Usually, I am the cool, calm, and collected person in our marriage. My husband is gone three days, and I have turned our ménage à trois with Aveline upside down. He is due home today, and Little Bird is no more. Instead, our roles are reversed. To compound matters, Aveline’s words still linger: by the time I am finished, you will be all mine. 

And exhale… one, two, three, four.

I realise our marriage is unconventional, it might be a dream for some, perhaps a nightmare for others, and this is a cliché but true nonetheless. To live this way, there must be total honesty with each other, and we do not hurt others. This is our creed, no compromise, and today’s innocuous secret can be a devastating revelation tomorrow.

Inhale… one, two, three, four.

I miss Martin terribly, and I know his absence amplifies this concern. Even so, the question is, how do I tell him all this? The clock is ticking; I have only hours to decide what to do.

Exhale….

Aveline is at work. Myself? A bead of sweat runs between my breasts. I am on my yoga mat, posed for the Surya Namaskar – the Sun Salutation. It is a beautiful summer day; it just seems appropriate.

Pranam-asana.

So... I could front this out. Be true to myself, make no big deal of it, and bend Martin to my way of thinking. No… too risky, not really honest, and unconvincing. This sounds preposterous, but what if Aveline says the same thing to my husband at the height of passion? He tells me, and I have this secret.

Messy.

The origin of my torment is that collar and leash. We bought it last winter to spice up our sex life because we could not meet anyone. Not only was it intensely liberating, how ironic, but we discovered a void filled with curiosity. Wearing it, as an experience, went beyond anything I have done with a man or a woman.

Now, I am haunted by it, I want to experience this with them both. Yet, with Aveline, or Mademoiselle, sex is one thing. However, putting any possible irrationality aside, if she is falling in love with me, there is a big problem.

Before leaving, Martin said whatever happened between Aveline and me was fine. Her sexual magnetism and my desires were two forces that had to collide. When she wore that collar, it must have crossed Martin’s mind that I would wear it too. Hell, when I wore it for him, my arousal lit me up like a pinball machine.

We know Aveline as well as we can, and she is not easily understood. Her emotions are cryptic, and she is an endless list of contradictions. Her need to dominate me would not surprise my husband. She is young and finding her way, and experimentation is… normal? Women are fickle, they change their minds, and he knows this. I am one of the worst at it.

Aveline's behaviour since has been impeccable. That evening, I poured us a chilled white wine each, presented a plate of cold cuts and crudites, and sat her down. I know she gave up so much to pursue her choices… on her terms.

I have my sexuality, desires, and an opinion. I am his wife; we are soulmates and best friends. What I did with Mademoiselle lit a fire I cannot extinguish, and I want to be dominated by them both, but those words… I cannot ignore them.

Well, she heard my terms that night. Sitting prim and upright, in her deadpan tone, she only sought to enliven the game. Yet, her body language lacked conviction, and she looked annoyed.

She always looks annoyed.

Naivete can explain her words: I can accept this and empathise. I admitted I was a novice dominant. Quid pro quo. I am, and this is not the ‘Story of O’. That night, we ran out of words. That look she gave me, a little knowledge is a very dangerous thing, and I crumbled.

She opened my legs and got between my thighs. Aveline’s tacit apology was etched in her gaze, described by the silky texture of her tongue. I was soon drenched again, and she brought me to orgasm with ease. It was patient and tender, with a lot of kissing and delicate touches. We ascended to a plateau that felt so familiar as a sapphic experience, very different from the afternoon. I coaxed her, persuading Aveline to scale these heights with me. My experience versus her thirst for knowledge.

Filled with lust and sublime control, she towered over me, joined at the confluence of our thighs. From slow undulations, we began to writhe, finding the perfect rhythm. We ground and pulverised our misunderstanding away in a mutual climatic experience. Tiring, we knew the descent into another orgasmic seizure would be more intense than the last, and I persuaded her to join me. Together we cried out, lunging at each other, clasping, and twisting as wounded doves in convulsive raptures as our final act.

Aching and exhausted, we showered under a warm rain, deluged by tender kisses. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, reassured as much as possible without Martin alongside me.

Really it was delightful, no dominance or submission, no games, just sex.

Fuck! I am aroused, and I need answers.

The following day, we ate and watched a film in the evening. There were no heartfelt words, no Mademoiselle, just Aveline and me, and we retired to our separate bedrooms. Just as well; all that fucking and rubbing made me a little sore.

