I am the ghost of another woman’s life, an interloper, a study in contradictions.

Anonymity comes for all of us. We reach a certain age and go unnoticed. This is my act of rebellion. My attire is stylish and not ostentatious; the contrast is stark with this dour iron chair. I wear my hair down, yet a wide-brimmed hat keeps my eyes in the shade. My discarded sunglasses lay beside my untouched coffee. Feminine in flowing cotton, the hem rests mid-thigh, and the fitted bodice makes my breasts heave. Gazing into my eyes, if they are not looking, they will not see it.

And what of that cup of coffee at the table’s edge? It is a calling card, a silent statement of my needs.

This café is an oasis of white render and cobblestones, its frontage wide open to the enclosed courtyard. It feels surgically clean compared to the chaos I need. The muggy air crackles with unspoken desires, a silent symphony of longing and intrigue. Adrift in a sea of possibilities, each face is a mask, all hiding in plain sight, and every stolen glance I make is a whispered promise. The ice-cold spritzer does little to quell the fluttering in my stomach. A tang of hot canvas mixes with the scent of magnolia as Paris wilts. The barista machine overwhelms the muted chatter and wafting music.

This is Saint Germain; it lacks the earthy bustle of Marais and the vibrancy of Madeleine. Sartre is dead and took its soul with him. He chose to be buried where I live in Montparnasse as a final fuck you. The Café du Flore is a tourist attraction, and the bohemian jazz clubs are pop art posters now.

Far from the tourists and the lively Jardin du Luxembourg, no one would find this place by chance. It is perfect for a clandestine meeting. Watch or be watched; this is café culture with a lascivious edge, and I submit to their gaze. If this place is only known by word of mouth, who are these people?

The blonde in the linen dress catches my eye. In her twenties, she nervously twirls her straw, eyes darting to the entrance like a spooked gazelle. A fledgling adulteress, perhaps? Or seeking a new experience to fulfil her hidden sexuality. The notion sparks a flicker of nostalgia.

I am just nineteen, and in the curl of her eyebrow, those empty eyes appraise me. Was I worthy despite my inexperience? Finally, my compulsive need overwhelms my shy nature. Trying to lure her into action, I undo the ribbon fastening the top of my dress. I crave her caress; my body wants to sing, and its heat is unbearable. Gazing at her lips, mine simper as a beacon of hope. I fear making the first move. She expects it, yet I am a novice. The touch of her fingers on my arm is the spark that illuminates my need for action. I find a moment of grace, an elegance to place my lips upon hers as if it is the first kiss of my short life.

To kiss a woman like this – it is. My doe eyes are loaded with my body’s anticipation, and her lips crease. If it is amusement or I have succumbed to her seduction, I do not care. I hold her waist, the faintest gesture as my invitation, and she folds me into her arms. Our heads tilt, her warm breath grazes my lips, and this kiss lingers. My head swims, and I pray she will rescue me because I am drowning in a frothing sea of lust. Gathered into a closer embrace, I am under her instruction. I want more, to press against the curves of her body. My petition finds momentum as the nervousness that second-guesses my actions fades away.

I understand the fingers that brush my long tresses aside, and I gasp when her lips caress more bare skin. Tingling, the hairs on the nape of my neck stand. She pulls at my dress to expose a shoulder and kisses it. A solitary rose, my gift to her, she drags its petals over my naked flesh, torturing the tops of my breasts. My need for air is clumsy. As a symptom of my rising desire, I tremble when my dress pools around my ankles. If there are scraps of fear in my expression, my prospective lover thrives on them. I am hers, lost in the tender exchange of our most passionate clinch. With panache, she removes my brassiere. Kneading my breast, her tongue slides into my mouth, and I soar. Flooded with confidence and arousal, she looks up and nuzzles on its erect nipple.

