I am soaking wet and taste it on my fingers. My emotions, like its flavour, are bittersweet.
I feel shame. I am a pervert, and my arousal is stolen goods.
Crouched on their balcony, I spy on them through a gap in the curtains. This is my life now, and the sounds of them fucking are not enough. Gripping the railing, the metal bites into my palm. The distant thrum of traffic masks my panting. One wrong sound or if I stumble, my secret is revealed.
I dare not blink. Anaïs is astride Jules, shoulders back, jutting out her breasts. Amused, she peers down and grins. I expect him to be limp and spent. Moments earlier, he lurched, arched and stabbed, shooting his seed into her.
I recognise her expression. I have seen it in the mirror alone. It is hunger; she wants more.
I want Gaspar to see that on my face… or Jules.
My sex cramps with need… or Anaïs, grinding her sex on mine.
Testing him, her caress rakes his torso, and her hips begin to rock back and forth. She is rousing him, her gaze unmoved, conveying her determination and control. My shame becomes a wicked thrill, and I crave them both. Anaïs leers in triumph when his strong hand claims her breast, its fingers pinching her nipple. She grinds faster with serpentine movements to assert her dominance. Her effortless lunges demand a complete surrender to her wiles.
Her lunges demand surrender, and I want to learn that power. I want Gaspar to feel it. One day, Jules will see the same hunger in my eyes, and he’ll be helpless, too.
Now the trap is sprung, her tempo accelerates, and I commit this lesson to memory. My fingers mimic her, slipping into the tightening heat. I graze my clit, helpless to the mounting pressure. I wonder if she holds him as fiercely as I grip myself.
Anaïs rides toward her oblivion, confident to wring a second release from her lover. Maybe, she will inspire what I have never known – a shared, simultaneous orgasm. It is a molten impossibility, my spasms milking every last drop from him… or Gaspar.
Crouched like this, my legs tremble. I cannot keep going. I should stop. If I cry out, they will hear my filthy secret.
Anaïs tenses and struggles. Jules sits up, braced by rigid arms. She drapes over him, fingers splayed, showering his shoulder with kisses and playful bites. Her back arches, her face radiant in the throes of ecstasy. Tighter and tighter still, until she trembles to a stop. I hear its violence when sharp cries cut through the glass. She flails, relentless to the end, clasping his face to her breasts. I hear his wounded groans as she clings to him, victorious.
Her eyes open, dreamy and content, weighted by the satisfaction of her orgasm.
A fierce jealousy stabs hard. I will make my secrets a reality. I will climax hard on top of her husband, too. I know what it takes. I am not sexually naïve anymore.
Anaïs sighs, with her chin on his collarbone.
And I freeze to a bone-chilling cold.
She looks right through me as if I am not there – as if I never was.
– 7-
Despite a hammering heart and shaking hands, I leave silently. Back in my bedroom, I slide the window closed. Anaïs did not see me; she could not. She would have recoiled in horror. She would have screamed. They would be waiting for me here, for the mother of all arguments.
Shame tightens its grip, feeding the restless pulse low in my stomach. I want them to see this. If Anaïs did see me and stayed calm, she would tell Jules. They might still come here, so they must see me like this.
My shorts hit the floor, and my t-shirt follows. In the mirror, I see the same hunger that Anaïs showed Jules. This is my confession. When they see me pleasuring myself, will they recoil in disgust? Or, will I awaken their desire for me?
I have nothing to lose. My need is impossible to tame.
A clammy handprint smears the mirror, nipples sharp on my small breasts. My fingers twist inside me, warping my reflection. This slippery thumb goads me, coaxing yelps instead of whimpers. I bite my lip, desperate to cry out. The sticky sounds slurp, thunder rumbles, and the storm clouds darken.
The cut of her obliques to her smooth sex. How they struggled with his urgent shaft, shiny with her juices. The sway of her breasts, the animation of their bodies. The unknown moment as he twitches hard, and inundates her womb with his seed.
My vision narrows, my eyes roll upwards. My mouth opens with a silent plea. Let them come now and witness my orgasm. I pray for quiet, but I crave this more.
Lightning strikes and every nerve sings. I am lust and loathing, a voyeur to my own climax. My hips jerk forward, my body arching, desperate for a rough cock to fuck the demons from me. Dizziness crashes hard as the hot glow radiates through me. I rock back and forth, over and over, until I collapse to my knees, thrusting relentlessly to purge them all.
My soul settles into the silence, and only my ragged breaths and pounding heart remain. On shaky legs, I meet the gaze of a guilty stranger. In the mirror, I am dishevelled and spent, my eyes half-lidded, lips parted.
It is a sudden, wicked thought.
I snap a photo for a memento. My trembling fingers fumble, making mistake after mistake, until finally, the correct message is ready.
