What should I tell her? That her daughter is a slut? Her foot tapped under the table, the ticking of a timebomb.

I toyed with my glass, speckled with condensation. I was enjoying the warm shade, picking over my half-eaten lunch, and sat at the outside tables of my favourite café. Not anymore, and this was not part of my plan for today. She must have been waiting here, hoping I would show up.

Introduced brusquely as Aveline’s mother, I knew I was in trouble. Bristling, scanning my features for any weakness. She looked like a shark waiting for a drop of blood in the water.

“Gaspar, my son, told me,” her staccato delivery was like a machine gun, “He saw you with my daughter about to go in that place!”

That place, and its blue door, was infamous in the Premier Arrondissement. Libertines frequented it… and a swingers club is an unfortunate translation. Aveline must have said something, probably forced out of her by her angry mother.

“Well? Madame Duprix. Do you have anything to say?”

Her lips pursed, puckered like a well-fucked asshole.

I provided a very nonchalant shrug. What did she expect? I am not ashamed of what we did together or what I am. There were two tigresses at this table, and I was going to show my claws. Sitting upright, I towered over this shrew.

My jawline angled with contempt, peering downwards, and I locked eyes with hers, “Aveline is old enough to make her own decisions.”

Those pursed lips unpuckered, “You do know she is engaged.”

I needed some crisp white wine, engaged at twenty-one, poor thing, and it explained a lot.

“Clearly, Aveline’s needs are not being met in that relationship. Have you asked her, Madame Quincampoix?”

That knocked her back, “Well… I…”

“And did you come here without her knowledge? You are meddling. Would Aveline approve of this?”

I did not flinch and stared her down. I was not going to be judged.

Yes, have a sip of white wine, Madame Quincampoix. Oh, have several.

“Madame Duprix….”

I held up a finger and stopped her, “Madame Quincampoix. What I do, what Aveline does, has nothing to do with you. Your intervention might be the acceptable behaviour of Sceaux’s uptight bourgeois residents. This is Paris.”

“Why you…”

What did she expect? That I would back down, be embarrassed, and spit vowels of apology?

Leaning in, I was the shark, “I know many women like you,” I whispered, “disappointed in the bedroom once too often, but your husband makes good money even if he is dead from the neck down.”

Taking another sip of wine, I waited for her reply, admiring the flushed pallor of her cheeks. Normally, I am not so brave, but a sense of injustice burned on behalf of Aveline.

Still nothing, and my patience was wearing thin, “Madame Quincampoix. She is an adult, has free will, was not under duress, and had a thoroughly good time.”

Somebody must have put fifty cents in the malfunctioning idiot because her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. A train of thought departed the station without her.

"Of course," I tilted my glass at her, “if you were a better mother, you might understand your daughter’s sexuality and desires, but you are a bigot."

I tut-tutted and shook my head, "Your own daughter, too. You deny her happiness to impose your… morality onto her. Who’s life are you living?”

Right on cue, she deflated before me.

“I have never…,” the metal chair grated on the paving stones, “never been so insulted.”

She stood, fidgety, trying to loop her handbag strap onto her shoulder.

“Whore,” she hissed.

Now I was bored with her predictability.

With disdain, I toasted her, “Goodbye, Madame Quincampoix.”

Watching the shimmer and sway of black Chanel disappear down the boulevard, I tipped her white wine into my glass. My blood ran hot, and I hated confrontation.

But, as I said, I was in trouble.

It arrived in the early evening, bristling with subdued distress and holding a suitcase.

-=-

This is why I love my husband. This was beyond his indulgence of me, and I took a lot. My two lovers were under my roof, and I should be ecstatic. Yet, there was a line between the marvellous and the mundane. Despite the spectre of our years haunting us, we tried hard not to be practical, dull, or cynical. This required just that.

“Martin, I do not know what to do.”

These were whispered words. Aveline was in our guest room, awaiting her fate.

He held me close, and his warmth and scent calmed me.

“Her parents threw her out. That’s harsh, no matter how tough she is.” He sighed and kissed my hair, “Ines, it’s not just anyone. It’s Aveline. Little Bird.”

I could empathise; I was no angel with my own parents. Nor was I worried that my husband might run off with Aveline and leave me. If you saw her sublime beauty and those flawless curves. If you experienced her total commitment to please her lovers, you might wonder about the strength of your relationship.