She is my first, and she knows that. My pleas drip from my tongue like the essence that floods my sex. Begging to be touched, she taunts my pleas, tantalising me to walk into the flames of sapphic desire. My delicate fingers implore, sliding through her long tresses when I step from my panties. Naked, peering down, my upturned eyes convey an abject vulnerability. When her tongue touches me there, my mind is lost, not with an explosion of pleasure but with the heartfelt whimper she inspires.

Oh, not knowing was torture. As she explores my willing body, she squeezes my breast. When that silk poker opens my liquid folds, and that first lash of my clit, my addiction is complete.

Now, I realise my need for this will torment me for a lifetime.

Today, I am the same age as my university professor. The blonde sips her drink, and I wonder if she wants such an education. Am I jealous of her innocence, or do I see a kindred spirit? I could teach her if she wants. If she casts her eyes upon me, I will recognise that need.

Perhaps she teeters on the precipice of a different life-altering decision.

I made mine, and I will not tolerate my husband’s infidelity any longer.

-=-

Fate… I loved it once and learned to despise it at my leisure. Years ago, it gave me a man I truly loved and who loved me as much. I broke one of my taboos because he was a friend initially, but he became my intended. My most precious relationship, the only soulmate I ever knew and the best of both worlds: security and sexual freedom.

With a click of her fingers, I lost him, just like that. Fate is a cruel mistress.

So, I turned to destiny and what I thought humans should do. I am a wife in bad faith. I never shared my previous experiences and my sexuality. I sacrificed them for what society expects. To him, I am wholesome and arrow straight. Six months ago, he fucked me, not as his wife, but as someone else. That was his calling card, and I lay there, buffetted by meek thrusts and his mediocre desire. I was the other woman – the poor creature.

Searching for what was left of my soul, anguish killed my appetite. I regained my svelte figure and took more care of my appearance, accentuating what I had. To no avail, my marriage is ruined. This is France; it is what it is. Now, my phone contains messages that are meant for a different me. It is Pandora’s Box, and I want my husband to find them. My friends whisper about affairs I orchestrate from the shadows, hoping he might hear the gossip somehow.

Yes, dearest, we are more deadly than the male.

I am thirty-five, and the old genie is released from its tarnished lamp. My first wish was for my former lover, but her magic cannot provide miracles. Instead, I sought to rediscover my vivaciousness, the coy side glances and inviting body language. I wished for pleasure as the libertine I was. I shall be desired and make men… and women want me. They like to flirt, and I do too. It is a national pastime. Only I take it to its hot, sweaty, and mind-bending conclusion.

My last wish is to be fulfilled again.

I will not spend my life wallowing in nostalgia, sitting on a shelf, gathering dust.

-=-

Across the courtyard, I admire his raffish good looks. A silver-haired man whispers into his companion’s ear, a woman with bright eyes that shine like aquamarines. Younger, and her demure expression does not fool me. They move with a practised intimacy, their sensual fingers brushing over flesh, their tinkling laughter as the prelude to a carnal adventure. Were they seeking something more, a third to ignite an inferno? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a heady mix of apprehension and excitement. I need this world of freely explored desires; it appeals to the part of me that thrives at the boundaries.

Soda bubbles rise in my drink like my inner she-devil boiling my sex. Fingering the condensation on the glass, my wet fingertips slide together but do not have the bittersweet taste I crave.

The blood-warm, drenched velvet tightens around my fingers, and her orgasmic cries are my prize. Clasping my wrist, stuck in her convulsive trap, she spasms repeatedly. Staccato raspy cries match how she clenches, powerful enough to pity any man who dares to fuck her. I am sure they would capitulate when confronted by such feminine guile. He occupies my drooling mouth as the vessel for his rigid meat. Still panting, his wife returns to licking his tight balls. I know what he wants, and he will have it. Captured by the masculine grip of my hips, he is crammed tight inside me, and I murmur with pleasure. Her devious tongue flicks at my throbbing clit.

