It was a fire that brought me here, and a thin wall separates us.

I hear her groans of surrender, and I was on the cusp of sleep; they must think I am. It prickles inside me, an unwanted sense of excitement swells, helpless to the easy heat that rises. That sense of restlessness awakens me fully, and I listen, still in the silence.

My imagination riots, painting moving images to accompany what I hear.

Down to my panties, the caress of this cotton sheet is my ghostly lover. It makes me pine for Gaspar, my first proper boyfriend. He has never taken me like that.

These sounds make me want to do things I do not understand. I understand this arousal.  It swells hotter, goading me to loosen my inhibitions, encouraging my fantasies. No one knows those; every single one is a secret, and yet I imagine the people who can unlock them are so close.

Their bodies clatter; his wife is stricken. The wall between us blunts a sharp exclamation. She is flaxen-haired, kind, elegant and slender. I can acknowledge that she is a beautiful woman. I should not think like this, but I want her husband.

His raffish expression on those lean features challenges my restraint. Those bright aquamarine eyes shine, and that side glance he gives me, the one with the mercurial grin. I like that. When he looks at me, it feels like a crime, and I glance at her. She always catches him and gives me that enigmatic gaze with a sparkle in her eyes. Every time, I feel that frisson. It flutters inside me.

I dare not say it, or even admit it to myself.

No one knows my secrets.

Incomprehensible words tangle with their movements. I spy the glass on the pedestal and swig the last of its contents. I creep from my bed, the mattress springs silent, and I crouch on the floor. Every movement is slow and precise, the glass presses to the wall, and I place my ear to its cold bottom.

I wish I did not.

Its intensity drips as hot wax - the sting of heat, then warm and clingy. I can hear her paced, feminine gasps. Her husband is masterful, conjuring her song of moans. She can feel his every movement. Is he blessed, or is it experience? Is it both?

My hand is not my own, and it slides over my smooth abdomen. My mind plays that fiendish game with my body. It is winning, my secrets boil and froth, goading me to play along.

Warm fingertips ease through the small tuft of hair on my mons. As she cries out, my juices spill. They slide inside, making me pout, and I cannot whimper. Hot blood swirls like I goad my swollen clit. Her cries strengthen, and they no longer encourage. She bares her soul for her husband. He touches her there, a love I crave to know, and she pleads for more.

Her final words electrify my body. What she demands propels me from this furtive act into the craven need for the same. My mind is ransacked, my secrets spill out, spicing my needs. It comes from her guts, a deep grunt, and then another. She climaxes at the pinnacle of their intimacy. He is her animal, and as the chaos reaches its crescendo, they cry out together.

Right now, he is putting his seed inside her. Sticky, hot, twitching deep, giving her as much as he can. She is purring, and my determined fingers race to prise it from my body.

It wallows and lurches, rising as a peak, teetering as I bite my lip, and I push my fingers inside. My tense core tightens, and the flames roar. My nubile sex demands its tribute. I am helpless, my legs wrapped around him, and crossed at the ankles. He swells, my tongue licks his ear, my frantic words are like hers, and I want the same.

Make me into a woman.

Teach me the guile to make your husband release on command.

The wave crashes over me. Contorting, my mind a haze, and raging with hot contractions, I press my lips together hard; my cries must not escape. My perch is precarious, and I wobble; instinct forces me to steady myself.

The thick glass tumbler falls to the floor. It bounces to my horror, rolls, and hits the wall with a thud.

I am panting, throbbing with aftershocks, and burning with shame.

-2-

They will not be awake yet. It is Saturday, and I cannot flee to university for lectures. I sip at crisp, cold milk in a glass mottled with condensation. Sitting at the kitchen table, I listen intensely for signs of life. I know I will blush as soon as they see me.

I bite into a rich butter croissant, and it dissolves, leaving flakes on my lips. Licking them, my eyes widen. There he is, barefoot and silent as a burglar. He scratches a day’s growth, running his fingers through his unkempt mane. Handsome when he is fresh out of bed. Honey-skinned, adorned only in his baby-blue cotton robe, tied loosely with a bow. One tug would reveal his muscular body.

I am a small creature caught in the headlights.

“Good morning.”

I blush. “Good morning.”

What is in that muted grin? Does he know? Or is this how men are afterwards, when they are sated? Gaspar is a poor comparison.

I arrest my gaze, my cheeks ablaze, focusing on my phone. I pretend to swipe, anything to stop my racing pulse. I pray that Mathilde replies to my message soon. The fridge door rattles its contents, I stop, and his back is to me. Assembling ham and cheese, sliding it into croissants, he pours fresh orange juice and fills the cafetiere.

Mathilde responds, and I am distracted as crockery tinkles with cutlery.

He turns and flashes his eyes, “Breakfast in bed.”

I nod in acknowledgement, trying not to admire him. Yet, my body warms with that uncontrollable need. He hoists the tray, grins and flashes his eyes again. They flicker to my lips, stealing my breath.

“You missed one.”

My features are fixed, I cannot reveal myself, and he turns for upstairs.

