This is what pornography does to me, but this… this is different.
I stir between my legs, fingers slick on my over-sensitive sex. Something potent inside me broke free, terrifying at the pinnacle of climax, but exhilarating now. My mind and body will never be the same again. Panting, fuzzy-headed, reality and fantasy remain blurred.
Pornography is not real life, yet what I saw is my destiny.
Jules is going to fuck me.
Here it comes, my guilt returns, predictable, thick and squalid.
Look at you, it hisses, lying here with your legs open, soaked and aching. You actually want him to come upstairs and take you.
My disgust rises. I am broken inside. Unable to keep a boyfriend, and reduced to watching another couple fuck.
They must have heard me, and a sense of shame swells.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Anaïs and Jules provoked my deepest, most personal, and fiery fantasy. It’s awake and will never sleep again. It has context and meaning…
…about being bred, impregnated.
Pornography is not the real world.
It is all I have, and what I’ve seen in this house.
Waves of heat wash through me, flooding my sex, and my idle fingers rub at the slick mess.
Jules will push the door open, and I’ll freeze. I’ll try to cover myself, but I won’t really want to. When he climbs on top of me, I’ll feel so small. He’ll open my legs, and I’ll let him. He’ll hold my wrists, looking at me, and my heart will pound so hard I can’t speak.
He’ll push inside me slowly at first, thick, hard, bigger than I am used to. My mouth will fall open, and I’ll make a strange, embarrassing sound. I am taken as he fucks me, and I’ll say something so dirty, something I’ve only heard watching porn.
My cunt is yours.
I want to belong to him. I want to make the same sounds Anaïs makes from the other side of the wall. I want to say things I never thought I would.
Fuck me.
Fuck me harder.
Make me your whore.
The words feel so wrong… and so good at the same time.
I’ll try to move with him, kissing him desperately. He’s older. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and my body keeps tightening around him. I’ll feel myself getting closer and closer, and he’ll slow down.
Jules knows I need to cum so badly. He’ll hold me down so I can’t move. But I’ll wrap my legs around him anyway, clinging to him desperately.
I must say it. I need him to know my filthy secret.
I need my orgasm.
Breed me.
No.
No… stop!
I yank my hand away as if I’ve been burned. Rolling onto my side, I curl up and pull the duvet over me to hide my naked body. Staring at my glistening fingers, tears well in my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks.
This is not me. This was never supposed to be me.
I am the quiet girl from a Normandy village. The one who prayed before bed and believed sex happened after love and promises. I am the girl who blushed when a boy held my hand for too long. He looked at me and my lips. He held me close, and the kiss that followed made my knees weak.
I am the one who still feels guilty for showing Gaspar my breasts as a come-on.
A little voice screams to run, pack my things, and stay with Mathilde. I need to get out of here and go back to being the good, innocent girl. No one will ever look at me and have dirty thoughts. I will meet a good man and love him unconditionally. I will look back one day, relieved I never acted on these thoughts.
Another voice whispers with a silky seduction. Jules and Anaïs will show me, teach me… use me. I must taste freedom, released from these bitter restraints. I want to be a sexual being. How I walk and talk, and when I look people in the eye. I need its confidence, and they will see the impossible and pursue me for it. I must not clip my wings; I want to fly. Some men will fail, and I will choose my lover. I will give them everything when they succeed.
Another tear runs down my cheek.
This is too much, I cannot live like this, and only one side can win.
Something has to break.
And it has to break soon.
– 18 –
I am not here. I am still in the kitchen, watching Anaïs and Jules.
Mathilde holds a gypsy shirt up against her and frowns.
“What do you think?”
The boutique snaps back into focus. I shake my head.
This has been my mood all afternoon: distant and restless.
Mathilde nods and puts the shirt back on the rack.
“Thank you.”
The girl behind the counter smiles, but we are not buying anything today.
