“So?” Camille’s expectant eyebrow rises.

I shake my head. Such is our friendship; she knows me well enough by now.

“Oh.”

She lifts her coffee to her lips, giving me a pause for thought. This is not something to dwell on; no post-mortem is required regardless of her ingenue eyes. Around us, the bright conversations and the incidental sounds of the café continue. Sunlight streams through the windows, and this good weather is enough to lift my mood.

This is how much the situation burdens me.

Her cup clatters onto its saucer. “You know what you need, Ines.”

Oh, those eyes, I have to respond. “Is this question or a statement of intent?”

It goes unanswered, and I should know better than to challenge her this way. She lifts up her phone.

“Give me a smile.”

“What, huh?”

She poised to take a picture.

“Cami, at least let me do something with my...”

“Smile, just think of our night with Ormond.”

His name is a lightning bolt to my sex.

My muscle memory betrays me, and the synthetic shutter clicks. Ormond, a fleeting encounter as a threesome into the small hours until the dawn sunlight illuminated our writhing, sweaty bodies.

She looks at her phone, then my flushed face, and the shutter clicks again.

“Perfect, you look like you are in heat.”

“Cami!” I hiss at her, and she ignores me, typing on her phone. “It is rude to play with your phone in company.”

Pursing my lips, she can see my displeasure.

Looking up, Cami grins, pushing her luck, “Thirty-eight years old... divorced, would like to meet...”

“Cami!” I try to reach and swipe her phone, but I am too slow.

“Ines.” Her deadpan eyes freeze me to the spot. “If you let me do this, I will tell you about Etienne.”

“Etienne?”

Cami is typing. She looks up and leers at me. I am not impressed, sitting with my arms folded.

“Do you remember, in our twenties, what we took for granted?”

I frown at her question and shake my head.

“See? You do not.”

“I did not know you then.”

“True, but that does not matter. What is it? Think about that for a moment.”

Staring at her phone, she taps once, and her satisfied expression concerns me.

“So, Ines? What is the one thing you took for granted?”

I roll my eyes. “I have no idea, no grey hairs? No wrinkles?”

She rebuffs my pathetic answer, “Come closer.”

This is conspiratorial.

“Men,” she snorts. Finally, we find common ground. “You know, eighteen, barely more than boys. What was it about them?”

Ironically, I am a struggling artist, and she is painting the picture.

“Cami, have you?”

She nods slowly.

“Holy shit.”

She is unrepentant. “Would you like to sit on a very hard teenage... cock... again? You remember? Their energy, all that cum, and permanently horny? I bet you found it annoying back then, too. Not now, though. How long has it been since you did?”

I am flushed. “Answer my question first, Cami. Have you?”

“It is only fair. You have answered mine.” She grins triumphantly. “You want to, yes?”

“Grr... you fucker... you are the limit,” I grumble. “Yes, of course, I would.”

“You can take it out on me later at my apartment.”

“Cami...” I deflate. She has got me wrapped around her little finger. Okay, I am sold on the promise of her magical tongue between my legs.

“I... have enrolled you in the same app where I found Etienne.”

“What?” I am mortified. “So, this is Etienne, the always horny manchild?”

“Uh huh, and sweet eighteen.”

My wide eyes speak for me, and Cami laughs, “It gets better. At that age, they are so malleable. You do remember, yes?”

“Yes, of course.” I am waspish, toying with the imagery she paints in my mind.

“They are so eager to be experimental,” she whispers. “All the blood goes to their cock and balls, fixated on a wet hole to put it in.”

“Of course, they would do anything to...” I pause. “Cami? What exactly have you done?”

-=-

Looking at my phone, I put it down again, vexed.

Two days ago, at Cami’s apartment, I writhed on her fingers. Brought to orgasm as she described her tryst with Etienne. After my failed rendezvous, did I say the situation was not a burden? I floated out of her place with amnesia, carefree and sated.

We have been friends and lovers for a year, and Cami is emblematic of my life today. When we met, I was the definition of a dark human comedy. My voyage of discovery led me to be a bisexual libertine in my twenties, then monogamy, marriage, and divorce.

Now what?

History does not repeat itself. I am bisexual and will not deny it. However, I am a knot of morality and immorality, carried by a tide of turbulent desires. Without Cami, I am vulnerable to my neurosis. She challenges convention, where I struggle to break free. We are kindred spirits of a similar age with aligned horizons. We adore each other and men, too.

We do not scream, “Bisexual, looking for accepting partners.” If you see us, we are friends and interested in men, serious or not. That is how we are made. Hell would be an eternity with Cami; that is the fatal contradiction.

Recently, my intuition unsettled me, and Cami teased me for my grievance. We used to turn heads, attract flirtatious comments, and are not unattractive. I am a brunette with a good figure and a bright smile. She is raven-haired, similar in stature with arresting features.

Our world is fixated on youth. No one can stop time, not even Cami. Often, we went to bars and left with a phone number each, not so much now. This is what I dread. We are not primped and beautified; we cannot afford the expensive treatments or designer clothes to paper over the cracks. We will fade, becoming anonymous figures on any Parisian boulevard.

