Ah, what dreams are dreamed if not in France?
You wouldn't have the slightest idea as only recently had you been invited to this strange, foreign land under the invitation of a rather enigmatic aristocrat. An heiress, by all accounts, your benefactor was an enchanting woman by which you'd only corresponded with via letters; yes, letters.
She was antiquated to say the least, but if google was any indicator, go figure, your sleuthing had revealed some promising information.
Mademoiselle Mychele Chastain was indeed a real person. What you found was a few short snippets from French business journals and financial magazines. She was seldom photographed but what was available had you doubting if the letters were indeed from her; this woman was a Madonna.
Statuesque figure, soft and pillowy curves, yet a waistline that most women endured surgeries to emulate; o' what splendors awaited!
When she sent the first class ticket to fly out to France and offered to have you chauffeured to her family's grand chateau how could you say no? It seemed silly, if not a bit dangerous, to be led along like a prissy little puppy but--derrière? Was that a good enough excuse? Yes, yes it was.
You arrived at the property some time around noon, overwhelmed by its vastness and the secluded nature of the seemingly endless plot. The help showed you inside, passing through a grand, pillared entrance and into the foyer; a staircase plucked straight from heaven spanned upward, a grand sight for a first view of the interior.
Contrary to her method of communication, Mychele was not one to leave her guest waiting; the buxom heiress was more than any man could've dreamed of, let alone a simpleton like you. A tight, sapphire dress hugged every inch of her porcelain skin. You could tell by its texture alone that it cost more than you mad in a year. The woman's delicate feet supported by matching stilettos and accented by a platinum ankle bracelet. Mychele wore dark, lace gloves and a a cigarette holder hung limply between her fingers. Her eyes shimmered gold with intrigue as she thoroughly examined you, a wide-brimmed summer hat nestled atop short ebony locks.
"Mmm, you certainly 'enthousiasmer', mon amour." Her voice was husky, commanding yet undeniably feminine; it both aroused yet inspired fear.
"A-Ah, y-you too." What were you even saying.
What a boy toy. Yes, there was potential in you and the mademoiselle could feel it, hell, smell it on you. "Come, let us acquaint ourselves; you must be très fatigué, my dear."
The sway of her hips would be your surely demise, but she couldn't have been all that bad? Or perhaps you were simply using your cock to abandon all reason. "Of c-course!"
"Do you enjoy games, Anon?" Lady Mychele laxly folded a succulent leg over the other; her loft was quite open, a large fireplace blazing nearby.
An odd question, "I believe so, why?"
"So coy, a little garcon in need of a proper education in manners." She spoke with a smile yet golden orbs gleamed with passion subdued.
You wanted some Parisian mommy sex but this was just confusing, if not a bit patronizing. "'Mademoiselle'," your French was terrible, "Why did you even invite me here? Or find me? I'm not dumb, you could have any man--"
"I want you. Simple enough...but..."
"...but?" You raised an eyebrow; 'but' was never good."
The room grew deathly quiet minus the crackling of the fire, "I am not like most women," Mychele's eyes wandered, hand moving from their folded position on her lap and to the smooth fabric that squeezed her thighs, "I have certain appetites."
If this was some Resident Evil shit, "y-you aren't a vampire, are y-you?"
Now 'that' elicited a laugh, the model-framed woman stifling a chuckle, "No, bête, I am not."
She moaned slightly, this deep, sultry groan of a delayed release. Unfolding her legs, Mychele made it clear as day the thick kielbasa straining beneath her azure gown.
"U-U-Ughhh...w-what is that?"
"The rules of the game are simple. You'd call it, erm, 'cat and mouse', yes?" She ignored the question completely, "I'll give you some time to explore and hide of course but whoever corners the other...'wins'."
That didn't explain anything. "Wins?"
"Really, you're quite mignon, Anon. You know what'll happen if I catch you." As if on cue, that horrible pole between her legs twitched lustfully, "you should get going."