I need you, Gaspar. Can you see how much?
It does not placate my guilt.
It deepens it.
I watch the cursor flicker, hungry for my lover to see the depth of my depraved needs.
“Lacrosse? On a Tuesday night? You look exhausted.”
I am earthbound, my wings are singed.
I sigh and mutter, “If only, Gaspar… if only.”
– 8 –
“Who was that?”
I look at Mathilde, “Oh, Gaspar.”
Putting away my phone, I see her side-glance and smile. We spent the day together and ventured into Saint-Germain. A café culture excursion, a light lunch, and we shared our dream to live there. A lot would need to happen to make it so.
Walking along the embankment of the Seine, we giggle when young men admire us. I must work on my confidence and maintain eye contact. Mathilde can do that, and she is single.
“So?”
My smile widens.
“Elodie Duprix… spill it.”
I giggle. “Jules and Anaïs are staying with friends in Sceaux. I have their house to myself.”
Mathilde grins, “A night with Gaspar?”
I have learned how to be coy. “Of course.”
Walking across the Pont des Arts Bridge, she slides her arm underneath mine and leans in. I cannot help it. At that moment, I would let her have my body.
“Someone getting some sex tonight,” she mutters.
I indulge in its ambiguity, but I know she means Gaspar.
“Mathilde!”
A week ago, I would have been shocked, now… I have learned how to feign it.
“That guy in the red t-shirt was handsome.” I have learned some guile, too.
“You think so, not my type.” Mathilde sighs.
“Do you have one?”
She sighs, “Not really. A pulse would be nice.”
We laugh. The river breeze lifts my hair; I tilt my face into it, letting the city wash over me.
“Elodie, I have noticed something about you, though.”
“Oh?”
“You seem more relaxed.”
“Oh… so I am uptight normally?”
She shrugs, “No, you are just the shy type. That’s all.”
I contemplate her words, and I agree. “I am not a Parisian like you. My little village is nothing compared to this.”
“Still…” she squeezes my arm, “You are learning.”
I squeeze her back, “Yes, I am, and I can thank you for that.”
It is a white lie, but she must know what a good friend she is. I am a student at the university. At my temporary home, I study the two adults I lust over, their every gesture, and every word.
I mimic them.
Especially Anaïs.
And it’s working.
– 9 –
It has been three weeks since Gaspar and I were alone. I have lost count of what my fingers and that toy gave me – except for that single mind-bending climax captured in a photograph.
I watched Anaïs and Jules fuck. I was not caught; it was never mentioned.
Sipping my wine, I watch Gaspar eat. He eats by morsels, cutting the haricot vert with patience, adding flakes of salmon, dipping it in Velouté. His softer features will harden, and the man-child will fade into a man. Each time I see him, he is more handsome.
I am caught red-handed and smile. It is impossible to hide my thoughts. I crave his body and his cock.
He responds earnestly, “You okay?”
I nod, “Perfect, and you?”
“Yeah… the same.”
Gaspar fumbles his smile; he is nervous. We both know why we are here.
This wine bottle is empty. I asked Jules for advice and bought two. I am glad of that. The fire in our halls of residence halted our relationship in its tracks. Each rendezvous since has been increasingly chaste – until we’re almost back to our first time.
He is my first time.
Gaspar’s expression is tight with anxiety. Freshly shaved and scented, he is dressed in his best shirt. I made the effort too. My hair curled into soft waves, brushing my shoulders. I shaped my eyebrows and painted my lips. This new dress hugs my slight curves, supple and snug.
I did the best I could with what little I have. My sexuality is a state of mind, not a statement. So, I am not wearing panties, and shift in my chair. The fabric glides over bare skin like a stranger’s caress. All week, my mind fought my body, my imagination as a riot of colliding, merging, sexual fantasies. My persistent inner voice demands sex, my body craves the fullness of his cock.
I long for his seed inside me.
Admiring Gaspar, I have a choice for him next.
Tarte Tatin or my body for dessert.
I am coy, I need sex, and Anaïs looks at Jules like this.
But this is reality, and I can feel the weight of expectation.
And my secrets compel me to cross that imaginary line.
– 10 –
Gaspar chose Tarte Tatin.
Not me.
I yearn to be desired, I need to feel wanted.
I throb, hollow and restless.
He helps me clear the table and load the dishwasher. His woody scent is torture. I want to make it rise from his body, labouring beneath me. I cannot bear to be this close and not rip his clothes off. With a brittle smile on his lips, I linger on them as we stand in the kitchen. I am so close I can take one step, reach out, and embrace him in my arms.
I cannot wait because my blood pounds like a war drum. I tilt my head in the universal language of desire and press my lips to his. This is my first time initiating what I need. My careful plan becomes brittle at this first contact. I want to submit to him, I crave to be taken, but I persevere.