We drift through the shaded side of Rue de Turenne while South Marais hums around us. This was home before the fire. Normally, I love these boutiques, but today everything feels too hot, too bright, and too loud. Men look at me as we walk. Instead of lowering mine as I once would, I let my gaze linger for a moment.
It unsettles me.
My Parisian red lipstick feels too vivid and reckless. I am uncertain if I want to keep its promise, or if it is a threat to me. My cotton dress caresses my body with each step. I chose to wear nothing beneath it as my secret defiance. Now I am constantly aware of it. The delicate brush of fabric over my breasts, the way it grazes my thighs. It feeds the persistent ache between my legs that refuses to leave.
This is my attempt at a new persona. I can feel it tighten around me, seductive and dangerous. Part of me wants to tear it off and run. There is a quieter voice, though, that wonders who I will become if I stop resisting.
“Elodie, do you miss it here?”
“Yes, a lot.”
There is a pause.
“Is everything okay?” Mathilde is concerned, “You’re quiet today.”
I force a small smile. How do I tell my best friend that I watched Anaïs sucking her husband’s cock? Or that she forced him to confess that he wants to fuck me? And she wants to watch? That I ran upstairs, fucked myself senseless, and wanted them to hear it?
And I fantasised about Jules breeding me?
How do I tell Mathilde it’s kept me aroused ever since?
My situation is a ridiculous pornographic pastiche, but this recollection sends another wave of heat through me.
We turn onto Rue Saint-Antoine.
“Is it…” Mathilde pauses, and I know she is wary of saying Gaspar’s name.
“No. It’s been a tough week…”
She slides her arm inside mine. Squeezing it, I smile, weak but appreciative. Giving me a shoulder bump, she giggles, and I smile a little more.
“How about Angelique’s?”
There is that devil-may-care lilt in her tone.
“Lingerie. Why, Mathilde? Do you have a new lover?”
She giggles again, “No, not me. For you.”
I cannot try on lingerie in this state. If I wear it, I’m buying it.
“And what would I need new lingerie for?”
“Oh,” her voice is low, “That implies you actually have lingerie.”
I purse my lips, Mathilde laughs.
She stops dead. “Shit.”
“What? What is it?”
I follow the direction of her gaze.
“Oh, shit.”
Serendipity can be cruel. There he is, Gaspar, with his arm around a woman. I admit she is pretty with glossy chestnut hair and a flowing white dress. She laughs at something he says, leaning into him.
They look… comfortable.
I sigh, “It is what it is.”
“Elodie. Are you okay?”
Seeing them pulls at my self-restraint. Stretched thin, it hums like plucked wire.
Look at her, she has no idea what he is.
Something meaner than anger ignites inside me.
I did everything. I got on my knees and made him cum with my mouth. I rode him and begged him to fuck me properly.
And he chose her.
I am incandescent inside; it cauterises my guilt.
I made all the effort. He was a pitiful lover.
He could never fulfil me. He will not fulfil her, either.
I feel sorry for her.
The wire snaps.
Mathilde watches me, worry etched on her face. I am not a flower with all its petals plucked.
“His loss,” I whisper, and the words taste like fresh snow.
I grin at Mathilde… part wicked, part determined. There is no muscle memory; this is new.
She smiles too, and understands, “Let’s go to Angelique’s.”
– 19 –
It is a mocha-brown bag made of stiff paper, and Angelique’s gold serif script catches the sun. It sits by my ankle, an advert for the boutique, as much as for myself. We sip on watered pastis with ice, outside a bar on the pavement. Grateful for the shaded canopy, we watch people as the late flare of afternoon heat wanes. I am warm, floating, and happy for the alcohol to loosen my morals further.
Mathilde is smiling at the waiter.
I raise an eyebrow when her eyes return. “You wouldn’t?”
She grins, “You should, after what you bought.”
“A pack of white cotton panties?”
I like how her nose scrunches up when she is confused. “Yeah? What do you need those for?”
“For that waiter.”
We laugh.
