread, Madame freed me from my glittering darkness, leaving me face to face with Monsieur, seated on his throne, facing my most intimate self.
Orchestrating the scene, Monsieur approached, delicately caressing the inside of my right thigh with his lips. Moving upward with tender passion, he placed soft, enchanting kisses. After a trajectory as authentic as it was fiery, he returned to his throne, leaving our host to harvest my ultimate shiver as I drowned in the passion that had just ignited me. While he was in the shower, accompanied by our host, I realized the bikini bottom was likely not meant for this escapade but rather for a getaway under the coconut trees.
I carefully stored my gift alongside the jewelry I had just removed. Placing the lingerie and dress with them, I packed everything into the hotel’s laundry bag. I moved the bucket containing the non-alcoholic champagne and two flutes near the jacuzzi. According to Monsieur, without alcohol, the party was always wilder.
When my man emerged from the shower in swim trunks, I was torn between pride at having anticipated this and the unfairness of the visual deprivation. We had promised to share everything, dear friend, after all. Suddenly, my friend handed bills to our host, thanking her for her service. When she approached with her hypocritical air, stealing a kiss while wishing us a pleasant stay, I was still in shock. I knew my friend didn’t accept casual flings or paid services. For him, it was either enjoying his body or his money—or both.
As I stood naked in his arms, we headed toward the jacuzzi. I realized I had reached a level that lap dancing alone could never achieve. Gently placed on his lap, my back found refuge against the soothing curve of his chest. His chiseled abs, firm and sculpted, molded delicately to my skin, harmonizing with the dim atmosphere I had carefully created, bottle of bubbles in hand. Only the light of scented candles shared our intimacy. We talked about everything and nothing, from human trafficking to prostitution in all its forms. He ran his fingers through my braids as he admired me or poured a few drops of water on the top of my left breast; the jacuzzi became our confessional.
Encouraged by the exchange of kisses and caresses, we eventually confessed everything. I even spoke of my sister, who, despite her stable situation, believed she deserved a higher social status and collected relationships with rich or influential married men. Nada was a spoiled brat; my mother denied her nothing in the absence of a father who worked hard all week only to drown his sorrows in Barbès on weekends. Every time I had a glimmer of a love story with a boy my age, Nada ended up bringing him to her bed. Continuing his reassuring caresses and kisses, my friend couldn’t take it anymore. His majestic virility, which had seemed relaxed after his shower, regained its full vigor, reminding me of his undeniable admiration for the only part of my body that Amira didn’t pay much attention to.
The backs of his fingers began to comfort me. Yes, my chest is indeed magnificent, as Amira had always told me. I felt even more confident and proud. Our pact was becoming a reality; all that remained was to seal it definitively. Freed from the swim trunks, sharing seemed closer, and desire grew. Despite the urge to share another night in the jacuzzi, the contact without any barriers allowed the desire for even a fleeting union to prevail.
Unleashed, I rose gracefully to ask His Majesty, with the posture he deserved, to follow me. My fingers maintained contact with his. Despite the dim light, the long-awaited gaze occurred. Sharing became more equitable. My gaze, intensely fixed, betrayed a passion that only begged to be satisfied.
Once we landed on the king-size bed, a pillow fight carried us away in bursts of laughter. We did everything while laughing.
Chapter VII – The Nuptial Dawn
Our friendship consummated, I awoke to the soft murmur of the shower. My nudity, revealed by my outfit—or rather its absence—showed that room service had already delivered breakfast. On the table adorned with refined details, a pink envelope was carefully placed beside the morning delights. The message on it read, “Good morning, Kitty,” sparking my curiosity. A playful smile danced on my lips as I discovered the surprise: a pair of panties from the special Saint-Val collection by the brand “Minou Bonjour.”
Outside the scenarios, the pact stipulated that each could call the other as they pleased, offering a particular freedom. While my friend took candid moments to casually alternate affectionate terms like “babe,” “kitty,” “my doe,” or “dear friend,” I sometimes found myself disconcerted, struggling to fully grasp the essence of these expressions. The line between love and friendship blurred.