My mouth is filled with tangy meat, fresh from fucking a drenched cunt. They have me back and forth together as slender hands grip my thighs, and I am immobile to the consequences. I am their doe in the headlights and an express train approaches. The sensations combine, folding inwards, my body taut until I cannot simmer any more. I must cry out, yet my pleas are muffled. There is no mountain to climb to conquer me. This is not the little orgasm as a first entrée; this is sexual gluttony, and I fall from its pinnacle. I wriggle and squirm to find my limbs confined. Their combined strength seizes my flailing body as it roars through my mind.

They discard me, still quivering. Yet, I pull her down to my mouth to continue our unhurried soixante neuf, savouring her delicious juices at the back of my throat. He enters her slowly, revelling in every sensation, from the tip to the hilt. I yearn to be filled with such skill. My legs are prised wider. In my excitement, I chase her evasive clit with the tip of my tongue, making her yelp. When she comes, my hot breath cools on her glossy sex, my body is shoved, and I find the strength to meet his eagerness.

Snug and deep inside, I wallow in its caress. It drags from me, keeping me guessing, glancing that place. I must snatch air to breathe. Responsive to my animations, he saws back and forth while her tongue loosens the raptures within me. A petal at a time, shorn from a delicate flower, plucked until I am desecrated. My back arches, my head tilts back, and an erection takes my mouth. I can taste her on him, used at both ends, as my body blooms with a searing tension.

I want them to fill me with their seed so I can go home and complete my revenge. Astride my husband, fucking him like someone else, carrying their seed in my overheated cunt.

Writhing, overwhelmed, I seize up with a tense, rich heat. I stretch out, gripping the satin sheet, and at the perfect angle, I am undone.

To frequent Le Club des Bisous, ‘The Kissing Club’, it does not care who I am. I am a being for itself. The frisson of these memories matches the sunlight that bakes the canopy. The rattle of a distant moped irritates, interrupting Charles Trenet as he croons. With a wistful sigh, I try to collect myself but cannot. I am eager to replay the emotions found in nostalgia. In seeking these forgotten memories, I must rediscover my sanity.

Hot silk presses at my sex; it clings and tortures where I ache.

-=-

Welcome to the world of a libertine. The pursuit of pleasure and abandon; the rules are vague and deliberately so. Discretion requires two things: a private persona and not too many questions. I raise my spritzer to my lips and give a silent toast to the unknown drama. I will not have it any other way. I am a thief, a doppelganger, a woman who exists in the liminal spaces between truth and deception.

More recollections continue to haunt me.

Bathed in carnal neon red and the distant sounds of fucking, they spoke in familiar tones. Two naked women curled up together and opined as sated felines. Eavesdropping from the long shadows, my punishment is I cannot forget.

Scanning my surroundings, I do not see them here. If I do, playtime is over.

This is the time, the day, and place. The cup of coffee is the motif, and I am not a fool with my safety. I am Zoé’s friend and well-rehearsed to make it sound blasé and convincing. I am not, but this is the password.

In this moment, surrounded by strangers, any of them could hold the pieces of this puzzle.

It is the woman in the corner who truly captivates me. She sits alone, an island of sophistication amidst the post-lunchtime lull, with her face hidden behind oversized sunglasses. A fashion magazine lays open before her, its glossy pages filled with unattainable perfection. Yet, I sense a restlessness in how she taps her manicured nail against the table, a hint of boredom that mirrors mine.

She matches me in age, and that is all. There are many contrasts; she is statuesque, and I am shorter. She is a shoulder-length brunette with a demi-wave. Mine is longer and sandy blonde with natural curls. I am softer in appearance; she is lean-featured, with contoured cheeks and a strong jawline.

Like me, she wears a disguise. Precision creases in her wide trousers suggest formality, but her jacket sleeves are rolled up. Her sensual poise is disconcerting, especially when she looks into my eyes. Exuding an aura of control and quiet dominance, she intimidates and excites me. Is she the reason I am here? Is she the one who holds the key to what I stumbled upon?