I could not stop thinking of Anaïs and Jules, and I want them to see me dressed like this. I soaked two pairs from that pack of five, trying on lingerie. Looking in the dressing room mirror, I made my choice. I wanted to keep it on, such was its sensual potency.
“So, no more silent treatment, then?”
“I was lost in difficult thoughts. Sorry.” The apology lingers on my lips.
She sighs, “No problem, life is difficult sometimes.”
“You know… I’m glad I saw him.”
Mathilde leans forward. “I think so, too.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you saw him, and then wondered what you saw in him.”
I toast her. “Quite the philosopher.”
We finish our drinks in the comfortable silence.
“Do you need to be off at six?”
Mathilde nods. “Work. Seven to Eleven.”
“What’s it like?”
She shrugs. “It’s good. Busy for dinner and then it peters out.”
“I should think of getting a job like that. I need to get out more.”
“You should.” Her grin turns mischievous with a spark illuminating her eyes. “I get plenty of attention. The tips are good, too.”
“Have you?”
“Of course.” Her voice drops, playful and conspiratorial. “And I get to choose. Consider it practice.”
The simmering heat blooms between my legs again. I want to choose too. Soon.
“Another one?” she asks, already lifting her arm to catch the waiter’s eye.
“Sure.”
– 20 –
Four long nights are now turbulent memories. I have watched Jules from the corner of my eye, hungry for a sign. I am bewildered, hopelessly out of my depth. Confused and horny is a torture that my porn addiction cannot sate.
Tonight, Lacrosse practice was cancelled at short notice, leaving me no outlet for this frantic energy. On the train home, I ache. My panties are damp. I adjust my posture, and they cling to my sex.
This need crawls under my skin.
I am a riptide beneath a calm surface.
There were moments with Jules that crackled with sexual tension, but they dissolved into easy conversation and laughter. Unsuspecting, I turned the corner heading to the bathroom, there he was, and I gasped.
Wearing an urbane smile and a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
That was the perfect moment to feast my eyes and linger.
To approach him, drop the towel and get on my knees.
This is not pornography; it is real.
Fuck, I am frustrated.
I will not have a life of half-chances anymore. I don’t want romance, or candlelit dinners, or flowers. I want Jules… and I want Anaïs. She told him to fuck me.
The memory hits me as a wave of unwanted heat. I need him now. I need them both.
Lights blur past the window, the carriage rocks, and the words from Sunday morning still scorch me. Alone every night, I lie in bed, laptop glowing, fucking myself with desperate fingers. The woman on screen clings to her lover. He lurches, pulses and fills her with cum. She groans the way I would – the way Anaïs does. I gurgle and crumple. Biting the pillow, I always smother the truth, shivering with another lonely, shameful climax.
Opening the front door, I step inside, and the television blares with a football match. I drop my kit bag on my bedroom floor and sigh. Showering, I hope he might catch me in nothing but a towel. This decision is an easy one; it will fall from me, accidentally… on purpose.
It is obvious, awkward, but my need makes it simple to do.
I am disappointed.
Back in my room, I stare at the brown bag. Its glittering script is a faded promise. I look to my robe, then back to the bag. Satin and naked underneath? Or the lingerie?
Downstairs, he will have to look at me. I have that smile to show him, the one that tastes like snow.
My trembling hand latches the last stocking to the belt. I smooth the lines until nothing pinches. Looking in the mirror, I arrange my hair into blowsy waves and paint my lips a defiant vermillion.
I look at myself in the mirror. The lingerie makes me feel different, exposed, but powerful. I try to hold my gaze steady instead of looking away.
Will Jules look away?
The sweetest torture or bitter regret is better than not knowing.
If Jules asks why I am dressed like this, the answer is simple.
Obey your wife and fuck me, or send me away.
Hovering at the bedroom door, my mouth is dry and blood hammering. On this side of the door is a young woman with secrets. Crossing that threshold makes me the third person in their marriage, but this is not pornography.
The door handle turns.
What the fuck am I doing?
Cool air brushes my bare inner thighs as I pull it open.
I gasp hard, starstruck.