I lick my lip, finding the lost flake, and sigh.

-3-

Walking, I cast a long shadow, as a giant walking through the park, carrying my dinner in a plastic bag. I am grateful for the waning sun on my bare arms and legs, and the precious hours with my only friend, Mathilde. Today was the first in two weeks that I was not preoccupied. Only now, I recall the fire, and how it took me away from Gaspar. The material things I have lost can be replaced.

My name is Elodie, and the university registrar called me a refugee. After the fire at our halls of residence, I suppose I am. The university gave me a list, and I found a room as a lodger in Nanterre.

I am a first-year student too, new to Paris. One of thousands, I am nothing special, but pleasant enough to look at. I like sports and play lacrosse, which keeps me a willowy creature of slender curves. I have no cleavage, and my hips do not flare much. If I need to accentuate my figure, clothes must hug my frame. It is this timidity I wish to lose, and when I watch other women, they smile and illuminate a room, they move with grace and confidence. I sit and fumble a grin, my eyes divert from any attention, and my tongue ties in knots.

My mind wanders under the dappled, leafy canopy flanking my path. I trace the route I took to return… home. That term feels unfamiliar; it jars like so much in this new life of mine. This city confounds me, my degree course, mixing with adults, making friends, my first real boyfriend, Gaspar.

Sex.

God, I miss that most, denied something I did not think I wanted. Gaspar is in a different part of the city, as a lodger in a room, like me. We are too green, ashamed to flaunt to strangers what we need, to stay the night, to consummate our relationship further.

The heat rises, unwilling to rest, nagging with a needy ache. It simmers at best, and boils at its worst. Trapped, kept under pressure, and I seethe with desire. It occupies me that I am not normal, living with secrets verging on perversions.

I want to make the noises that she does and orgasm with Gaspar inside me. I want him to truly take me and reveal my secrets.

Hiding behind sunglasses, my eyes betray these tawdry thoughts. Rounding the corner, the sun’s warmth on my face disguises the glow within. I suppose my tormentors might like that, another couple having sex next door. Two women crying out together, pleading for more.

They might join us, and they might watch… we… might… swap. The men might focus on only me, and she might…

Heat blooms within, and I glance at a female passer-by, wary that my expression reveals these thoughts. She bores into my eyes, and I quake with embarrassment.

Approaching their house, I spy the glossy blue mailbox and stare at the plaque.

Monsieur et Madame Jules Verlac.

His wife is Anaïs, I prefer her name, it matches her beauty. I am envious of their blasé spirit. How Parisian, and I am from the provinces.

This deep sigh does not placate me, and I reach for the key in my small handbag. The door sticks, and the hinges groan. What does tonight hold in store for me? Another night of torment, another urgent climax listening to them.

Oh God, the dropped glass, and the awkwardness at breakfast.

I squirm inside. I will have to face them now.

-4-

I sit at the kitchen table and toy with my wine glass, turning it as my head floats. Anaïs talks about fashion as she crafts the curves of a dress with her expressive hands. Copper pans hang from the wall, amidst oak shelves, and glass jars of herbs hide the creamy wall. Lemons rest in a blown glass bowl.

I survive thanks to their bonhomie, susceptible to their generosity because I fear an inquisition. What went thud in the night remains unsaid, and I look at my dinner still in its bag.

“Another glass?” Her quizzical eyebrow frames her question.

“Sure.”

And Jules lifts the bottle, letting the trapped air glug out.

“You had a parcel.” Anaïs takes a sip, watching my reaction. “I put it in your room.”

That parcel, I forgot about it, and I falter. I pray the box remains unopened.

“Oh, that. Thanks.”

“A present for someone?” Anaïs is intrigued.

“Yes…” Random thoughts claw and grasp at thin air, unguarded words race to the tip of my tongue, “for my boyfriend.”

I regret this lie instantly.

“Boyfriend…” Anaïs grins, suddenly entertained. “Serious then?”

Jules smiles with a twinkle in his eye.

Disarmed by a glass of wine, my thoughts will be the death of me. “Only three months, as serious as it could be.”

“Elodie…” Anaïs opines, “Good for you.”

“You know, he is welcome to visit.” His mercurial smile disarms me in an instant.

“Yes,” Anaïs leans in, “your life has been disrupted enough. We are easy-going.”

She reaches out to Jules, clasping his hand. “We were young once.”

“We still are,” he replies.

I witness their intense connection in the blink of an eye.

Anaïs grins, woman-to-girl, conspiratorial. “If you would like him to stay the night, he can.”

I flush intensely. “I… I…”

“Darling,” Jules interjects, “you have embarrassed her.”

For his gallantry, an intense fluttering churns in my stomach.

I try to compose myself with a sip of cold white wine. “I would like that,” my voice thin, “thank you.”

Her smile lingers, and what I fear is shared in a knowing look.

“Anaïs.” Jules gestures to the clock on the wall.

“Yes, my love. Now, we have a restaurant booking, Elodie. And you are not meeting your beau?”

