“Hello, Antoine.” Breathless and barely a whisper, Brigitte perched on his desk.

The rasp of the keyboard did not waver.

Easing forward, displaying her tanned cleavage, she toyed with a lock of her chestnut hair. He paused, peered at his handwritten notes, and started typing again.

“Antoine? Do you like my new top?” Her husky timbre appealed for a reply.

There were eyes upon her but not his. She glanced at Celine and Eva, giggling between themselves. The keyboard stopped and caught Brigitte cold.

Staring through her, Antoine raised an eyebrow, “What do you want?”

Cold and disaffected, it was a tone she had heard too many times. In the distance, mocking laughter pushed a dagger into her soul.

A sweep of her hand dismissed him, “Nothing, Virgin.”

Looking back, her noisy heels clipped the floor violently, flouncing her hair. As one of Celine’s friends, she was the prettiest, but her beauty was only skin deep. He could not see the feigned expression of fury that masked her crimson cheeks.

“Not even he wants you.” Celine’s sing-song voice dripped with sarcasm, “Fifty Euros, please.”

Eva mimicked Celine, “And fifty Euros for me, too. Just in time for the weekend.”

Humiliated, Brigitte handed them two pristine notes from her purse.

-=-

Friday night, and Celine took a calculated risk to be here alone. If her father was the nightclub owner and raconteur, she was the party girl and huntress. Dressed to kill in a sequined slip top, tight silver cut-off shorts and matching thigh-high boots, her unfettered breasts jiggled as she stalked.

Handsome and tall were her only requirements; she did not choose them for their intelligence or intellect.

The large disco ball sent twinkling beams ricocheting off the sequins, and the lash of her hair caught the breakbeat. Her provocative movements baited the trap, and good dancers made excellent lovers. Celine reeled him in with a pout and shimmy. Gazing into his obsidian eyes, her slender arms swayed aloft, honouring the rhythm.

Tempted by a caress of his forearm and her syncopating body, she communicated in the language of lust. Snared by the hook line, driven by pounding bass, his hand rested on her hip, moving to her bare thigh. Loins to loins, eye to eye, with her arms around his shoulders, she narrowed the distance between their lips. A bump and grind against his lumpen crotch was the perfect happy ending.

Breaking apart, Celine blew him a kiss, pirouetted with a wide grin, and melted into the crowd. She took up residence at the end of the bar, poised for her next victim. Suffering countless indignations, she found them boorish and arrogant. These men had courage but not the secret ingredient she craved.

In the small hours of Saturday morning, the atmosphere bled out onto the street. Caught in the hues of multi-coloured spotlights, Celine crept into the shadows. She led him to a booth on the half-empty gallery. The danger of being caught on her knees under the table excited her, and the big ‘B’ of bass drowned out his groans. Slurping on his steely erection, she brought him to the zenith of arousal. Pleasing in girth and length, he was perfect for grinding on. The undeniable heat bloomed within, and the craven need for hot meat must be appeased.

Revealing her experience, the slippery vacuum petitioned him to give it up. Her helter-skelter grasp had conviction; circling her tongue around its corpulent head, she dived down and engulfed it. Once, twice, and he held out when so many had yielded. Celine had chosen well. Her fluid wrist combined with her hungry mouth, swelling him with each stroke. Her quarry reached the point of no return. Taken deep to the back of her throat, his fingers in her hair tightened, and no one heard the gasps and racing gulps that followed. Hard, rich pulses of thick seed eagerly consumed, just how it should be, and not a drop wasted.

Bathed with appreciative kisses, cleaned and waning, Celine placed it back and zipped him up. Emerging triumphant, she fed on his expression of gratitude and grinned into his glassy eyes.

Licking her lips, she nodded to the exit, “Fuck me. Fuck me all night.”

“Sure. My place?”

“Of course.”

-=-

Brigitte’s father grinned, a toothy smile as wide as a shark’s. Her grandmother also peered into the goldfish bowl, their faces grotesque and distorted. She could not swim any longer and let go. Falling deeper, they blurred into nothing. Darker and darker into the icy pitch black, she would drown. Filled with relief and no longer afraid, it was all over.

With a jolt, she blinked away her sleepy eyes. Staring at the ceiling, alert and too frightened to go back to sleep. Startled and anxious, her nightmare swirled through her mind… drowning, a metaphor for her helplessness. A noise downstairs carried the threat of an unwelcome intruder. Constantly reassuring herself, Brigitte was safe in this walled and gated fortress.