Panam-asana… and rest, I am panting.

In the twelve asanas of the Surya Namaskar – I am at peace.

My eyes widen, and I feel pretty fucking stupid. I know what I must do.

-=-

Under the shower, lumps of foam fall from my body. I understand now, and it is a fillip to my confidence. Aveline's apology was heartfelt, it was there all the whole time, and I missed it. There has been no Mademoiselle since. I misread her because she understood my feelings. I must give her the permission to dominate me.

It is my decision to make, my terms. I need to show them and persuade them I want this.

This lingerie is simple and stylish; it is my best black brassiere, panties, and suspenders in silk and lace. The silk stocking rolls easily, caressing my leg. They are fully fashioned and take an age to get straight; I check them in my dress mirror and adjust the suspenders. I am wearing that jewelled plug, and it cannot be seen through my underwear.

Applying lipstick with a brush, this is my Parisian red. I use my eyelash curler and brush on a little mascara; I know the rules... flex, do not break them. It is enough, a cryptic message and not a neon sign. Dipping into my jewellery box, Chantilly lace is not my clandestine collar. I am adorned by three tight lines of cultured pearls, very symbolic, one for each of us. Other than my wedding and engagement rings, that is all, except the pearl stud earrings.

Pulling up the teardrop zipper, I adjust my dress and smooth the fabric down. My attire is vintage couture, bought secondhand; it is not fashionable but stylish. A summer dress with tiny white polka dots like diamond stars in a midnight blue sky. Above the knee with a fitted bodice and broad straps, it is a tailored fit and flares slightly with its sharp pleats.

I sigh, almost there, and placed my hat down carefully. I can hide under its wide brim if needed. It matches my dress in dark navy with a white taffeta ribbon. Primping my hair, I adjust how its natural curls fall. Inside, I am a mix of unfathomable desire and a fluttering of nervousness. I check and re-check everything.

Standing in three-inch patent black stilettos, this is my statement of what I want. My hand is trembling a little as I hold up my phone. I capture the image and send it to Aveline, captioned: "Does Mademoiselle approve?" It sends a shiver creeping through my soul.

Now, I will walk to Gare du Nord, let everyone see who I am, and show what I want to my man.

-=-

Walking along the Boulevard des Capucines, the presence of that chromed plug makes my gait sway with a little more wiggle. It elevates my neutral expression with a muted pout. It is not a mind-bending pleasure, but an exciting frisson nonetheless.

It is busy as one of the grand boulevards filled with shops, cafes, and restaurants. There are a lot of people going about their business, browsing shop windows, or enjoying a drink at a table outside. For me, an admiring look is rare these days, and I attract a few. I must let them look, keeping to this persona.

Walking towards me, I see her. Tall, beautiful, slender, with a vivacious smile. She is about my age, and her grin widens. She knows, and a fiery heat rises within. I am revealed with my secret laid bare. As she nears, my excitement mixes with embarrassment; it is unbearable. I will not break eye contact, and in my deepest desires, I hear that faint voice. I want her to see me like this. There it is, a leer of desire and a coquettish greeting. She knows what I am, and an earthquake rumbles through my body. As we pass, I want to duck under my hat because I am ablaze. I am sure she wants me to stop and chat, yet I keep walking; I must, and that plug, damn it to hell.

Aveline has no qualms about looking like this and is so young and attractive. How does she endure this attention? My respect for her swells, and this storm within will not abate.

I have lost control. My mind wanders through past recollections and what is to come, and more fuel is thrown vicariously into the furnace. Everything is additive, that woman, the plug, in public, my attire, my thoughts, Mademoiselle, and Martin. I am flushed red hot and concerned my arousal is too obvious.

With every glance at me, I am revealed. I am raging inside. My panties are hot and wet with arousal, and I am aching.

I have to hail a taxi. I will be a wreck before I make it to the station. These feelings are too powerful.

I have failed.

-=-

The taxi ride soothes, but I remain on edge. At Gare du Nord, I cannot remove this purse-lipped look of need. I try and look even more conspicuous. Standing on the upper floor, I feel like I am on display, my heart is racing, and I have that unrelenting ache within. I cannot help but wonder if passers-by know how aroused I am. My mind is fixated on what I need, and my body feels so potent and sexual.

I understand Aveline's contradictions. I am afraid, no, I am alive, and I love feeling like this.

When I see Martin, my heart soars, and I cling to this distraction as my salvation. I can observe because he is not expecting me. He walks with a spring in his step, excited to be home. There is the truth I owe him in each galloping stride.