My friend, freshly out of his morning shower, approached me. Between his chest sharing its freshness with mine and his suggestive lower half, glimpsed through the towel around his waist, the moment became magical. We shared the delights like children; sometimes, our lips met unintentionally while savoring the same treat. The kisses, alternately sweet and salty, often evolved into passionate embraces.
Sitting side by side on the bed, my friend’s lips gradually approached the edge of my left ear. Defenseless, it continued its exploration toward the delicate embrace of my neck, my nape, and then the sensual trail of my spine. His bold caresses found their way to my right buttock with disconcerting ease. I found myself with my stomach against his thighs, not quite understanding how we got there.
“Dom tek dom dom tek.” The rhythm made more noise than harm, evoking in me the desire for delights worthy of the Arabian Nights. Suddenly, the spanking stopped, giving way to a few comforting kisses. Although we had established boundaries excluding any practice that might compromise beauty or physical integrity, I was left wanting more.
Chapter VIII – 50 Shades of pastel
Contrary to my expectations, suitcase A contained only a very suggestive sheer blouse, a topless bra as usual, a bottle of YSL’s LIBRE INTENSE perfume, and a small box of professional pastels accompanied by a sketchbook. As I observed the pastel shades in my suitcase, my artistic aspirations resurfaced. Faced with the dilemma between artistic passion and my parents’ pragmatic advice, after passing my baccalaureate in fashion design this year through a perilous journey where I prioritized free painting workshops over classrooms, the deception of my dear friend became evident. It was imperative to open suitcase A2 without delay. Still seated on his throne, wrapped in a towel around his waist, he asked in an enchanting voice, “Do you like this, my love?” We had embarked on a unique friendship where we shared everything, even the most intimate moments, but not love, dear friend, I told myself while decoding the second suitcase. Poof, it was the right one. An elegant and sexy outfit and a sleek YSL bag. The wink became more than clear. Even if it was my first experience with a man, I revered this magnificent organ as one honors YSL, a splendor that Amira couldn’t offer me. My long wait, largely chosen, had made me even more desirous. On the internet, I had spent long hours contemplating the magnificent works representing it. Vulgar images didn’t interest me; they had the opposite effect on me. After finishing dressing, my earrings, my plunging pendant, my man, all while noticing that I had exceeded the allotted time, embraced me, pulling out a magnificent watch from his pocket and placing it on my wrist himself. Under his loving and mischievous gaze, I slipped my pastel sketchbook, the small box, and the perfume bottle, completing my sensual and artistic attire. Proud of my needlework skills, I surrendered to a suggestive dance, confidence emanating from my friend’s virile presence.
The gazes lingered on my chest with audacity while I scrutinized behind my sunglasses. At the little Venice of Valencia, I embodied femininity in an elegant outfit, while the colorful little houses of the port of Saplaya painted a magnificent picture, imbued with sensuality.
The subtle caresses of my friend, slipping delicately, conveyed his admiration for my curves. His tender kisses were the sincere expression of our budding friendship, while his gentle words revealed a sensitivity to which I couldn’t resist. Despite Nada’s shadow hovering over my head as I left the hotel, the concerns about the age difference quickly faded. Neither the circumstances nor the intentions were the same. Moreover, my companion had a voluptuous body that aroused envy in many supposedly younger suitors.
After savoring a delicious seafood paella like a young couple in love, my friend handed me a personalized keychain, the engraving bearing the date of our pact. A small card accompanied this precious object, revealing the number of an apartment or villa, as well as the address at the port. Determined to play the game, I got up from my chair to look for the address.
Located in this privileged area, the colorful terraced house was nearby. Its ground floor, at street level, was accessible from a welcoming terrace. Once inside, the staircase on the left led to a magnificent suite with access to a terrace nearly 15 meters long facing south. The sunlight flooded every corner of this house, offering truly delightful views. Two leather armchairs were lying around, placed face to face.
Without waiting, I took out my pastel pad and the box. My friend wasn’t long in joining me. A few minutes later, I found myself creating my first intimate work, my first forbidden drawing. Meanwhile, my friend amused himself by taking Polaroid photos of me as I juggled poses, drawing inspiration alternately from “La Passagère” by Milo Manara, the artist whose stroll had ignited ours, and “Oui Mon Cul” by Carmen de Vos. These varied poses fueled my desire to create two pastel self-portraits: “La passagère de Saplaya à la tête coupée” and “Ô Mes Courbes d'Infini.” I planned to sign them anonymously under the pseudonym SLM (Safa la Marquise), like my entire intime collection.
