Among the posters, books, and keepsakes, this is not my bedroom. This is not my home.

I gather the tear-stained tissues and smooth the bedcover. It hides the chaos beneath, but not the turmoil of my thoughts. I carry that dull ache within as a feeling of emptiness, not contentment.

An open window lets the bright sky pour in. A breeze carries away the musk of sex. I washed him from my body, too, and I should wash the sheets.

If I do that, he is gone forever, and I am alone… again.

What have I done? I invited Gaspar here - into my bed, and into my heart.

With another shaky breath, fresh tears rise. His words play on a constant loop.

This morning we made small talk. He asked one question. I had my chance.

I blew it.

Now the perfect answer taunts me endlessly. At the front door, there was no hug, no goodbye kiss.

I know the truth. I disgusted him. I was too bold, too hungry. I thought that was what he wanted.

My needs make me a freak. Gaspar is normal, and I should compromise.

I cannot do that, I am trapped, and it twists my guts.

Heavy grocery bags thump onto the kitchen table downstairs, followed by bright laughter. I freeze. I will not let them see me like this, pink-eyed and broken. The irony burns hotter: the secret exhibitionist is terrified of being seen.

In the mirror, the chronicler of my orgasms stares back. I toy with my fringe, desperate to disappear.

Please don’t fuck right now.

That’s the last thing I want to hear.

- 13 -

With a side glance, Anaïs stops. She sees me standing at the kitchen threshold, trying to look unfazed.

I fail.

I am vulnerable.

Fragile.

Still marked with the stain of last night.

She ushers Jules away with hushed words.

Her eyes track mine as she moves to the fridge and brings the leftover wine to the table. We sit, and I dread this inevitable post-mortem. I play for time with empty questions. Anaïs indulges me, describing some wild party. Her expressive hands twirl through memories of music and laughter. Her bergamot scent comforts me, and that taut summer dress moves with her sublime body.

It should inspire me.

It does not.

My half-empty glass gleams with condensation. Each sip softens the edges of my hangover.

Then her sunny expression shifts, and fear rises in me. Anaïs is no longer simply telling stories - she seeks the truth.

She leans in, glass in hand. “And how was your evening?”

Her eyebrow rises, and I fumble a smile. “Oh, you know.”

“Woman to woman, Elodie.”

The words strike deep. I am not a woman, not really. I crave the chance to become one, and harbour the florid fantasies of a liberated, assertive woman.

I still have so much to learn.

So much I could learn from Anaïs.

I am a long way from that, and my head stoops. “It’s Gaspar.”

She waits.

“This morning, I should have said something to him, but I didn’t want an argument.”

“An argument?” Anaïs looks puzzled.

I toy with my glass, and another broken sigh slips out.

I haul my crisis-stricken eyes to hers, hovering at the brink of tears. “Because of what I wanted.”

Her gaze does not waver.

“And what do you want, Elodie? More time for each other?”

I shake my head. “Not quite,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen, and I see a flicker of wisdom. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah,” and the next word claws at my throat, “that.”

Her hand reaches across the table and covers mine.

Warm.

Soft.

An unexpected spark illuminates the darkness within.

“Oh, Elodie. He is young,” she opines gently. “They’re clumsy at that age.”

A sense of defiance rises within me. “I told him what I wanted. I showed him.”

Her eyes flash with interest. “And did you get it?”

“No.” Shame burns my cheeks, “I got what he wanted.”

Looking down, I sigh, “It’s my stupid fault.”

There is a pause. When I look up, Anaïs is watching me with an expression I have never seen before - something close to pride

“You are not stupid.” Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You cried over this?”

I nod.

“You should never feel guilty for asking.”

“I really needed to hear that.”

That sparkle returns to her eyes. “Do you want my opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Wait for him to call you.”

I hesitate.

“Elodie…” She leans closer to share a confidence, “That’s the Parisian way. You deserve to be desired. Spell it out. Be proud of what you want, and you make him walk on broken glass to get you into bed.”

I blush fiercely.

Anaïs grins.

Still flustered, I sip the bitter wine. “And if he doesn’t call?”

“It is what it is,” her voice is low and sure, “and life is too short. There are plenty of men… good men who would be more than happy to give you what you need.”