This glow blooms at his look of surprise, I beam back with a wide smile, or there will be tears of joy and relief. I know I have done the right thing. No matter the cost, I will always choose this lyrical path to travel. His exclamation, the squeeze of my waist, and the soft graze of his lips are worth any price.

“Ines… wow,” he gasps, still surprised, “so she finally got to you?”

“Yes,” holding that pursed-lipped smile. From Martin’s expression, I can see he approves.

This is a good start. He is on my wavelength.

“You look… incredible.”

“Thank you.”

He has me right there. I want to throw my arms around him, but I must wait. He pulls me in and places his lips on mine. My hands rest on his chest, and when he squeezes my behind, I am ablaze once again.

It is an effort to concentrate, “Mon Cheri, I must share something with you first… if you will allow me.”

He is taken aback, and then he grins, “Sure.”

Yes! I am a natural. I can do this.

It is the sweetest smile because I do not want any stormy clouds of concern. This is a tightrope I must walk, and life is an endless compromise but only for him. I have shown, now I will tell… in a quiet bar-restaurant behind Eglise Saint-Vincent de Paul.

Sitting in a corner, his hand is on mine, and his eyes take every opportunity to undress me. I am simmering with lust. Just a look into his eyes is enough to feed the frenzy within. I did not describe the intensity of being taken by Mademoiselle. Thinking is a challenge, and I have goaded myself enough. Besides, it is futile to compare us and how I am with a woman - totally pointless. Words inadequately describe music, and sexual chemistry is the weirdest science.

I take strength in his presence, and it provides all the perspective I need. Explaining what happened, Mademoiselle’s words were as hollow as old seeds, and they found no fallow ground. With an urbane smile, Martin listens and lets me talk it through. He gives me every option without a solution. I am attired as his possession, but he allows me to choose. Most importantly, he knows I am his; it dwells within as fire in my eyes. With the context I have, he comes to the same conclusion I do; thank God there is not a jealous bone in his body.

Standing at the train station, I clung on with typical Parisian spirit. Yet, in his embrace, I am a kitten that seeks tenderness and shows him all my feelings.

"So, this is what you want?"

"Yes, absolutely. I want to try it."

He smiles... that smile.

“Martin, she is not called Little Bird anymore.”

“What do we call her now?”.

“Mademoiselle.”

“Well…” his caress on my bare arm threatens to undo me, “Mademoiselle is going to watch Monsieur fuck Madame right in front of her. You are my wife. Aveline can be Kubla-fucking-Khan, if she wants.”

I gasp, “Yes, Sir, and I shall take you to Xanadu… personally.”

“Ines…” and that pause brings me to look into his eyes, “I will take you.”

Oh, fuck, yes, please…

I gasp as his gravelly words plunder the depths. He can see in my reaction what that means to me. Safe in his arms, it is an almost spiritual feeling as a white-hot incendiary surges through me. I wait for his kiss, and it stifles my whimper.

Opening the taxi door, his gallantry is a sexual act. We sit in the back with my head on his shoulder, and he strokes my forearm. My panties cloy to my sex, and that plug is ever present, feeding my body with constant pleasure. I want to fidget, and my restlessness wears on my patience. The driver duels with the rush-hour traffic, and I want to run through the streets because the real battle will be at home.

I crave to be caught in the act. I am strong and independent, but Martin is the man that possesses me, owns me… fucks me. His three days of abstinence promise fireworks, and I have gifted him our most potent fantasy.

We will see what happens when we really provoke Aveline, Mademoiselle, or Kubla-fucking-Khan.

-=-

I am collared, and the slack in the chain tightens. My palms are clammy, and white-hot blood surges through my trembling frame.

There is no foreboding in his eyes but a calculated certainty. Hyper-alert, today has been a sensual overload, and there is more to come.

Removing my dress carefully, he appraises and flatters me, and his words add to my pounding delirium. His hand upon me triggers more waves of arousal, and my breathing hitches. The zephyr breeze of his hot breath and sandalwood scent complete the route. My mind, defined by a lifetime of habit, battles with my determination to submit. The need to resist ebbs from my agitated body, I am flooded and crave the need to please.

His fingers caress my wanton lips, and my narrowed eyes will not waver from his. He offers them to suck on, and the motif trembles through me while he watches impassively. I am shaking; my mind is fused, so my sensual tongue talks for me. As I lavish my need on those fingers with come-hither eyes, his caress guides over my arm, skirting the underside of my breast. It eases along my waist and around to the small of my back.