In a filigree mask, I have my instructions. With his sturdy thighs open, his hand rests on the back of my head, and the rigid curve of his shaft is all that matters. The exclamation of a feminine orgasm quickens my blood while I nurture his arousal. Its blood heat bathed by my liquid mouth, obeying her commands. I do not stroke it. Instead, I hold it, gauging its strength with a playful swirl of my tongue around its corpulent head. I trace the hills and vales of his torso, hewn from oak, he promises a superlative experience. Men are not fickle creatures, and I do this to hardwire his mind. He will provide what I crave.

Her feminine touch traverses my spine; it does not linger on the curve of my behind and eases down its cleft. A tug on the collar raises my visage for his scrutiny while I am impaled by two twisting fingers. With an urbane smile, I know he is pleased with my predicament, watching me wriggle with need, enjoying how my dreamy eyes narrow.

I am directed back to his strong erection as she stirs at my sex, spicing the cauldron, reducing me to their mindless serf. My animated mouth takes as much as it can, and his grip on my hair tightens. I am static, and his hips rise and fall to fuck my mouth. Slender hands pull on my thighs, and I must lower myself until her pointed tongue breaches me. A wrist is taken and directed, and I grope with what I must take. Another hard cock, thicker and just as rigid, and it must be stroked.

This is fuel for the fire that rages within. I cannot escape as I squirm for what builds so rapidly within. It blooms with a sudden finality, and I writhe, trying to squeal as I service him with my mouth.

Freed, I need air. I am seated on the banquette, watching the hostess peel off her dress. Instantly, I am in lust for her. She takes a man, and they kiss as swallows dance until she descends his body, takes him in hand, and worships it with her mouth. Another stands close, and she reaches out, stroking his hard cock.

More guests take the plunge; a woman places a foot on a chair seat, and her paramour splays her behind, impaling it slowly. Another woman crouches over a prostrate male in reverse, skewering her bare sex with her legs wide open in a lewd display. Leaning back, another slides into her mouth.

My mistress takes my chin, diverting my gaze, and I join them as she plunges onto the thick erection I nursed. She pouts at that moment, grateful for my attention. Licking on his urgent shaft, I am twisted into place, my leg lofted upwards and violated to join her in ecstasy.

I am on display for them as he cleaves my wanton sex.

Exhausted, I glow with echoes of my last climax. My breasts are adorned with his essence, and its taste lingers in my mouth. Retiring toward the showers, I hear the conversation between those two sated females.

This is the intoxicating danger of it all: the thrill of the unknown and the allure of forbidden desires. I have stepped into a world where the boundaries of morality blur, where every encounter promises the carnal experiences I crave.

-=-

No, fate has decided, and my leaden heart must accept what I see. The brunette pays her bill, and the young blonde is gone. The silver-haired fox gestures to the waitress, too. I fold thirty Euros under the cold cup of coffee, and she catches my eyes and nods.

That is the Parisian way of old, how Sartre would do it, keep the change.

The cobbles are precarious in these heels, and I slowly exit, glad to reach the pavement.

Fate… and the embers within will not quit. I have a few hours at home alone and plenty of old memories to inspire me.

Turning onto the boulevard, the hustle of slow-moving traffic returns, and the baking heat requires the next available taxicab to take me home. Behind my sunglasses, someone approaches. Ignoring all the pedestrians so far, he stands out. Suited in light grey, with a pristine white shirt, I recognise his gait. He is tall and compact, not thin or fat, more than athletic, but not a brute.

The realisation creeps over my soul and makes me shiver.

No, not here, not like this. Yes, exactly like this, and now, too.

Removing my sunglasses, I reveal my eyes from under the brim of my hat and halt him in his tracks. Without a ripple of emotion, these seconds feel like years. Then, his warm smile is the sunlight that lifts my despondent mood.

“Ines?”