Chapter IX - The Fountain of the Virgin Square
Having wandered through the quaint alleys of the old town—leaving my perfumed and dewy minou in the villa that turned out to be my darling’s secondary residence—we found ourselves at the edge of the famed fountain on the Virgin Square. A gentle breeze teased my intimacy.
My dear companion drew a jewel case from his pocket and pressed his lips to mine, seeking my opinion on this peculiar pact of amorous solidarity. Before I could reply, he opened the box to reveal two unconventional rings, reminiscent of wedding bands. To the hushed murmurs of the nearby crowd, he slid his ring onto my finger with passionate tenderness, igniting a wave of burning desire between us. I reciprocated with coquettish grace, placing the other ring on his hand. Oblivious to our whispered consents, curious onlookers bore witness to our final kiss—a moist, fervent seal of passion.
Alone in the suite, I meditated on pleasures yet to come. Flushed with pride at my beloved’s admiration for my curves, I resolved to wear only the unbuttoned veil-shirt. Freshly groomed and impeccable as ever, my hastily yet artfully applied makeup complete, all that remained was to open suitcase B. To my astonishment, I discovered a miniature velvet flogger, its softness disarming. Though insatiable that morning, this surprise eclipsed all expectations.
My reverie fractured upon finding a brochure from the Polytechnic University of Valencia’s Faculty of Fine Arts, alongside a handwritten addendum to our pact. Its clause vowed that should our friendship blossom into exclusivity, he would grant me the harbor villa and a livelihood sufficient to pursue my artistic aspirations at that prestigious institution.
A shiver of thrill coursed through me. His generosity toward my ambitions moved me deeply, yet the notion of my exclusivity stirred ambivalence. My beloved maintained a misyar marriage with a wealthy divorced Arab woman—infertility having dissolved their union—requiring him to dwell in his tax exile for at least 181 days yearly. The prospect of a deeper, bound connection electrified and unsettled me in equal measure, kindling a smoldering curiosity to explore the limits of our camaraderie.
The harbor villa now loomed as a symbol of true friendship—a sanctuary where secret desires and fantasies might intertwine. My thoughts spiraled between anticipation of the unknown and trepidation for challenges ahead. A pulse of longing surged through me as I glimpsed the clitoral sonic vibrator in its case. Though familiar in form, I had never wielded it; a novel excitement gripped me. My fingers traced its sleek contours, imagining the raptures it promised. While the device charged, my gaze drifted to the five silk scarves folded nearby. I stood ready to plumb every crevice of delight the evening might yield.
By the window, I watched the city shimmer under starlight, my shirt fluttering like a phantom’s veil. Turning slowly, I greeted my singular friend with a playful smile. Wordless, I drifted to the room’s center, where dim lights wove an intimate tapestry. To the strains of Sayed Balaha’s music, I began to sway—hips undulating, arms aloft, silk scarves pirouetting around me like ethereal partners.
Retreating steps became invitations as I neared him, my buttocks grazing his form. A tender kiss brushed my neck; the scarf veiling my eyes sharpened every sense. His ardent kisses guided me toward uncharted realms of pleasure. I surrendered to his touch, heart racing with anticipation.
This time, his explorations grew bolder, more generous. Leaning forward, I offered eager collaboration, yearning for his kisses to deepen. Yet only tenderness lingered—until velvet replaced lips. The flogger’s timid caresses soon escalated into daring strokes, aided by my pliant posture. Here lay my most intimate, unutterable fantasy.
His lips at last bestowed the kiss I craved; his warm tongue consoled me. Silk-bound hands answered his touch, my thighs yielding in silken stillness. The vibrator awoke my senses—gentle at first, then crescendoing through intensities, each surge a divine revelation. When he lifted the scarf-blindfold, my vision returned to find him studying the "little fountain’s" glistening edges with penetrating gaze.
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