Oh God, please… please find it, please find it.

Defeating the elastic of my panties, along the cleft of my behind, I want to plead. Martin taps that jewel. With another stifled whimper, I surrender. I will do anything to relieve myself of this intense desire.

“I thought so. You are such a slut.”

His growl and those words make me whimper. That hand is my tormentor, with four fingers as the most sensual feathers. Tightening a thousand piano wires within, this touch plucks them, and the vibrations quiver through me. Deep bass thrums through my sex as the higher notes quake my legs.

Six-fifteen… Mademoiselle will be home soon.

Teasing the bare skin above my stocking tops, my inquisitor edges closer to my immolation. I know he can feel my plea as my tongue slides over his fingers, hinting at what I crave.

The chain is pulled tight, “Kneel.”

"Yes, Monsieur."

Looking up with big pleading eyes, he stares back, boiling the pressure inside me. There are no other thoughts; I will obey.

“Touch it.”

"Yes, Monsieur."

Easily found, its outline rests at an acute angle. I crave its soft skin and hot rigidity in my hand and mouth. Sucking his cock will make my situation worse, but… I need to persuade him.

“Suck it.”

Yes… fucking yes!

"As you wish, Monsieur."

Such is my state; I have to concentrate hard. My trembling fingers unbuckle his trousers, ease them open and fish out that hot, malevolent meat. Looking up, I want my husband to see my delight in holding it and kissing it with gratitude.

God, he is so fucking hard.

I am leashed, servile, and lavishing all my desires onto it. I put everything I know into this. Every time I have stroked and kissed one, every occasion my tongue has licked, flicked, and slurped, he got it all. My purpose is to worship cock. Every sense is alive at that moment; I give him every recollection and everything he enjoys.

These are my actions. I am a submissive.

Gazing into his eyes, with sunken cheeks, I slide back and forth. This is the mouth I kiss him with, the mouth that spoke the words ‘I do’ and says ‘I love you’. I cannot rest and have to squirm. My mind is on an endless loop to please my husband, my master. Cupping those tight balls, my fingers caress, grip, and twist around his slick shaft. My jaw will ache if it has to.

Yes! Groan, my handsome beast, fucking groan for me.

Its veins bulge at the zenith of arousal, fully curved and rigid. I am nuzzling those chunky balls, slowly stroking his shaft. Teasing the frenulum, it twitches, and his moans are so loud they echo through the hallway.

Here goes nothing.

I square up to it, clasp the back of his thighs and impale my mouth onto it. I must persuade him.

Further and further, the need to retch rises as it approaches the back of my throat. Suppressing it is the secret, and I must overcome the panic. Martin is roaring, and I am playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.

It is too much. Gasping for air, my eyes stream as strings of drool drip off his erection.

“You dirty slut.”

"Yes, Monsieur. I am."

I look up with watery doe eyes, and Martin clasps the back of my head.

Oh shit!

His cock is back in my mouth. I am determined to press on and conquer my fear. I manage a little more, and my concern wells up. My throat convulses, but I take courage. Fuck, that thing is jammed in, but I manage it. I know I have to swallow now and snort for air. My nose presses to his smooth pubic bone. Once, twice, a third time… I will take his seed down my throat if I have to.

Martin hollers, and the chain is suddenly slack.

“Fuck, Ines! You dirty fucking bitch!”

It rattles through me, feeding the throbbing heat, a reward, and torture. I cough and hack, beads of saliva dribble from my mouth, but I can see my husband’s admiration.

“Get up!”

"Yes, Monsieur."

Standing in these stilettos, he eases me over the dining table and yanks my panties down. This is more than hoped for. There are no other thoughts, I shiver, yet I am on fire.

-=-

Six-thirty, any minute now.

Such is the surprise I grip the table. Fuck… that snakish tongue savages me. I want to be watched like this, whimpering as I am taken. Unable to control how I writhe, the tip conquers my folds. Crackles of electricity course through me as I dissolve into hurried sighs. The plug is withdrawn, and Martin’s hands are squeezing my ass, opening me up.

Oh fuck, he knows this drives me wild.

Martin laps at my juicy cunt, flicking my clit, rimming and probing my puckered hole. My breathing is shot, and ascent to climax is assured. Rousing my primal instincts, flames lick at my self-control. I know he will burn all my resistance to the ground; he has done this so many times. With the leaden thumping in my chest and my sensitivity to his touch, I am struggling to hold on. What is left of my mind is a mashed pulp.