Never with my husband, and he had been tempted many times.

That sigh was a testament to his generous spirit, “Talk to her. She listens to you. I am sure we can find a solution.”

Men… always looking for a solution. For me, it was simple. She was an itch to scratch, a sublime lover that straightened out a kink we never knew we had. I admit I liked her… no, I adored her. She was so young, yet, she had a confidence that left me in awe.

Over the last few months, Aveline fulfilled a side of me that felt so new and difficult to tame. The notion of this power I had over her, that I could decide her fate in these games we played. It unlocked something inside that challenged my preconceptions of dominance and submission; both excited me. It was all-consuming and immensely gratifying. It was a lie that I had mastered the control needed.

This added to my reluctance, and her absence made my heart fond of her. When that powerful need came, it was worthy of her. I craved her caress, innocent beauty, and coquettish submissiveness. Little Bird was the willing foil for this game. Real life was not a game; you can have too much of a good thing. If I could not maintain control, Aveline might lose interest, and we would be stuck with a lodger until she left.

Okay, it was not so simple, and this was my trouble.

I squeezed him, “So she lives with us? What then?”

Unfolded from this embrace, I could see his devotion in those wondrous eyes.

Martin grinned, “I have an idea.”

Oh, Christ, that smile worried me, and I raised a doubtful eyebrow. This had better be good.

“Ines, it’s been a roleplay, yes? So, you are in charge. Would that work?”

Fuck, that was not bad, and I placed my willing acceptance onto his lips, “I’ll talk to her.”

He tells me I am the light of his life, but he is the wind in my sails.

-=-

Always, Aveline was so prim, sat upright, hands on her knees, her lower spine curved for a perfect posture. She dreamed of being a professional dancer and had the deportment perfect for her ambition.

I found her as a gauche assistant in an art gallery. It was a seduction over wine and lunch. As her courage shone through, she revealed what she sought. Spending time talking, she described who she wanted to be, freed from the shackles of her overbearing parents. Over the last few months, every step of the way was patient, tender and thoughtful. She discovered her own personal style as we shopped for clothes together. These were tentative steps, but with a growing charisma and confidence, she blossomed into the sensual woman before me.

Aveline looked immaculate in a fitted pinafore dress tailored to her slender figure, pressing the heft of her bust into enticing curves. All hidden under a white collarless and long-sleeved shirt, she was simultaneously demure and sensual. Of course, she wore her chantilly lace choker. To the cognoscenti of such things, it was symbolic of her ownership.

We sat on the edge of the bed together. Without adjusting her attitude, Aveline turned to face me. Her immaculate black hair caught the diffused sunbeams, and she blinked those baby-blue eyes.

“So, Aveline, what are your plans?”

Shit, this was going to be impossible. I could not remove my gaze from those addictive Parisian red lips.

“My friend Angelique has an apartment in Marais. Her flatmate is leaving soon, and she has promised me her room.”

With those wide upturned eyes, she transformed into Little Bird, “Madame Duprix, may I stay here for a month?”

A month was a long time. I thought this was a familial row over by the weekend. It was something more drastic.

“You know your mother came to find me today.”

Her head dipped, and I could see a sense of shame, “I know. I begged her not to. She was seething when she returned.”

“She called me a whore.” I shook my head and refused to react further – the bastards.

There was no flicker of emotion, “I am sorry she did that. They were suspicious. So my brother followed me from Sceaux to your apartment and then onto the club. They betrayed me.”

“Yes, she told me. I am sorry, Aveline.”

“Madame Duprix, I will no longer live a lie,” she pleaded, “and they are in denial.”

I put my arm around her, “It’s okay. So why us? Why come here.”

“I heeded your words last week and thought of little else. Your husband is a good man, and you are a beautiful woman because you experienced such pain. I am not so brave. I cannot make those mistakes.”

If only she knew, twenty-one years old with a soul and wisdom that put mine to shame.

“And your engagement? You did not tell us.”

“Broken.”

That caught me off guard, and I eased back to face her, “Already?”

“By text message,” there was steel in her eyes, “I have not loved him for some time. As I said, Madame Duprix, I will not live a lie.”

“Ooh, la la,” I blew out my cheeks at the cold brutality of her words.

Please do not curl your lips like that. Mon Dieu, she will be the death of me.