Jules stands before me, and his dark, brooding eyes meet the fear and hunger in mine.
– 21 –
This is wrong. He is married. I should be ashamed.
I blush hard, and an apology forms on my lips. I am ready to bolt and cover myself. But another part of me is stronger now, fed by the stolen moans through the wall, nourished by watching them fuck.
Still feasting on the words they shared.
And I starve.
Hungry for his eyes on me.
Hungry for his hands.
Hungry for his cock.
Raw recognition burns across his face: no charm, no polished smile, just naked lust. Jules steps inside and closes the door. Its quiet click seals my fate.
This is adultery. This is perversion.
My acceptance is the hot, liquid rush between my legs.
“Elodie,” his voice is low, almost animalistic. “You’re shaking.”
I am.
He crosses the room in two strides. Warm palms slide over my waist and pull me against him. Our first kiss is clumsy and desperate. Then his tongue claims my mouth, and I open for him, sucking softly, offering everything.
Lifting me, I am a bag of feathers, and he drops me onto the bed.
“Let me look at you.”
Exposed, but I don’t cover myself. I feel powerful and terrified, shivering for my future.
He strips, admiring me with covetous eyes as my anxiety rises. His thick cock stiffens, heavy and flushed. He is bigger than Gaspar. Jules is a man in his thirties with the needs of one. The sight twists something deep in my stomach; fear and raw need entwine.
Jules climbs over my prone body, kissing my throat, the tops of my small breasts, then lower. Hot breath fans across my smooth sex as he hooks my panties aside. He grins at what he sees.
His tongue slides through my folds, blunt, greedy and impatient. A cry escapes me as he finds my clit and attacks it with slow, deliberate lashes. I reach out, and my thighs begin to tremble. I fall back, squirming at my surrender. Helpless as the tension swells, my body gallops faster. His hand reaches for my breast, sliding under the cup, pinching my nipple. A sudden orgasm wells up. Instantly strung out, I grip the bedsheet and come against his mouth, crying out for it.
Panting, lost at sea, Jules moves so fast. My panties are gone, my bra is pulled up. I am beneath him as he spreads my legs. The thick head of his cock presses against me. Staring into his eyes, he waits and then pushes inside. Fear flashes through my eyes for a single heartbeat, and the stretch is intense. I gasp, gripping his shoulders. He goes slowly at first, letting me adjust, then deeper.
Its intensity swallows me whole, and I drown in its pleasure.
I’ve never felt anything like this, invaded by another woman’s husband. By the fourth thrust, he claims me completely, and I lose count, overwhelmed. He finds a rhythm that makes my whole body respond. The fullness is overwhelming, sending sparks through me.
“Yes,” I move with him. “fuck me…”
He is unfazed, and I ignite with every slow, torturous lunge. Hot velvet engulfs my nipple, and I groan. Snared on his strings, he is my puppet master. I am nothing but groans and capitulation.
“That night you dropped the tumbler,” he murmurs into my ear, moving inside me, “we heard everything.”
I deflate with a groan, “You knew?”
“Of course, we knew.”
He angles his hips and finds that perfect spot. I flex back, whispering, and my instinctive hands guide him.
“Elodie, we wanted you to hear us.”
Shame washes over me, but I cannot help squeezing him hard.
“I came so hard I dropped the glass,” I confess, voice cracking.
Jules fucks me harder, watching me with determined eyes. “Anaïs saw you on the balcony. She saw you watching us and came so hard.”
I am delirious from his masterful tempo.
“I want her,” I gasp.
“She knows.” He stabs hard, punching the air from my lungs. “She wants you, too.”
I squeeze again, hotter and wetter.
“I imagined licking your cum out of her,” I moan, hips rising to meet him, “I imagined you cumming inside me.”
“You dirty little slut,” he growls, driving deeper.
The power of such dirty words forces my surrender. I pull him to me, inspired for a deep, passionate kiss.
“Fuck me like one,” I whisper.