Three weeks ago, we exhausted ourselves with Ormond. No phone number, spontaneous, unexpected; the encounter was a cleansing breeze that blew away the stale air.

Now, I discover she agreed with my grievance all along.

I look at my phone again. The number of messages excites and appals me. So, this is where the horny young men are hiding. There are a few I discount quickly. A clutch of handsome, fresh faces filtered down by those who wrote more than a few words. I will need to talk to them before and after sex.

I am down to three that pique my interest. One stands out, the kind of young man who goes home to his mother to get his washing done. He is close enough to make this as easy as possible for him.

Perfect.

My reply is the product of an hour of click-clacking on my phone.

“Fuck it.”

I send it with an invite to a different album, some pictures that Cami took in my underwear, freshly fucked. It is too late for regrets, and I do not have another two hours to waste.

The others can wait.

-=-

After a short exchange of messages, he gave me a phone number to call. With the etiquette ignored and the contradicting advice forgotten, two decisions were made. First, I hate anonymous advice on the internet. Second, I invited him to my apartment.

Cami knows. She found him on the app and approved, too.

He is Antoine, and it is Saturday afternoon. He brought a very reasonable Sauvignon Blanc, which is a good start. Fortunately, a single glass loosens my tongue, two loosens my morals, and three, I have a one-track mind. It is there, as an elephant in the room, the dating app. He knows I am new, but I can fall back on my experience. Antoine does not dwell on its competitive nature, and I find his lack of cynicism refreshing. His luck is varied; he wears the rejection well, and I expected as much. Some things do not change, and women make the rules.

We are a generation apart, but he tries to make conversation. Old memories flood back. He is nervous and concerned about his performance, endurance, or lack of it. But I am not going to mother him; I am not that kinky.

He is slender and athletic; time will be kind to him. His latent good looks will mature in a few years and harden into an attractive man. He will fill out a little, and he is taller than me. I will help to put some sparkle in his eyes. They will carry his experience, his air of confidence... us women can tell.

A sudden sense of responsibility washes over me. Antoine will remember me and this night.

-=-

The ice is broken. He knows I am an artist and asks to see some of my work. Sipping on his drink, he ignores the crudites. With one of my folios on his lap, they are pencils and pastels, a chronology of my art spanning twenty years. It is very obvious, or it was back then. I suppose something so analogue is lost on him.

My second glass of wine is finished, and I sit next to him, close enough. I chose something figure-hugging, a slip of a summer dress, and my best underwater, made-to-measure and the most flattering.

He turns the page, and the fuse is lit.

“Wow. Is that you?”

I giggle, “No, a model. When studying art, nudes are important to learn about the human body. You like her?”

This is grossly unfair of me, and I do not care.

“Yes, of course.”

“I remember her. She was very much at ease naked in front of the students. It made drawing her such a pleasure. Do you see these lines?”

Over the acetate, my fingers trace the underside of her breasts. “They are a broad, moulded shape casting a slight shadow. They are perfection, yes?”

“Erm, yes.”

“I would love to have breasts like those. Do you think you could draw me like that? I have modelled as a nude before.”

He tries not to look startled. I know he is. “You have?”

“Yes, a few years ago. I kept my figure and thought it would be exciting.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to do it? Perhaps you might pose for me so I can draw you.”

“Naked?” His glass is shaking.

He is a fly in my web, and I undo some buttons at the top of my dress.

“If you do, I will take this off.”

His eyebrows crease his smooth forehead.

I chuckle again. “Of course, you have already seen me in my underwear. I would be naked, too.”

“Is... is this what you do?” Poor Antoine is stammering.

“Sorry?”

“Invite men here and draw them naked?”

I do not need to force a laugh, “Oh no, no...” It is a sudden volte-face. I am deadly serious. “We are going to have sex... a lot of sex.”

Leering at his stunned silence, my hand slides under the warm leather of the folio onto his thigh. He flinches when I find the lump in his jeans. I am forward, and he knows what I expect. It is time to put words into action.

“Mmm, hard already. I am very flattered.”

“You... you are beautiful.”

He is sweet and a little breathless. I know where his brains are, but I welcome the compliment.

“You find me attractive enough to be here with sex on your mind. Perhaps I should share with you what I would like?”

He swallows. “Okay.”

Removing my hand, I stand, unbuttoning my dress. “First, I want your discretion. If I want you again, I will call you.”

“Sure.”

Lifting it from my shoulders, my dress slides from me. In black silk underwear and hold-ups, his eyes wander, and his overt admiration of my body churns through me. It is a long time since a man was so enthralled.

“I will make it easy for you, Antoine. I will tell you what I want, yes?”

He splutters, his trembling glass in hand, “I understand.”

“Finally, Antoine, this will be fun, so lighten up. Relax.”

A weak smile breaks through, and I kneel before him as a good hostess, take the folio, his glass, and slide his belt through the buckle.

“Time to lose these clothes.”