I manage a small, reluctant smile. “You think so?”

Anaïs leers, “I know so. Trust me on that one.”

She reclines with her glass and holds my gaze. In that quiet moment, I feel truly seen. Understood. A tentative flicker of hope stirs within me.

- 14 -

Sunday morning, and cotton-mouthed - red wine never agrees with me.

A halo of light frames the French windows. On my pedestal, I spy the half-full glass of water, grateful for its cool relief.

Mathilde gave the same advice as Anaïs, only gentler. Jules knew everything. I could see it in his casual glances and careful conversation, the kind that left me flushed. His cryptic words suggested he cared about me, but left me wondering what he was really thinking.

Men are strange fruit.

All week, my fingers kept drifting to my phone, itching to text Gaspar. How are things? But Anaïs and Mathilde were right.

It is what it is.

I did not message him. He did not call.

All week, the adult rhythm of the city carried me along. Teenage angst is a rite of passage, and I survived with mere bruises. Bleary-eyed, I let the world drift for a while.

Thursday meant Lacrosse practice and my secret crush.

One smile from her undid me - half knowing, half mystery. I stole too many glances as she soaped her body in the showers.

Now, warm under the duvet, my lazy fingers drift over naked skin. They skirt my breast, tracing slow circles toward my nipple until the sensation sharpens into need.

This time, she wants me to watch.

She is flagrant under the spray, water sliding over her glossy skin. Coy at first, she runs her hands over her midriff, then cups her breasts, showing me exactly how she likes to be touched.

My own fingers follow. Brushing my nipple, I ignite. I smear slick honey over my clit and circle slowly.

She bends to soap her calf. The curve of her profile, the soft weight of her breasts, and the long line of her flank.

She is sculpted and alive. Her mesmerising, kindly eyes find mine. A slippery hand slides around my waist, and we entwine beneath the water. My breathing shallows as she tilts her head. I know what is coming. Her lips meet mine, soft and assertive. I melt into it, clasping her soft, springy breast, rubbing the rising nipple with the palm of my hand. As a plea for more, as my petition to be gentle, she guides me.

I am wet, swelling, aching for her to explore. The tiles are warm against my back. Her fingers speak first, then her tongue - a serpent unfurling, hypnotic until I am panting.

Helpless to my own curiosity, I watch as she kneels. She looks up at me with wide, hopeful eyes.

This is how it is, she says, how she found out, and I will, too.

Her mouth cups my sex. The pointed tip of her tongue flicks my clit.

Between gasps, I confess… I understand.

This is how it is done.

I tighten, shuddering, waves of pleasure washing over my drowsy body.

Warm from the soft aftershocks, I know what I am now.

Safe and warm in my new home.

- 15 -

I dozed from nine until eleven.

The house is silent, and I listen closely. No one is home, and I am not surprised. They fill every minute, as I learned this week, and their example inspires me. Now, I admire Jules and Anaïs more than ever.

My stomach growls, and I have slept off the worst. I am alone, so throw a robe over my naked body. My phone has three unread messages, and Mathilde needs my help with clothes shopping.

I take careful, silent steps down the stairs, my feet cool on the tiled floor. Approaching the kitchen, I notice a small suitcase by the front door and am puzzled.

Who is leaving?

Now, I hear hushed words.

They have been here all along, and I pause.

I should retreat to my room and cover my immodesty. I chose my satin robe when it should have been cotton, and underwear instead of my naked body. There is a groan, timorous and masculine. A sound of defeat, and my body soars. I cannot place it, and listen to locate its source.

Jules groans again, calling out for Anaïs, pleading.

They are in the kitchen, and I peer around the corner.

Suited, buttoned up, she is on her knees, taking him in her mouth. She is relentless, hungry, forcing him to grip the edge of the worktop. She bats his hand away. Her hair is up, coiffured; wherever she is going, she looks her best.

I exist as a voyeur again, travelling on the seas of shame and regret.

Yet the fire inside rises, threatening to roar.

She has him in hand and looks up, enjoying his helplessness.

“Anaïs.”

I have never heard Jules whimper. He looks forlorn, overwhelmed by her determination. She stops with a gasp, wiping her mouth with the back of her.