Then nothing, and I snort with frustration.

“You are soaked, you dirty whore.”

It is a long, contented groan, “My cunt is yours, Monsieur.”

Oh, I will persuade you to lose control and make it easier for me to endure.

The leash is slack, and cooler air steals my arousal. A hand grabs my hip, and the blunt head of his shaft presses at my cunt. This is the culmination of every single deviant thought for weeks, every daydream, and every wistful moment is now my intent.

Deflating with an exhaled groan, I bear down on it, squeezing it as my welcome into this cauldron. God, I have missed its vitality and heft. The chain is taut again, pulling my head up as he tugs my waist. As the tempo varies from louche to assertive and back again. His movement is an economy of effort, yet I am wretched. Martin is still dressed, and I am drifting away in a haze of ecstasy.

I tempt him, and his thrusts quicken. Three days of abstinence, and it might as well be thirty. Plowed over the dining table, his shoves challenge its sturdiness, and the sweep of his girth grazes everything. Pushing the air from me, my sighs give way to grunts.

“You like that, Madame?”

“Yes… Monsieur, yes…” I groan.

This is a different salutation, the show, the tell, the unbearable hours of arousal, I have my husband inside me, the man I love. Rumbling within, threatening to burst out, I am the personification of a looming storm.

Old habits die hardest. My imagination runs amok; what if I make this a permanent arrangement? It incites my delirium. Echo upon echo builds with relentless intensity. With the sticky sounds of my impaled sex, my hips are not my own. I have to bite my lip and clench the edge of the table.

I must hold this back. I have to. 

When these eyes meet Mademoiselle’s, she will know I am somewhere so distant and unreachable. I want her with us, together. I want to endure this madness in her presence, to experience everything we crave, exacted upon me like this. I will do his bidding and hers too.

It is the sweetest serendipity when the front door opens and closes. For dramatic effect, I groan a little louder, shepherding her curiosity to come and find us.

-=-

I have my moment, and Mademoiselle’s impervious stare does not waver. A tilt of her head shows interest in my plight, and I know not to divert my gaze. Martin supplies the pleasure, but this visual treat is the final ingredient I need.

Yes, Mademoiselle, see what I am. Do you approve?

Her dogtooth short skirt rests mid-thigh. An opaque fitted blouse reveals the black brassiere beneath and the ovaline swell of her breasts. It blooms as she squeezes one, pouting and licking her lips as her first provocation. With perfect timing, his shaft caresses that spot inside. My eyelids flutter and close, and I groan in abject surrender.

“Look at me, Madame.” The stern authority in her tone adds to the building pressure within.

Her skirt and panties are a puddle on the floor. There is no emotion as she devours my plight, and her nonchalant hand stirs her sex. Harder shoves push the air from me, humping me as my features contort, and Mademoiselle grins.

She chuckles, “You are not in control now.”

With short footsteps, she is out of view. Martin slows the tempo, making tight circles with his hips. My whole being is wrapped up in this endless ebb and flow of sexual bliss. I am burning. My ears, toes and fingertips, my limbs, everything is aflame. I exist hanging by a thread, strung out… I have to orgasm.

“Did you think this would impress me, Madame?”

I whimper, “Yes, Mademoiselle,” and her tinkling laughter mocks me.

“Do you need to cum?”

It is a long, drawn-out groan of defeat, “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“Hands behind your back,” she hisses, "This is your first lesson."

No one holds my leash, and I am hauled from the table. Clasped at the wrists, Martin pulls my arms back, and I am hoisted up as a prisoner under their control. The drive from his hips is the perfect distraction, his fill forces my body to lurch, but there is nowhere to go.

Shoes clatter on the wooden floor, and I peer down and see Mademoiselle knelt between my legs. Her hands clasp the backs of my thighs, and Martin has my arms. I am bonded to them and utterly helpless. Savaged by ecstasy, I recall the woman in the street; it is an unfortunate thought from my delirious mind.

Oh, fuck… Martin… not there, not that place inside me again.

“Oh God,” I groan, “Please, I need to….”

Mademoiselle cuts my words out from under me. Their conspiracy is revealed as her patient tongue flicks on my clit. Ordinarily, these zig-zagging sensations are a distant prelude to something bigger. Together, they deliver me to the cusp of something unknown, something swirling faster and faster with an intense malevolence.

