Agent Wren, United Kingdom, Secret Intelligence Service

She was not the first woman he'd bedded since arriving at La Rose Noctiflore, that palace of vice on the French Riviera, but she was the most direct. The moment he'd stepped inside her room she unbuttoned her blouse and asked if it was the style for French women to go in public without their brassieres. The sun was hot for so early in the day, and her brown skin glistened, but the cool air inside the hotel had chilled her nipples into peaks. “Only, madame, if they are looking for new lovers.” She liked that, and she told him to disrobe.

Now she was astride him facing the foot of the bed, the black waves of her hair crashing against her back as she rode. She had no interest in kisses or even meeting his eye. It was clear she wanted him only for his prick, but he couldn't be offended. He'd used too many others just for their pussies, and hers was especially inviting.

Her moans rose in volume as she played with her breasts. Truth be told he considered her bust smaller than average, but let her do whatever she liked with her bra. He couldn't care less when she had such a firm ass hidden beneath her trousers. He groped it with both hands, squeezing it, rolling it. He pushed her forward to enjoy a better angle, and then speared her with hard slapping sounds. She clutched his ankles in a grip, her ass jiggling, hair trembling, and a sigh fluttered from her throat.

“Satisfied, madame?”

“Very,” she purred. “And you?”

He recalled that in some circles a woman's touch was compared to a velvet glove, but he had been masturbated by women wearing velvet gloves, and next to this he found it lacking. Warm skin had no compare, and this woman's skin filled his balls with exquisite tension.

“Close! I am, ah, so close.”

“Come on my ass,” she said, and that broke him. His brain dissolved into buzzing as he shot a load of pearly semen, and another, and another, until five sticky ropes coated her round behind. He lay back on the bed, while she rested on all fours. They enjoyed that moment in silence, one marked less by intimacy than by mutual satisfaction.

She entered the bathroom and wiped herself down with a handcloth.

“You're welcome to use the shower.” She offered him a towel, but he shook his head.

“No, no, thank you. I must be going.” He stood up and retrieved his dark pants.

“Oh no, please!” She looked scandalized at the way he straightened his tie. “Let me insist!”

“I'm sorry, but I cannot.” He put on his badge and cap with a wink. “Other guests require my services.”

The porter stopped at the open door. The buzzing he'd assumed a byproduct of orgasm had not stopped.

“I can send someone to fix that, if you–”

But she waved him off with a couple of francs, and that was the end of his interest.

She shuddered. If he wasn't using the shower, she most definitely would.

The buzzing first, though.