“Hello, Martin.”

Maybe it is four or five footsteps, yet it is the longest I have ever waited for anyone. He places his hand on my forearm, and I welcome this powerful longing. It is a customary greeting, la bise, cheek-to-cheek twice, and I am a puddle on the floor.

“What brings you here?” He asks, a little incredulous, but his smile lingers.

“Oh, a change for me, nothing more.”

“It has been,” he sighs, “I don’t know, three years?”

“Four.”

Yes, I have been counting and do not care what he thinks. He understands I am married, yet my fingers bear no rings, not today.

“Well, Ines, you have not changed one bit.”

I demur at his obvious compliment, “Neither have you. Are you working in Paris?”

“Yes, and my meeting finished early.” He runs his fingers through his hair, and that indelible grin widens, “Of all the places.”

I nod; his smile is infectious, “Yes, one hell of a coincidence.”

“Fate.” He blows out his cheeks.

“More than you can imagine.” I laugh, grateful to find levity in the situation.

“Are you still living in Madeleine?”

“No, Montparnasse now.”

“Nice part of the world.”

“I prefer Madeleine.”

Our pleasantries are exhausted, and we are standing outside a café. I relent to the colossal shove from my mind to my mouth.

I gesture in its direction. “Would you care to join me? We should catch up.”

A dry, metallic anxiety rises as I wait for his reaction.

“You sure?”

I nod, “I have time. It is so good to see you.”

The chair grates on the pavement, I sit, and he tucks me in. He frowns at my rueful smile. Always the confusion, as if he does not know. I am confident he does.

The service is prompt.

“I will have a coffee, please. Martin?”

“Oh, the same.”

-=-

Everything creaks in this antique house, the staircase, and all the door hinges. It has the air of weary nobility and a disdain for the modern. In sheer hold-up stockings and my damp silk panties, we hold hands. Her honeyed skin is a gift from the Côte d’Azur. Following her, one stair at a time, I admire her long, sculpted legs, and those skimpy black panties are a second skin. At the top, her coquettish grin greets me. Shaking her brunette mane loose, it sways her broad breasts and their puckered nipples.

She looks uncertain and needs the compliment. “You look sensational.”

“You do, too.”

I seize her hand, and we walk along the vast and long landing. Surveying the titillation of naked flesh, we admire the burgeoning lust between the guests. Tugging my hand, we halt. The swish of her fingers is the perfect temptation along my shoulder, bicep, and forearm. The crackles of lightning combine, striking me within. My desire weighs my eyelids, and I can see her intentions through her touch, tickling the nape of my neck, and her hand clasps it.

The gap between us narrows. Her lips press on mine, superheating my arousal. She tests me, leaning back, and I chase them. The provocation of her tongue cannot be resisted, suggestive of how we will writhe together. I will not restrain myself, cupping her breast and circling her hard nipple with my thumb.

“Mmm, Ines.” She tastes me from her top lip. “You are just what I need.”

“The evening is still young.”

We must return to the vast master bedroom with its jacquard wallpaper and the solid, expansive bed in the middle of the room. Diffuse sunbeams scatter on its scarlet sheet. I am spellbound; it is a carnal exhibition as fine art. We watch as he stands behind me, and his sensual fingers linger at my waist. His stiff shaft presses against the cheek of my behind, and I clasp his hand. Signalling to all, I am his possession.

Tilting my neck, he sweeps my hair away to receive his kiss.

“I wondered where you were,” Martin whispers.

“You should know women now, darling. We must go to the restroom in pairs.”

“This is quite the performance.”

I sigh, rattling the remnants of a climax he gave me. “Yes, they are divine.”

On all fours, their hands grip the silk sheets while their bodies clash. Two nubile women, rump to derriere, co-joined by a long phallus, driven by the mutual need for penetration. They ooze sexuality with alluring curves and their rapturous expression. A woman stands before one of them, kneading her hanging breast, pulling on its nipple to add to her moans.