Fixated on my red-painted lips, he finds those pressed to his soon enough. As my first test, he acquiesces with a delicate pliancy. My hand slides along his shirt to his torso, finding a nipple. When he presses back to meet me again, its delicate vacuum promises a good kisser. The buttons are easy to release, descending his body. My hand slides over his hairless chest, and he melts into the next one. As the buttons of his jeans open, the tip of my tongue flicks his, raising the stakes.

I break and tug. Antoine lifts his hips, and I tug again. His jeans are dispatched.

Reclined on the settee, I press on his chest, “Stay there, just like that.”

In tight briefs, I can see its outline at an acute angle to his waist. The elastic yields, and I am careful not to snag his erection. I will not fuck a man in socks, and they are gone, too.

Now, it is my turn to admire him. His erection rests as a strong curve, hair-shorn, with corpulent veins, and a shiny, sleek head. He is all eyes and shallow breathing. My reassuring smile works until I free the clasp of my brassiere.

“Yours are better.”

I am caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“Than the girl in the drawing.”

“Thank you.”

With a tender hand, I hold his erection gently and steal his breath.

“Antoine, this is a very nice cock. Shaved, too. I like that. Now, watch me.”

I kiss it, drawing a sudden breath. Hot to the touch, its firm rigidity does not yield. Cami is right; I have forgotten. It is a handsome implement, and I know I can take it all. Holding it upright, my big plush kisses nuzzle it. A little pre-cum weeps from the tip. Its taste is sweet, licking it over my top lip.

My stare will not waver. Antoine will remember this as I make him teeter between soft whimpers and the impending groan of his surrender.

Caressing his balls, tight as a sphere, they are heavy. “I hope you have a lot of cum for me.”

He has no time to reply. I sink my mouth onto it, enjoying how he tenses, and then eases with the surprise. Velvet against my tongue, and my head bobs with a bit of suction. My sultry eyes are obvious, and I hold it still. To stroke it now might limit his enjoyment. I know I am playing with a loaded gun.

My mouth sinks lower, as far as my gag reflex. I almost have it all but do not want to retch. Antoine hollers, running his hands through my mane, neither pushing nor trying to extract me. I ease up, and he is a sea of sighs.

Across his chest is the rash of arousal. I have him under my spell.

It is patient; I want him to simmer, and his hands try to lead. They soften as I stroke his shaft, adding that to my swirling tongue. Narrow, weighted eyes meet mine, and mine smile back. I love sucking cock, and I tease, easing back. Revelling in his whimpers, I boil inside with the turmoil. I want to pull my panties aside, guide him in, and ride this one from him.

No, not yet. As my captive, I dip into my panties and let my juices flow.

I raise my slippery fingers to his lips. “Taste, I am very wet for you.”

Sucking on them, the notion of his obedience inspires me. I have his compliance, and I revel in how he capitulates. The ensemble of my saliva-slickened grip, sensual mouth and swirling tongue combine. Now, he knows my experience.

With a hint of panic, he fidgets, “Ines...”

“Cum in my mouth.”

My words are bombs, and he thickens quickly.

“Mmm, good boy. Now... let go.”

The devil might care as I hold his balls. A finger descends his smooth taint and presses on the pucker of his behind. A cat on a hot tin roof is less badly scalded; Antoine is poleaxed. My mouth plunges down, then up, slurping away. I have him in a dilemma; will he protest, try to stop me, or relent?

I want his cum, and how better than to push all his buttons at once?

His meek protest fades. Hot in my mouth, my lips are a perfect seal, and if there is such a thing as telepathy, it is written in my eyes. I am caught off guard by such violence and stifle a squeal. Antoine’s plosive grunts are the signals of this inundation. My deviant finger presses to his ass, rubbing it, and he twitches hard in my mouth.

It is greedy of me, I gulp. I have to. It will not leak out.

How much? A day, two, three, a week? The quantity is impressive. It tastes wonderful, bitter and salty. My taste buds are seasoned to savour it.

I swallow the last of it. A performance for my stunned beau. “Mmm, Antoine... feeling better?”

Breathless, he nods, managing a weary smile.

“Excellent.”

Still twitching, I lick it clean, and he will see how pleased I am. Still hunting for air, he is a changed man. His features are no longer pitched with tension.

I stand and shimmy my panties to the floor.

“There. I am shaved, too. Are you hungry?”

He is puzzled and looks at the crudites.

I point to the floor. “No, lie down here.”

Oh, they are so malleable, and I step over his face. My fingers slide through his tousled hair, guiding his mouth to cup my sex. He does not protest, and his squirming tongue slides into my folds.

“Mmm, very good. Drink up.” I purr like a contented cat.

His obedient eyes ravish me as I steer him towards my aching clit. He had done this before, nuzzling it between his lips with pointed flicks from his tongue. A rush of air signals my delight, and I reach back to provide encouragement. His cock is filling with blood; he is ready to go again.

With a measured back-and-forth, I smear against his mouth, stroking him. As Cami suggested, I will ride his eager cock and torment him with pleasure. We have plans for Antoine and Etienne.

I will make him beg for his next climax, too.

First, I am going to cum on his face.