I had to concentrate, “Monsieur Richardson thinks that to be here, you should be how we know you, and I agree.”

With a faint gasp of acceptance, those smoky eyes plunged to my lips as hers simpered.

Oh God, please listen to my words.

“For us, you will be Little Bird. I am the mistress of this house, and inside it, you will do as I say.”

She consented with a solitary nod, “Nothing would please me more.”

“Outside this house and at work, you are Aveline.” I paused and looked her square in the eyes, “Although, I think it is the same person now, not like springtime.”

“Yes, Madame Duprix. This is who I am. I have more confidence now.”

Didn’t she just.

“Then you can stay.”

She gazed into my eyes, soft, as a loving kitten, “Thank you, Madame Duprix. I will do everything you command.”

Fuck, I was in trouble.

I looked at the suitcase, “Are these all your things?”

“I will bring some more things tomorrow, but I will never live there again.”

“Okay. One month, Little Bird.”

That name quivered through her soul as her gaze returned to my lips. I was helpless to their magnetic pull. No woman wears such intense makeup, not together like that. Eyeshadow and painted lips together is a faux pas in France with immoral overtones. Not for Aveline, she courted attention like a siren, only to dash their admiration on the rocks.

I heard her tempting song as the distance between us narrowed.

A significant part of her insane beauty was this trap, half naïve-innocence, half resolute confidence. It churned within me as the humid warmth of a storm with the excitement of the thunder to come.

Rescuing me, she tilted her head, with those wide doe eyes so patient and hopeful. If she bit her lip, the red would mark her teeth. I wanted her to mark me all over my body. I embraced the surge of heat and surrendered completely. Suddenly, I was eighteen again, lousy for the need of a potent kiss to soothe my distress and enflame my desires.

When it came, with its supple texture, as a veneration to her mistress. My God, she could have any man or woman she wanted with a kiss like this. My hands were not my own. Capturing her springy breast firmed the pillows pressed to my lips. She kissed again as a nascent temptress; I was sure she understood her evocative potential. It cut my mind adrift, and I yearned for so much more. Here for a month, it felt like an age, and it washed through me as a torrent of lust. Her mouth opened, and a flick of my tongue was the innuendo for her breasts and sex.

My restless hand had to wander, over her knee, around and up her thigh as she shifted to hold me in a tender embrace. It was too forthright, but I was already drunk on this passion. I had to take it as her legs opened wide enough. Her lace-clad sex cupped in my hand, and it staggered her breathing. This was the whimper I craved as the ignition for my desires.

From next door, I could hear frothy sounds and splashes of water. Martin was in the shower. It was too much, this was unbearable, and I needed to deflect this lust.

Breaking from our kiss, my hand stirred against the warmth, “You should thank Monsieur Richardson. Take off your clothes.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she pouted with a gasp, “Yes, Madame Duprix.”

-=-

The canyon of her spine flexed. Hypnotised by the swish from the cinch of her waist to those athletic hips, she approached the bathroom. I tied her hair back into a ponytail. It swayed with the dimples of her lower spine and the curves of her pert behind. Her body was tight-pored and flawless, smooth as timeworn marble. From the gap between her thighs, her naked vulva peeked through.

Holding the doorframe, she turned to face me with those come-hither eyes. I admired her sleek profile, from her slender arms to her teardrop breasts and taut flanks. She disappeared from view. Her name echoed from the tiled walls in deep-toned surprise. The curtain open, she stood before my husband, knelt and picked up the foam-ladened sponge.

Letting it wander over his chest and midriff, she soaped his semi-flaccid cock, as the spritz of water danced over them both.

Fuck, that look she gave him; I had to cram my fingers into my panties. I was soaked through.

“Madame Duprix said that I should thank you.”

Rinsed clean, she took to her knees. Martin’s excitement stiffened him by degrees, matching his thumping blood. She looked up, his burgeoning shaft in her delicate hand, and she wrapped those pillow lips around his shaft. Angelic in appearance, drenched by the tepid water, she persevered, licking around its head, always in complete eye contact.

I had to rub my aching clit. This was a simple reward for my husband’s idea. Yet, its potency was too much. Savouring the scene, I eased my panties from my hips, and they fell around my ankles. The clasp of my brassiere released to join them naked. I explored my body as I wanted to caress hers. Peals of electricity through my body melted the tawdry heat of desire into the flowing juices of my sex.