I am all at once within my body and without it. I am nothing, and this is everything. My insanity cannot be contained, and my thoughts, these sensations, anything could be the hair-trigger.

“Please, Mademoiselle,” I whimper.

“Louder,” Mademoiselle hisses.

“Please…” its plosive is spittle-flecked, "Mademoiselle."

Martin has me, reliable as a metronome, and the sweep of his shaft on that spot puts me on a collision course with my destiny. The sudden acceleration of her tongue makes me want to flail and writhe. There is no escape, no exit to vent what rampages inside. From earlier, I remember my uncertainty, my anxious doubt, and a bag full of nerves. Like each footstep to Gare du Nord, trying to control myself, failing, and trying again.

I made it this far. Now, I am here, teetering on the precipice, shaking like a leaf.

Mademoiselle took me and introduced me to this. Now, it is the three of us redefined, and I am their object of desire.

“Please, I am… begging... Mademoiselle, Monsieur...”

“Begging?” her tongue flicks once at my throbbing clit, threatening to tip me over the edge, “I am not convinced.”

I am at the very limit, an unknown frontier of self-control. I do not know if I can address Mademoiselle’s challenge, and I am baying with noisy exhalations of air. I press my lips together, snort, and clench my jaw in vain to hold it back.

I must… I must persuade Mademoiselle.

“Fuck! Please! Mademoiselle,” I bawl, “I need to cum. I am begging you! Begging…”

In the pause, I know I cannot hold it back. My head lolls, and my body is tightening up.

“Cum, Madame!” she spits back with equal venom.

Taken suddenly to the hilt, I croak, and an intense flash of release hurtles through my body. The seizures accelerate with no peak, and I am ravaged. My cunt grips instantly and spasms. Completely filled, my fate is sealed. The culmination of hours of pent-up desire unwinds all at once. I am tumbling in freefall, smashing into one convulsion after another.

I cannot feel anything except spasmodic waves that push out in all directions. All my emotions scatter in a rapturous kaleidoscope of sensations. If I am crying aloud, I cannot hear it. If they did not hold me, I would collapse.

Reconnected to my body, I am howling as aftershocks ripple through me. I can feel their hands on me, Martin’s shaft, Mademoiselle’s tongue, and bawl for air. From such intense energy, it drains clumsily as the heat subsides, and I glow weightless.

With tenderness, I am placed on the floor, still quivering as my mind lurches back to reality.

“Fucking hell!” Martin gasps. From his exclamation, he has seen me at my most intense.

“Look up, Madame,” There is tension in the leash as Mademoiselle peers from around my husband.

Stroking his swollen shaft, she grins, “Let’s see those beautiful eyes, Madame.”

Kneeling, I am still stricken as the fading aftershocks test my posture. Locking my kitten eyes onto his, I am poised to receive it. From his groans, he is close, and I can only imagine what is going through his mind. Dropping the leash, her hand is between his shirt buttons, providing the final temptation.

“Fuck… oh fuck…” and the strength of his diction ebbs away.

"Open your mouth, Madame."

It opens as a hot rope of his seed splashes my face. Leaning in, she places his twitching cock into my mouth, and I take it with all the loving affection I can muster. Rolling my tongue around its head, it jerks violently, and his deep grunts call out his ejaculation.

“Keep it, Madame, all of it.”

I whimper as it is a considerable inundation, and I want to swallow it as my loving act. Mademoiselle must be in a good mood as his final splashes decorate my face.

Quick as a flash, she is on her knees, clasping my face, pushing her lips to mine. Fuck, it is messy, dripping from our mouths as our tongues slide against each other, sharing its vibrant taste. Her hands paw me as I squeeze her clad breast. I hear Martin’s weary sigh, and the settee complains as he slumps into it.

This is what I am now. My God, I adore the exhilaration and the mind-bending intensity. This is Mademoiselle kissing me, not Aveline, and I am devoted to her. Caressing my hair, we look into each other’s eyes, sharing unspoken words.

I see a glimmer in her wondrous eyes, a happiness that develops into a beaming smile. She is radiant. Caressing my face, pressing her lips to mine, my affection for her soars.

“I knew you could do it, Ines.”

“Yes,” I gasp, “Thank you. I understand now… I do.”

"Jesus, Ines," adds Martin, "Just when you think you know someone..."

I smile and find it reciprocated. In that, there is a warmth that no arousal or climax can provide.

The three of us have filled the void.