Flipping me onto my stomach, he yanks my hips up and slams back in. I curl my spine, desperate to take everything I can. One hand is a tight fist in my hair, the other grips my waist. I am being fucked, and my body sings. Soaked down my thighs, I bay for more. Every powerful lunge pushes me forward. I answer with grunts, dripping, lost in the sweaty slap of skin on skin.
I am wanton and do not care. This is his cunt now, and it makes filthy, obscene sounds for him.
Manhandled onto my back, he folds my legs high and wide, and takes me again. Sweat drips from his chest onto my breasts. He is not writing poetry on my soul. He stokes those hidden places inside, making my toes point and legs shake. I am trapped and impaled, seeing the animal within him.
The tension builds, intense and frightening. I feel every ridge, every vein, and the heavy slap of his balls. My clit throbs with the impacts. My legs fight free, and my arms clasp around his back. Instinct guides me, writhing blow for blow.
“Please…” I gasp. “… I’m so close…”
He tends the fire, and I am ready to burn the house down. Cheated by easy porn and easier orgasms, this is real, and I grip his body tight. It is powerful and messy. I make sounds and cannot hear them. In the dark void of my eyes squeezed shut, I come hard, spasming wildly.
It’s too much for him, thick and rampant. Jules loses control, rutting me as a savage, body lashing, the headboard banging the wall. My body is his, my breath stolen as I barely surface from the intense glow within.
“Is that what you want… my cum inside you?”
“Yes.”
“Beg.”
“Oh God, please, Jules,” I plead, voice cracking. “Cum inside. Cum inside your… your dirty little slut.”
This is the moment, the one I crave, and I wrap my legs around him. He bucks hard, smashing through my shame. I can barely move, devouring the connection of this moment. He buries himself deep, again and again. Blazing into my eyes, he presses his lips to mine. Our wet mouths and soft tongues skid in this unbridled moment. This is my new addiction, alarmed by how it swells and stretches me more. I am electrified, possessed that I will not be denied. I move on instinct, flailing my hips, trying to suck his cock in deeper still.
I gasp hard, hungry for air. “Please… Jules…. Please. Fill me up!”
He bucks, groans and shakes hard. Pulse after heavy pulse follows, and the loss of friction sweeps me away. The knowledge that I have his seed overwhelms me. As Jules weakens, I chase his waning orgasm. I lunge beneath him as a hot tension builds, desperate for friction. It winds tighter inside, a victim of my nature, revealing myself as a helpless slave to his cock. Sobbing beneath him, it rushes from me at once, stiff and croaking, clinging to his body.
I twitch and convulse until I am a corpse.
Limp, I release him from my clutches. There is nothing except pounding blood and entwined gasps for air. His weight is on me, and I am trapped, perversely safe.
Reaching out, I caress his face, watching a mercurial smile.
When he starts to pull out, I grab his hip.
“Wait.”
I lean under him, forcing him to roll onto his back. I slide down and take his glistening cock into my mouth. It tastes of both of us, and his seed leaks onto my inner thigh.
Craving his approval, I gaze into his eyes, eager to show obedience. He stares into my coquettish eyes and grins. He knows. I am pornography; it is all I have to offer. I slurp and stroke him, eager to erase my innocence.
“Fuck…” he murmurs.
He is hard again. I will be a good slut.
Crawling forward on my knees, I straddle him, thighs spread wide. I am proud of my willowy body and the power it has over him. These are my coy eyes, and the smile that tastes like snow. Leaning back, I open my sex for him. I carry his seed with pride.
“You dirty slut,” he growls.
My body trembles, and I grin.
Shimmying forward, I take him in hand, heavy and thick, hovering at my entrance.
“Fuck me until I can’t walk,” I whisper. “Make a mess of me.”
The shy little mouse scurries away from the feline I have become.
I sit on it, winding the breath from my lungs. With rhythmic hips, he pushes his cum deeper inside me. The obscene sensations force me to brace over his prone body. He smells of raw, manly sweat, and the room stinks of sex. His lips press to mine, covetous, longing.