Little Bird, always obedient, her delicate features corrupted by the thick implement in her innocent-looking mouth. So skilled, she knew her purpose was to arouse, not relieve. No man could refuse such temptation, and this was where she kept him, vehement, rigid, and groaning. Gripping the root of her ponytail, he provided a constant reminder of her purpose.

My first orgasm arrived quickly with a potency that required me to cover my mouth.

“Miss Duprix says I must dry you. Then I am to lead you to the lounge and fuck you.”

Bare feet are silent on parquet floors if you tread lightly. My body was ablaze, and my mind rioted with all the possibilities I had kept secret. The musings in a random daydream, the incandescent indulgences that wettened my panties. We had a month, and there were already enough to write a book of my wicked perversions.

Holding his hand, he threw me a look. I loved that urbane smile. So ordinary, yet it was in his eyes. I could ride him myself right now. A race to a sudden finish, a sloppy fuck for his seed and my climax to temper this fever. Sitting on his recliner, naked, with my thighs open, I toyed with my drenched sex. Ready to admire Little Bird as a living sculpture that pleasured him with her nubile sex.

She gestured with an outstretched hand, “Monsieur Richardson, please sit. I will ride you in reverse. Madame Duprix asks you not to move. I must provide all the pleasure. She wants to see this.”

With a lopsided grin, I immediately understood him and responded with a leer. Who would not want that? This nymph of compact curves writhing on their cock. Young, eager, and from the dew on her sex, utterly wanton. Sit back and enjoy the ride – literally.

This was the extent of her submission for today. The courage to admit what she wanted, taken into the bosom of others for the safety and means to experience them. This was our Little Bird and her complete trust in us. How ironic when I grappled with the need to trust myself.

Placing her feet on his knees, her body curled against him. Breeching her sex, such was its dimensions, she moved with care to take his girth. It provoked the delicate lips of her pink sex to drag back and forth. Up and down slowly, lower and lower, until it weighed her eyelids. Now, she bit her lower lip, and then came the fragile gasps. Her weighted eyes remained on my body as I masturbated and drank in this sensual spectacle. If it was not for our dynamic, I would be the cuckquean and my husband the bull. No, he was passive; I was in charge, no matter how much my mind flirted with the notion.

As for Little Bird, I knew the sensitive parts of her body were untouched. This stoked the very pit of my arousal, spiced by my swirling fingers. Contrived as a unique torture, there were no sensual delights of her inner arms caressed or wrists kissed. I knew the power of that sensitive skin behind her knees and the nape of her neck. She might have a sublime body worthy of a work of art; I would teach her how to use it. A few months ago, she might plunge up and down with no thought to her pleasure, and as a haphazard accident, she might find some.

Now, she lofted the smooth mound of her mons and dropped down, making tight circles, tracing them in the air with her bent knees. She nurtured the friction of my husband’s girth at that precise spot I found inside her. Little Bird showed me the rapture in her dreamy gaze and her open mouth’s dark void. Most of all, those trembling breasts, sculpted to anatomical perfection, revealed her betrayal. Their elongated nipples were erect at the peak of arousal, and her essence glistened on his spherical ballsack.

Devouring this exhibition, time held no meaning; its tock and tock were my husband’s and our lover’s soft gasps. Fingering my syrupy cunt, I emulated how it felt to reach those places inside her.  

“Does this please you, Madame Duprix?”

“Yes,” I whimpered, “Ride Monsieur Richardson faster. Release your passion. Show me.”

The variations of the short hops and longer lunges were a testimony to her skills. The shimmering of her porcelain skin streaked with the rash of a woman on the ascent to climax. My persevering husband knew better than to interfere. From his rising moans, the vice grip of her sex was doing all the work. Those circles were more frantic as jagged ellipses. Plunging down harder, she asserted herself to fulfil her body’s desires. Yelping louder, it mixed with the clatter of her pert behind to his groin.

Drunk on the spectacle, fighting to remain on this sexual plateau, it crumbling away as the precipice to orgasm beckoned. Little Bird’s gaze spoke volumes as her determination ebbed away with the need for release. The female is more deadly than the male, and she proved it, one piledriving thrust at a time.