“I'm gone for a week… so I'm emptying you.” She grins, “Well… you’ll be fine for a day, maybe two.”

Watching in bright daylight, my eyes devour his rugged frame, fixated on his surging, thick cock. Clinging to the doorframe, I feed my rising arousal. Desperate not to make a sound, I bite my lip, careful to breathe slowly as my heart booms.

She cradles his balls, softly kneading them.

“Anaïs. I…”

Cut off from his words, she plunges for him again, always watching him. I crave just a scrap of her guile; any man would be powerless.

She strokes him slowly, eager to hear him beg.

“You want to fuck her, don’t you? Be honest.”

He nods, breathless.

Her grin, I recognise it.

No, no, that’s impossible.

Back in her mouth, Anaïs wraps her hand around that magnificent shaft. She slides the other between his legs. I cannot see, but she has his full attention, and a louder moan rises above his sighs.

She licks along his erection, “Say her name, and I will let you cum.”

I blaze at the suspense, and I do not dare to guess. My line of sight is obscured, but I cannot risk moving. Fixated on Jules, he is at the apex of arousal. Measured as a metronome, her hand, mouth and tongue swirl around his cock. I am transfixed, imagining my place alongside her.

He flinches hard. “Anaïs…”

She breaks for more air, raising a breathless chuckle. “I know all your secrets. Like this place here.”

His groan is heartfelt, and he swallows to clear his throat, “Please…”

“Tell me, Jules, then I'll make you see stars.”

Again, her tongue swirls around its swollen head. He laments with forceful moans as she bobs back and forth with sunken cheeks. She stops again, and I can hear his frustration.

“Who do you want to fuck, Jules?”

“Anaïs… please…”

“Who?”

“Elodie.”

Anaïs purrs with approval, and a galloping heat scrambles my mind. Second-guessing what I heard, my hot blood accelerates, pounding so hard it makes my ears ring.

I should be afraid and feel violated. I am not an object of desire.

There is no morality in this moment; there is truth, and not lies.

I want to be an object of desire… for them both.

His reward is skilful and slow. Anaïs takes him deep, and her hand between his legs forces a long groan from Jules.

She pulls back. “Mmmm. You are very hard. What man wouldn’t want her? So tight, unspoilt, and eager to learn.”

“Anaïs…” he croaks.

“I know something else. She craves a man who can give her what she needs.”

I am wet, and fear I am dripping onto the floor. As a punishment for watching, the satin brushes against my aching nipples.

“You want to stick this inside her, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He is no longer timid; his tone has strength.

Anaïs purrs again. “I see the way she looks at you. She wants you, too.”

I press my legs together, but it only makes the intense throbbing worse. I stuff my robe between my legs and clamp them closed.

This is torture.

My breasts heave, and I watch her steely gaze. Anaïs strokes him faster, slurps on his rigid shaft. She pushes his hand away as his body trembles. He is ready to capitulate, shaking as leaves rustling in the breeze.

She leers, and a slippery hand keeps him in check. He exists on a hair trigger, and I see his upturned eyes beg.

“She's upstairs right now,” her tone suggests a conspiracy, “I know she sleeps naked.”

How? How does she know that? Does she spy on me? Does she come into my room when I am asleep and ogle me?

This powerful need to touch myself pushes my questions aside. She lusts over me, and he does, too.

I want that more than anything. I am their vessel to fuck…

God, what is wrong with me?

My legs are without bones, and I cannot run away.

If they catch me, would I beg like Jules?

Anaïs would have to take control, and I would let her. What if I can't stop once it starts? My secrets would spill out as my confession. They would know and take advantage of me.

Fuck, I need that.

“Anaïs, please. I need to cum.”

She lets go, grinning at his frustration. Blowing on his hard cock, she makes it twitch.

Amused, she snorts, “You could go up there now and give her what she needs.”

“Fuck…” he growls.

Nothing else matters; I must have him. I crave his animal worst to delete all my fears.

Make me into a woman.

My sex pulses, and I must stall my panting.

Anaïs takes him in hand, stroking him slowly.

She grins at his struggle. “Fuck her for me. I want to watch you both, and watch her cum on this.”