There are men, naked, as lovers or husbands, with wives or partners that watch. A woman alone beckons a male, well-defined, and he is erect with a vicious curve to his bludgeoning implement. She wraps her hand around it and whispers something into his ear, stroking his shaft. Directing him to the bed, I watch the moment when she presses back on her silicone impalement with a live one in her mouth.

My body palpitates with need. I want to be one of them.

“Martin, this is Collette.”

“Hello,” she giggles, “I do not think we have been properly introduced.”

I adore the euphemism and feel the scorching electricity when they kiss. With my fingers through his tousled air, Martin can feel my approval. Standing behind Collette, my soft caress glides along her inner thigh to the silky warmth between her legs. A stifled whimper follows, and he extracts a snort of air from her escalating passion.

Years ago, we lit this fuse. It burned, smouldered, and fizzled out. In a café in Saint Germain, I was out on a limb, beyond the end of my tether, with my life at a dead-end. I am not perfect, and what became an affair with an old flame is now the all-consuming love I dreamed of.

A week after we met again, he found that unbridled passion deep within the recesses of my mind. Rediscovering those lost memories, we made new ones together in every precious hour. I pleaded for him to do it. He made me his once more, bearing his seed, and I ached for days afterwards.

Fulfilled, my heart pined until the next time in Saint Germain.

My lips pepper her neck in appreciation of who he is. Collette is inside my panties, arresting my soft breaths. Martin takes control, overwhelming her bravado to the sound of feverish lips. The soft pads of my fingers find the smooth texture of her sex. Sensitive, her need is revealed with a dreamy gasp. Her clit is next, tapped to make her flinch, caressed to dissolve her into longing sighs. Impaling her nubile sex, I know Martin will enjoy being inside her.

I purr in Collette’s ear, “Come with us to one of the bedrooms.”

She is between my thighs with bliss-stricken eyes, and her lips ensconce my smooth mound. The cinch of her hips and the flare of her pert behind beguiles. Her sudden wide eyes excite me; Martin’s gratifying girth melts her features, and I direct her to my sex. 

Besides me, a sphinx riddles with an ecstatic face of bliss. I can reach her lips, pressing mine to hers as she quivers with her lover’s gentle thrusts. Her curvaceous body stretches on locked elbows in salutation, and I paw her breast. Watching, the black void of her open mouth pants with excitement.

Collette’s tongue laps with zeal, and I share the moment with my husband as our special connivance. I muse at the spectacle with unforced moans. He grins, and I must reciprocate as my snakish lips guide her, and he fills her to the hilt. Pitching up to groan, she is led back and devours me. My consoling hand keeps her there while she shudders with his firmer shoves.

-=-

Dappled afternoon sunlight drapes a comforting warmth over my body. The clatter of crockery and a rushed order disturb the calm. It makes my lips curl: the random nature of a happy memory. Lifting my chilled glass of Sancerre, my dogeared book rests on the table, its spine broken. I flick at his newspaper and giggle.

He peers over it, and there are new flecks of grey at his temples. As a concession to our advancing years, he must wear spectacles, too.

“Do you need those to see me as well?”

I adore how he removes them, and I mute my amusement with a sip of wine.

“A penny for your thoughts, darling?”

“Oh?” His interest is piqued.

“What do you make of her? To your right?”

Skilled, he peeks over, not too much. This is France, and to look for more than a few seconds, you would need to introduce yourself or at least say something.

“Younger, not as beautiful as you. Attractive, though. Not married, perhaps waiting for her lover.”

I muse a little, gazing at the coffee cup untouched on her table. Meeting his eyes with a wicked grin, he frowns with confusion.

“Perhaps she is waiting for us. Her name is Noémie.”

He is lost until he sees the feral in my eyes.

“Happy birthday, darling.”

Now, he understands.

“She is waiting for us, and we should introduce ourselves.”