Drops of sweat caught the low evening sun, and its fractured beams dappled her quivering breasts and midriff. My hips were restless, and the restraints of this maddening tension were stretched to breaking point. The back-and-forth smear of her sex would break any man’s resistance. Little Bird yelped helplessly, in the grip of my instructions and losing the fight with her own body.

“Madame Duprix...”

Not yet.

As a runaway train, her body quickened and would not halt. Those angelic features contorted, her brow furrowed as the desperation burst forth with her cries.

Yes, revel in that addiction; feed your cravings, and understand their power.

“Madame Duprix…”

Plead all you want. Learn to control it and master your youthful body.

“Please… I am begging… begging…”

Both of us were at the very pinnacle of our self-control, “You may take your climax.”

“He is very swollen. Am I taking your husband’s seed?”

Oh fuck, that undid me, and I groaned. “Yes, take it.”

With a hissed expletive under my breath and my husband’s plosive groan, filling her pristine snatch was too much for us. We surged on the notion as she struggled to stay aloft, shivering like a plucked violin string. Crying out, the escalating spasms swept her away. This was to soothe her heartache and show her the potency and guile of her body.

Deep, booming masculine groans followed, bucking into her with abandon. She was almost limp, fighting to stay with him and battling to the end. Her breasts shuddered as he nailed her with one last shove, and the intense twitches from his shaft delivered her wish.

The situation, the noise, and that spectacle threw me into the abyss. Still stabbing at Little Bird’s glossy sex, his seed and her juices mixed, all coated on his shaft. My agile fingers delivered the final coup-de-grace. Falling, I cried out as it uncoiled from me without elegance. Gripping the armrest, my body twisted, and I convulsed to expel an intense orgasm.

Our surroundings leeched into the moment. Panting and flushed, Little Bird’s feverish gaze devoured my body; this lust was not slaked. His erection fell from her, and the trickle of his essence ran from her sex. There was so much unfinished business from our feverish stare at each other.

“Keep your feet there,” I rasped.

My self-control be damned as I took to my knees. The tip of my tongue eased between Little Bird’s freshly-fucked folds, lapping, savouring his essence. Martin, as a connivance and as my soulmate, used the soft pads of his fingers on her clit.

Massaging a breast each, plucking their nipples, we held her down. Quivering, her body blotchy, and served up to us as the entrée to dinner. Her litany of whimpers grew louder, each twitch, wriggle, and every drop of her arousal taken with relish. This was our extended, drawn-out gratitude.

“Madame Duprix, please… please I beg you…”

Never was such a feeble petition so powerful. We ignited Little Bird’s restlessness, and she cried out, venting with convulsions as if her bones might break.

-=-

Showered, I dressed her for dinner with her signature full makeup as my novice vixen. Attired for us in provocative lingerie, this was a sensual cat-and-mouse game of silence and exchanged glances. It loomed amongst us, a tangible atmosphere thick enough to cut with a knife. We watched her fidget, her panties marked by Martin’s seed leaking from her sex. Both of her hands trembled as she tried to work through the steamed fish and salad.

Dessert was her body, served to us, spread-eagled, naked and restrained.

What followed was a decadent, orgiastic feast that defined this month in one night. Languid, damp with sweat and the glow of our congress, the sweet musk of sex lingered in the hot air. Both filled with what Martin gave us, Little Bird attended to me. Those wide-open eyes were my downfall as her mouth cupped my sex, and she exorcised my final shuddering release.

My bleary eyes regained focus, and I relinquished her leash. I was limp, devoid of energy, and that ache was no more. The dull echoes of Martin’s shaft were still inside me, and so were her fingers. My clit throbbed with the fading memory of her attentive tongue.

Unhitched, I let the chain fall to the floor. Little Bird was free, resting against my shoulder, her delicate hand on my heart. With Martin’s arm around her, the fan blew cooler air over our entanglement.

“Madame Duprix, did I serve you both well?”

I murmured, roused from my stupor, and my caress on her arm spoke for me.

“Yes.” I croaked, clearing my throat. I could taste her tart juices on my lips, “You did very well.”

“Shall I retire to my room?”

“No, sleep here tonight with us.”

I wanted to stay in this world of the marvellous, the lyrical, and the sublime. My eyes were heavy as I basked in a glow I wanted to feel forever. It was one in the morning, and no one would get much done tomorrow in the world of the mundane.

Oh, Aveline, you are trouble.