My hands take his wrists, guiding them to my hips. The tactile pressure increases, and I goad him into responding. He follows me. He is ice at any other time, but it cracks to remind me – Gaspar is a good kisser. We fold into each other, and the bulge of his erection presses against me.
I am alight, aching for the stretch of his cock and the aftershocks of orgasm.
Rushed air snorts, followed by the thrum of a deep whimper – he is mine. I peel Gaspar from me with a haughty expression awakened from the deep. I am subservient, and this will not spook him. On my knees and looking up, my doe eyes convey a longing he will recognise one day. He is frozen still, expectant. The lop-sided smile I learned from Anaïs keeps him there.
My fingers are unsteady and sure. His eyes widen as I unfasten his trousers. When they fall to his knees, I admire its bold outline in his briefs, caressing the hardness beneath. I gaze up and smile, trying to hide my frail spirit.
Hooking my fingers under the waistband, I tug his briefs down. His cock springs free, stiff and straining. I am beyond the nervous veil. I look up, and he sees the hunger in my eyes. My thumb and fingers close around him, firm, slow… deliberate.
He is fierce and hot, and I leer like Anaïs, lips parted and wet. Gaspar is wide-eyed and surprised, and I grin because I see hope flicker into life.
I am winning.
I kiss its swollen head, enjoying how he flinches. Savouring his musky scent, my lips engulf it, breaking the silence with his sudden gasp. Removing my hand, my eyes filled with obedience, it slides in, and I take it. Back and forth, his trembling hand clasps the back of my head.
Oh, please, Gaspar, use my mouth and fuck it.
My hand returns to his shaft as a caress, not a direction. My eyes feign helplessness, waiting for him to take advantage. I am not perfect, I am a novice, and so is Gaspar. As hot steel, I lick, I suck, and pornography is an inadequate teacher. I could caress his taint, tease his puckered hole. I could finger it and find his prostate. I must resist this compulsion to finger myself. All of these things will scare him away, yet this ensemble of hand and mouth is disjointed.
Gaspar moans when trial and error succeeds. He needs to understand, I am his gift, if only he would take it.
Anaïs blunted Jules for more this way. I will remove Gaspar’s anxieties and take his first climax like this. My gamine body will be the vessel for his desires after this.
My first reward is his heartfelt groans, growing in strength until they are his mantra. The next is his fingers running through my hair, and I ease back. They grip, and I press my hand on his thigh for leverage. His restless hips are too gentle, so I take more until I gag.
Gaspar hollers, and his helpless hips thrust.
Yes, fuck my mouth.
Blinking a tear from my eye, I gaze upward. He needs to see what I am.
It was not Lacrosse, Gaspar. Your eager slut is willing to learn.
Instead, I see his fear of sullying my mouth.
I am pure sexual need – no shame, no hesitation. “Cum in my mouth.”
“Elodie…”
My unquenched appetite punctuates his words.
“I… I don’t know if…”
I take more than I ever have, fighting the need to retch. Gaspar tightens with a deep groan. With streaming eyes, I stroke his shaft, licking around the head. When I caress his tight balls, I feel him swell at the edges of my lips. They lock, and my sunken cheeks apply an unknown pressure.
He must be enslaved to my needs. This will be the memory that inspires him to explore. My fears of its taste are allayed. I will take his seed and swallow it as any loving girlfriend should.
“Elodie…” His voice cracks like his resistance.
Looking into his crisis-stricken eyes, he will see my newfound guile.
It arrives with a plosive grunt, catching me off guard. It floods my mouth, bitter and thick. Again, more arrives, and I have my doubts. There is no time for regret. I swallow fast, fighting the urge to pull away, determined to take every pulse. Pushing my mouth onto his twitching shaft, Gaspar cries out loud enough to wake the dead.
It is a lot, even for him.
He rasps for air as I nurse it in my mouth. Slick with my saliva, I bathe it with my tongue to clean him while the twitches fade. His cheeks are flushed, and he sees the satisfaction in my eyes.
Gaspar flinches. It is sensitive in this post-orgasmic state, still strong and vibrant.
I lick my lips, satisfied and greedy for more.
I purr, “Good?”
“Elodie…” he pants, “… what has gotten into you?”
“I’ve missed you. Did you like it?”
He hesitates in his gesture of agreement.
The moment is ripe. Rising from my knees, I hike my dress over my hips. “Look.”
He sees my bare mons, unaware of the immolation within. His gaze returns and I greet him with a crooked smile.
“Jesus Christ, Elodie.”
I know he will not kiss me, so I do not ask. Instead, I guide his hand to my soaked folds.
