Welheim Tonali didn't chase power—it bent to him willingly.
At twenty-two, the Italian heir had transformed his family's ancient aristocratic wealth into a modern empire of sin and secrecy. Using old Tuscan vineyards and Venetian properties as collateral, he'd founded an invitation-only network of exclusive clubs across Europe: dimly lit lounges in London, rooftop havens in Monaco, beachfront dens in Ibiza. These weren't ordinary nightspots. They were playgrounds for the ultra-elite—billionaires sealing deals over vintage cognac, heiresses escaping boring marriages, oligarchs indulging fetishes without consequence.
Welheim was the undisputed king of it all. 6'4", ripped physique honed from private trainers, long raven hair that women loved to grip, and a cocky smirk that promised ruin. Women melted under his gaze; men envied his control.
He mastered seduction like a science. A subtle touch on the lower back. A whispered filth in a crowded room. The way he'd pin a woman with his eyes until her panties were soaked before he even kissed her. His reputation spread in elite whispers: the young Italian stud with an 8-inch thick cock who could fuck a woman senseless, make her squirt for the first time, and leave her begging for more while her husband slept oblivious.
Most couldn't go back to average after him. They craved the way he choked them lightly, slapped their ass red, or pounded them until they screamed.
One Spanish art dealer still haunted his dirtiest memories.
Valeria, 38, married to a decrepit collector, had teased him for weeks at auctions—bending over just enough to flash lace panties, "accidentally" brushing her tits against his arm. One stormy afternoon in Madrid, she lured him to her private gallery.
The door clicked shut. He shoved her against a wall of priceless paintings, hiking her tight skirt up. No words. His hand slid between her thighs, finding her already drenched. "Fuck, you're soaking," he growled, fingers plunging into her hot, tight pussy. She moaned, grinding against his palm as he curled them, hitting her G-spot until her legs shook.
That night in her penthouse, he stripped her slowly, sucking her hard nipples until she whimpered. Then he dropped to his knees, spreading her legs wide and burying his face in her shaved cunt. His tongue flicked her clit relentlessly, two fingers pumping deep while she clutched his hair, hips bucking. "Oh god, Welheim... don't stop... I'm gonna—" She exploded, juices flooding his mouth as her body spasmed.
He stood, cock throbbing hard against his pants. "On your knees," he ordered. She obeyed eagerly, freeing his thick 8 inches and swallowing as much as she could, gagging wetly while he fucked her throat. When he couldn't take it anymore, he bent her over the balcony railing, city lights below, and slammed into her from behind.
Each thrust stretched her, bottoming out against her cervix. "Harder... fuck me harder!" she begged. He gripped her hips, pounding mercilessly, balls slapping her clit until she came again, pussy clenching around him like a vice. He pulled out just in time, painting her ass with thick ropes of cum.
She texted him for weeks after. He ghosted her. Conquests were meant to be savored once.
But the hunger never faded.
It ignited again at a lavish weekend retreat on a clifftop estate outside Monaco, hosted by his father's old shipping tycoon friend. Private jets, priceless art, endless champagne. Welheim circulated, charming investors for his next club expansion.
Then he spotted Sophia.
Mid-thirties, curves poured into an emerald gown that barely contained her heavy tits and round ass. The back plunged to her dimples; the slit rode high enough to tease smooth thigh. Her husband—silver-haired, paunchy, loaded—kept a hand on her like property.
Introductions came. "My wife, Sophia."
Welheim grasped her hand, thumb stroking slow circles over her wrist pulse point. Her breath caught; she responded by dragging her tongue across her upper lip, eyes dropping blatantly to his crotch.
His dick twitched instantly.
The night blurred—flirty glances across the terrace, her "accidental" brush against him near the bar, fingers grazing his thigh under the table during dinner.
As midnight approached, he leaned in during a quiet moment: "Wine cellar. Now."
She slipped away first.
The cellar was a cool, shadowed maze of rare bottles. Welheim poured two glasses of decadent Sauternes, waiting.
The door creaked. Sophia entered, gown discarded somewhere. She wore only a sheer black silk robe, loosely belted, over crimson lace: corset shoving her massive breasts up like offerings, garters clipping stockings, pussy bare and glistening already.
"Fuck," he muttered, hardening fully.
She smirked, stepping close, jasmine scent mixing with her arousal. "Worried I'd chicken out?"
He grabbed her waist, yanking the robe open. Her tits spilled free—heavy, nipples dark and stiff. "Not for a second." He mauled one roughly, pinching the nipple until she gasped, then dropped a long strip of condoms—dozen connected—onto the tasting table with a rattle.
Sophia's eyes lit with filthy excitement. "Prepared for a marathon, huh?"
She shoved him against the stone wall, nails raking his shirt open, mouth crashing into his. Tongues battled as she freed his belt, hand diving in to grip his thick shaft. "So big... my husband's tiny prick never fills me like this will."
Welheim groaned, hiking her leg up and grinding against her wet slit. He teased her entrance with his tip, coating himself in her juices. "Beg for it."
"Please... fuck me. Stretch my married pussy."
He thrust in deep—one brutal push burying every inch. She cried out, walls clenching hot and slick around him. He pinned her wrists above her head, pounding hard, tits bouncing with each slam. The wet sounds echoed off the bottles.
"Faster... oh god, you're hitting so deep!" She came quick, pussy gushing around his cock, body shuddering.
He didn't stop. Flipped her around, bent her over the table amid scattered condoms. Spread her ass cheeks and drove back in, slapping her flesh red. "Take it all, you cheating slut."
Another orgasm ripped through her, louder this time. He felt his own building—pulled out, spun her to knees, and shoved into her mouth. She sucked greedily, tasting herself, until he erupted down her throat.
They weren't done. Round two on the floor: her riding him reverse, ass grinding as he thumbed her clit. Round three: slow, deep missionary against the wall, her legs wrapped tight, whispering how she'd crave him forever.
By dawn, she was wrecked—cum-leaking, marked, addicted.
Welheim zipped up, smirking.
Just another night. Another conquest.