I will take my place as their new lover.
I clench around him on purpose, rolling my hips in slow, dirty circles. Tight around his shaft, I bask in the slippery friction. He begins to seethe beneath me, so I squeeze back rhythmically. For the first time, I control him. He simply receives it, and I enjoy the way his breathing falters.
His tight grip digs into my flesh.
His flesh. Their flesh.
Feminine and dangerous.
I look down at Jules, my lips pouting, eyes heavy.
“Use me like you use Anaïs,” I whisper.
He raises an eyebrow. “You think you can take it?”
“Teach me.”
Jules rises. He rolls me over and lines up to impale me. That sudden fullness seizes my breath. I rake at his back. His rough caress pulls my stocking down. The tempo builds. I have provoked the animal in him. He is no young buck, but a man with endurance. Deep, relentless thrusts make my small breasts sway until my breathing is shattered gasps. My hanging legs sway. I am vocal, using what movement I have to guide him. He fucks me exactly the way I want. I hold him close, sucking on his earlobe, hissing filth into his ear.
“You like that?” he rasps.
Our bodies clatter. I yelp, but he will not silence me.
“I want Anaïs to watch me like this.”
“You will, eating her out as you get it from behind.”
His words undo me, and the tremors rise. I am smaller and shrinking, chasing another orgasm as he uses my fragile body. This is not thinking, this is doing, not just receiving a hard fuck, but a rich, dark sense of gratification.
This is feral.
I am abandoned.
I am taken.
I am sated beyond the deepest of my dirty thoughts. I coil tight into a single point of light and arch. At its apex, I tremble, vulnerable, crippled by bliss. He seizes me in his muscular arms. Trapped against him, I am lost, my mind empty, still trying to lunge for more.
The quaking intensifies, and a long groan empties my lungs.
I croak.
I am gone.
Jules grips me tight, and I will bruise like ripe fruit. Immolated by pure ecstasy, I howl for air, throwing my arms around him. The violent spasms are my nirvana. My wet lips meet his, tongue deep, plundering his mouth for his soul. My demons are banished as Jules hammers at me, and I understand that tell-tale swell.
His hips are erratic.
He rattles the quiet words from my throat. “Cum in your slut.”
Each slam feels like his last. With a booming groan, he buries himself to the hilt. He floods me again. This is the climax. I am spent, my body sated. Hauling my hips back and forth, I am greedy for his last drops.
We collapse together, dissolved in sweat and depleted lust. He wanes inside me, and his seed runs down my taint. Warm in the cool air, I will not wipe it away. I will wake up tomorrow wet inside.
Now is the time to enjoy my regret. He unlocked who I am and what I want. He has seen my real self, and Anaïs will find out soon.
He slumps alongside me. “You okay?”
My body is weightless. There is no drama, only mindless serenity.
“Yeah.” I pause, hovering between prim and craven.
It is pointless. I am a dishevelled mess, one stocking around my ankle, the other pinned to its belt. My hair is damp, my body wears his scent. I ache inside, tender, filled with a husband’s seed.
Who am I fooling? Not the man who shot it inside me.
That knowledge rouses the tingling within, and I submit.
“Fuck me against the wall next. I want to see us doing it in that mirror.”
He snorts softly at my needy voice, “You dirty slut.”
“I am now.” I smile, too spent to laugh.
“Anaïs comes home tomorrow.” He catches his breath. “She expects me to be full of energy.”
“Have I worn you out?”
“For now.”
I purr with contentment, “So, what happens next?”
“You watched us in the kitchen, didn’t you?”
I do not burn with shame. “Yes.”
“Then you understand.”
The possibilities make my sex flutter. “I do.”
The sheet is crazed, and I soaked a large patch of it. My bedroom feels like an eerie battlefield, and the quiet girl I used to be is one of its ghosts.
I crossed the threshold but never left this room.
I am a woman now.
And I will never leave the secret world they have shown me.