My slack mouth opens with narrowed eyes that burn for his cock. “You like it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Gaspar.” My soft tone drips with temptation. “Would you say that we make love?”
He is tongue-tied, but nods eagerly.
Anaïs looks at Jules like this in the evening, and I know what she has on her mind. It works. This is the poise I need, and Gaspar will never misunderstand this coy expression again. Maybe tomorrow, he will look at that picture I sent him, and know it was not Lacrosse I was playing.
“What if, Gaspar, I wanted you to fuck me?”
“Fuck you?” He is puzzled.
I nod slowly, rocking my hips, smearing my juices over his fingers. His confusion is hard to read.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Okay.”
With that, I take his hand, flash a grin over my shoulder, and lead him to my room.
– 11 –
We tumbled together as I breached Gaspar’s last-ditch defences. I straddled his face, tugging his hair to guide his tongue into my folds. My first commands were strong and straightforward. He found my clit, listening to my pleas, each one softer than the last. He circled, flicked, and teased in every direction.
“Oh fuck, Gaspar, yes… there… right there.”
He sucked my clit between his lips, and with my final plea, he flicked it just right. Clutching my breasts, I rolled my nipples and soared to a noisy orgasm.
Gaspar frayed my need for control. It risked my plan as I basted my breasts with wine and demanded he lick it off. I begged to his feral nature, baring every pore of myself, shameless and proud. I guided his hand, demanding he finger me. In the tangle of soixante-neuf, I sucked his veined shaft, writhing on his face. Gasping, panting, I revelled in his growing skill.
“Fuck me,” I pleaded, again and again.
Be a man, please, Gaspar, just bend me over and take me.
This was no five-minute missionary position. I watched him seethe and tremble with desire, eyes pinched with lust, or wide-eyed with disbelief. We rolled and tangled on crazed sheets, with the pillows flung aside.
I sank onto him, slow at first, then faster. My thighs burned. Gaspar gripped my hips, thrusting up to meet me. When his breath hitched, I eased back. This was an ancient instinct, not awkward fumbling. I teased, drawing it out, until he groaned my name.
Crawling on all fours, I arched my back, exposing my bare sex, just as Anaïs showed Jules. Gaspar took me from behind. I wanted him to take my wrists, loft my body, and pound me into oblivion.
Not yet, but soon, and so much more.
When I sensed he was close, I slowed, cooling his urgency. Kissing him in those pauses was my personal agony – I burned for more. I pulled his hand between my legs to tease my clit, or let his fingers roll my nipples as I writhed, begging for more cock.
My confidence soared, unshackled from old doubts. Gaspar watched as I shuddered, witnessing my climax, stroking his cock in my hand. I knew he was ready to devour me. I assumed he would take over.
Then, I saw it.
Doubt.
There was one last gamble, something I had meant to save for another night. Slick with sweat, my body sang for another release. This was Anaïs’s secret with Jules, and I knew it would work for Gaspar too.
I climbed on top, and novice hips rolled like the slow, tidal waves of a faraway paradise. Looking down, I grinned as our eyes met. Flushed beneath me, his skin blotchy, I regained control. Caressing his nipples, I goaded him to thrust back. Clinging to his athletic frame, my lank hair fell over him. I could feel him swell, and our lips locked, tongues entwined.
We were lovers now, no longer star-crossed but real. Swollen inside, tight in the slippery friction, I rose in triumph, raking my hips back and forth.
“Cum inside me.”
“I…”
Now, he chose to flounder.
“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”
The strength of his thrusts ebbed away, stalling us to a canter. The moment was lost, and I felt foolish in the silence of his thoughts.
“It’s okay, let me…”
I slipped from my perch, lying beside him and taking him in hand. The boiling passion cooled to a simmer. Our kisses lost their heat, settling into an old, familiar pattern. What satisfied him then still did now, and my fantasies faded into the distance.
Still, we are two different people, and I can be patient.
Sex with Gaspar is truth and lies.
I watched as he bucked and strained. I sucked his nipple, coaxing him to finish. My soft words gave the final instruction as Gaspar surrendered to biology, not passion. Thick ropes slash across his stomach – warm and wasteful.
It should have been inside me. The passion drains away, leaving only that familiar hollow ache. His evasive eyes drifted past mine. I draped my arm over him, nestling my head against his chest, searching for a scrap of intimacy.
“Elodie… I need to clean myself up.”
He was as cold and clinical as the act had become.
Watching him rise, he covered his body.
My eyes do not lie.
The city broods at night, and my soul does, too. Gaspar sleeps, but I lie awake in his arms. I replay every moment, stained by my old, unwanted doubts. A restless mind loops endlessly, but the answer never changes.
I pushed him too far.
He wants a princess for a pedestal and not a slut from the sewer of my mind.