Jules groans longer, “Yes…”

Savage electricity fuses reality and fantasy together. My restless fingers must touch my aching sex… my cunt.

I cannot look away. I hear their words. I need his cock and all his masculine strength. I want his cum anywhere on me, or in me, and savour its silky texture.

I want Anaïs. My first woman, the one who guides me, seduces me.

Fucks me.

Teaches me.

My sex clenches, hard and involuntarily.

My body burns, and I cannot stop panting.  

Taking him in her mouth, she twists her hand around it, cajoling his orgasm. Jules tightens and shakes. She pulls him in deep, and his hips fuck back. Anaïs looks up, and their eyes meet. He booms with relief, helplessly groaning. Her mouth is a perfect seal, drinking it down, kneading his balls as he shoots his all.

This is passion, and these are not star-crossed lovers.

They made this pact long before I ever heard them fucking through the wall. I am their quarry.

A new dawn breaks as his climax ebbs.

Anaïs is gone for a week, and she wants Jules to fuck me.

Is this a fantasy to drain his balls, or an instruction from his domineering wife?

- 16 -

Before Anaïs stands, I retreat. The satin clings to me like a treacherous second skin.

My bare feet slap the stairs in a careless rush for silence. I hope they know I was there.

In my room, I fling the robe from my body. Shaky fingers yank open the drawer and pull out the toy - thinner, cold, unyielding. Right now, I need something thick and deep inside me.

Lying on top of the bed, urgent fingers dive between my legs. I rub hard and fast, replaying every filthy word in a vicious loop. I am soaked, my thighs wet from watching them. My clit throbs so hard it hurts. Denied for too long, every touch is a demand for instant release.

She’s upstairs right now… and I know she sleeps naked.

Fuck her for me.

I want to watch you both… watch her cum on this.

This is not fantasy curated from porn. This is not sneaking through the house. This is real. This is raw. This is happening.

I am their quarry.

If this is how they catch me, it is because I need them. They want me, me! My skinny, almost-flat-chested, lithe, nubile, sensual, eager, dripping, responsive, fuckable body.

I moan, loud and shameless. I want them to hear me.

I breach my slick folds and impale myself on the toy in one desperate thrust. The sudden fullness pulls a groan from my throat.

I don’t care how loud I am.

Their words consume everything.

Fuck, this turns me on so much.

Naked and frantic, I fuck myself like Jules would - obeying his wife, giving me exactly what I need. I do not need to think. I only need to be used.

Hard. Deep.

Without mercy.

Make me into a woman.

The climax builds in brutal, merciless peaks. The toy is his shaft, I grind my hips, chasing that spot while my fingers goad my swollen clit.

Teach me. Use me. Take advantage of me.

Please.

I picture it so clearly: coming on his cock, clinging, flailing, squeezing hot and tight around his thick shaft. My legs locked around his back, tongue squirming in his ear, whispering the filthiest things I can imagine.

I cannot hold this groan of surrender back.

Cum inside me. Fill me.

Breed me.

My sex tightens. I am their toy… their pet. Anaïs would watch every second. She would join us. She would push my legs wide and lick his cum out of my weeping cunt.

The response is instant.

Something snaps, I know I’ve pushed myself too far.

The first twinge is a sign of its brutality. My body arches, breasts taut, every muscle locked. I am stiff as a board, then melting. Ascending, I plunge, Twisting, I lurch.

I rise as a long, quaking arc of pure tension. My sex squeezes, pushing the toy out. I croak as the tremors rise.

Panes of glass shatter inside me.

Jangling.

Loud.

Deafening.

I want to scream. I must vent it from my blood.

I am pure ecstasy and a thumping heartbeat.

When it finally releases me, I glow hotter than ever before. Shuddering with violent aftershocks, I tremble, spent and gasping, leaking onto the sheets.

The house is still.

God, what am I becoming?

There is no shame yet. Only truth. I heard their words, their desires, their needs.

I want them too.

How? There will be a way. I know there will.

The front door closes.

Anaïs is gone.

I lie here, listening for footsteps on the stairs.

Hoping.

Jules does not come.

Not yet.

But soon, and inside me.