Coronation Night Hookup: Ravaged in the Green Salon

The green salon door clicks shut behind me. Heart hammers like war drums. We’ve been chatting for days on that secret app—dirty promises, pics of my tits spilling out, his cock hard and ready. No names at first, just ‘Anonyme’ craving a real man. Then he reveals: Maximilien d’Ascort, the general who cockblocked my marriage to Dumaton. Fuck cousin Léonard and his schemes. Tonight’s my revenge. My phone vibrates in my clutch. His text: ‘Here. Now.’ I smell his cologne first—musky, leather, sweat from the crowd. Then mine hits him, jasmine heavy, slutty. He’s by the window, uniform crisp, eyes devouring my sheer gown. Nipples poke through lace. No hello. I grab his lapels. ‘No bullshit, Maximilien. Fuck me like you own me.’ His breath hot on my neck. Hands grip my ass hard. Tension snaps. Lips crash. Tongues fight. I taste whiskey, power. Phone buzzes again—Léonard’s probably hunting me. Ignore it. Urgency burns. Days of teasing, now flesh. I shove him against the velvet wall. Skirt hikes up. His fingers find my wet thong. ‘Soaked already, Catherine? Nympho slut.’ ‘Shut up and finger me.’