I shake my head. “A double shift today.”

She finishes her glass, “So, you have the place to yourself.”

Jules stands and pushes the bottle towards me, with a wink. “No point putting this in the fridge.”

-5-

My parcel remained unopened, and my irrationality eased. Cooking a simple Ratatouille, what I wanted rested as a devil on my shoulder, dripping taboo words in my ear. More wine dissolved my inhibitions, setting my fantasies free.

Now, in the feeble light from the table lamp, the dress mirror plays voyeur. I rise from the long shadows, exposing my naked body, admiring what I have done. It is taboo, I am a trope, a sleazy stereotype. A hot cloth lifted the follicles, a sharp razor denuded my mons. Shaved smooth, the deviancy excites me. Its pores are tight and flawless, and it rises as a hillock at my loins, eager to be conquered. I follow its contours, down the scallop of my abdomen, to my lower ribs that peek through. My taut breasts rest, broad across my frame. I trace its moulded curve, the pucker of my hardened nipple, and gasp out.

I glance at the torn cardboard box. Bent at the knees, my legs wide open with restless hips, and my new toy undulates inside me.

It is not too much to stretch me; how it shifts and how I steer it, it caresses my smooth insides. I am scented with coconut butter and the musk of sex. Painted lips bloom, my smoky eye shadow and mascara steal my innocence. My once neat hair is deliberately unkempt and lousy with sexual desire.

I am my secret.

From a sudden, spiky, quick climax, now I burn. Syrupy juices make that sticky sound. Taunting my sensitive body, I have lost all time in another voyage of discovery. I press the toy in deeper, my inexhaustible lover, and dissolve on this sea of sighs.

Gaspar is inside me, patient as Jules with Anaïs, thrusting slowly, hitting the place I found. The tension ratchets tighter, and I seek it with my body, driving towards my motionless hand. My eyes will seethe into his, writhing to meet him, goading his thrusts. I am confident, pushing onto my impalement, revelling in his lost innocence. My game will expose his inner animal. When I see it, I will lie back, my arms crooked, prone and abandoned. Surrendering to my fate, I will invite his instinctive best.

I quiver at the fine line between plateau and ecstasy. Easing it from me, I admire the sheen of my juices and lick them. I recall Anaïs and her gaze. I want her to see me like this, panting hard, flushed with need. Biting my lip, I reach out for her, doe-eyed, and my hand trembles with nerves. Riddled with uncertainty, yet I ache for her to dominate me, too.  

Her soft words soothe as he invades my drenched folds. I stutter as his girth presses deeper. My new toy eases inside, submissive to my desecration, mimicking his confidence. Wide-eyed, they are the window to my soul, and Anaïs can peer in. Squeezing my tight sex, Jules groans, and I pull on him to encourage his thrusts.

Anaïs moves, exaggerating her gait, feline, but not a tigress. She rests alongside, and my helpless eyes plead. I tremble on first contact, and she tours my curves, skirting where I crave her touch. Watching her lust reveal itself in those expressive eyes. I yearn for her to educate me as my simpering lips part. Jules makes me gasp, a breathless admission of my surrender, quivering to her caress.

My hand is her proxy, tantalising the swelling need to climax. She finds my nipple, and electricity fizzes through my core. She slides them along my body, letting them dance on the silky skin of my mons. I cannot blink, saucer-eyes filled with anticipation, plead for her to drink. Her lips descend, closer as hot breath bathes mine, and I pout...

... Contact, as I wrestle with the ecstasy, fighting to keep my eyes open. Jules presses deeper as her fingertips slide over the fleshy hood of my clit. I can feel the tension grip, sawing the toy into my body. They graze, soft, tactile, rousing whimpers of my acquiescence. I am dizzy, saturated with pleasure, my inhibitions drowned. The pinnacle is reached, and I am a specimen they have trapped.

I am theirs, vulnerable to their whims, accepting fate, destiny, and their desires for me. A mania takes over, my legs shake and stiffen, my body rattles as if death approaches.

I croak, shuddering, fighting to hold on. The toy is living flesh, hammering at me, trying to shake my orgasm loose. My fingers dart as my mind’s eye sees her grin as I hurtle helplessly to oblivion. I am animated beneath him, seeking purchase to match his urgent thrusts. I clench hard, writhing to the apex of my doom.

He is swelling. I am too tight for him, too pristine, ripe to be spoiled.

Her ravenous eyes stake her claim to my body and soul, and she will witness my most intimate act. Glancing at her lips, I watch them latch onto my candy pink nipple. Her tongue flicks, the motif obvious, and I am the flames of an inferno.

They will burn me to the ground.

Anaïs takes him in hand, stroking him.

“All of it,” she purrs. “Give the girl what she’s begging for.”

“Cum inside me.” I whisper, “Please… cum inside me.”

My heels are the pivot with my shoulders. The room spins, and I arch from the bed, seizing in hard spasms.

Speared by his rampant shaft, he releases hard.

I am a woman now, and I am gone, convulsing with gurgled cries of relief.

This is my secret.