Returning from the bathroom, she lay in bed, her mind racing. In her vain effort to fit in, today added to her death by a million pinpricks. Her friends humiliated her by taunting Antoine. So eager to be accepted, she ignored her conscience. Brigitte could see a similar sadness in his eyes and her crushing regret fused with the guilt of hypocrisy. She was chaste, too.

Yet, Antoine sounded like her father. Maybe this was it; they were both wounded creatures, dangerous when cornered.

No, her father was not wounded; he did the wounding. Tonight, he and his girlfriend were at a dinner party. One of a string of women over the years and none of them had a motherly instinct. Brigitte was not invited; in her father’s words, she was too gauche and unpolished. He never hid his disappointment in her. Kept at arm’s length by a monthly allowance, it unleashed the cruellest emotion of all: loneliness.

There was no one else, no siblings, and her mother left when she was five. Brigitte played back her only childhood memory, a kindly smile and the soft caress of fingers against her cheek. Silent tears welled in her eyes. Snivelling, the ogre of her darkest thoughts woke from the recesses of her mind. Opening her eyes again, she broke its spell. Reassured by the meagre night light, surrounded by objet d’art and ornate beauty, money provided everything except happiness. Money brought mistrust from those who had it and those who did not. It cursed her friendships and the only boyfriend she ever had.

Most of all, she missed Elodie, her old governess and confidante. Terminated from her employment, Brigitte did not know why. Desperate, she pleaded with her father, and he recommended a therapist. He was a dour, stiff, emotionless machine, the product of a mother who created a robotic monster.

Her painful eyes relaxed. Calmer, breathing freely, tranquillity could be found in a pill bottle. She latched onto her dream: escape, strike out alone, and be like any other young woman.

Tomorrow would be a better day; history suggested otherwise, but as her eyes closed, Brigitte did not care.

-=-

Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning, his peers would be nursing a hangover, lounging in bed with their girlfriend, or both. Complaining would be useless and inappropriate. It was heavy and dusty work, and the brown smock coat constrained Antoine’s movements. Two twenty-five kilo bags of potatoes, one on each shoulder, eased to the floor.

“No, not yet, Madame Badeaux. Antoine, hurry, we have a queue of customers.”

A little flustered, his father poured change into the cash register. The thick paper yielded, and he swerved to avoid the exhaust plume of dusty earth.

A hand rested on his shoulder, kind and comforting, “Well done, son.”

To Antoine, that made the last two hours worthwhile.

“Now, Madame Badeaux,” chimed his father with a chirpy shopkeeper tone.“What can I get you?”

The Bernand name held an esteemed position on this street for ninety years. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were greengrocers. As their only son, it fell to Antoine to carry the family tradition on his broad and aching shoulders.

His father placed a shallow box on the counter, “Okay, the early rush is over. Deliveries. Take this to Madame Bonheur.”

“Of course.”

Ten o’clock, and this was the highlight of the day.

“Come straight back, Antoine. You have three more of these to do.”

He would hide his disappointment; at least he could lose the stifling smock coat.

-=-

Broken sunbeams cast a white aura around the curtains, bathing her bedroom in a mid-morning glow. Eva’s half-opened eye focused on Vincent. Asleep and at peace, he looked more handsome now than awake. His hair was messy, with stubble on his biscuit-toned complexion. A crumpled sheet covered his lean midriff.

Peeling it back, Eva admired him as if opening a birthday present. The wonders of men in the morning, fiercely erect, thick and flat against his stomach. Inspired by last night’s debauchery, the rush of memories flooded her waking mind, still eager for the one act she craved most.

Easing a hand between her thighs, she stirred at her sex. Damp from last night, carrying Vincent’s seed, the sight of his thick shaft fed her compulsion. Two plunging fingers were an inadequate replacement. Admiring his erection, a mild headache pulsed slowly. Eva was horny, unspeakably so. Hangovers always prompted this need, and the compulsion to fuck flooded her sex.

She could do this and crept slowly. Shifting effortlessly, light through her limbs, Vincent would not feel a thing until it was too late. Straddling him, he stirred a little, becoming more restless each second. Eva reached between her legs and lifted his erection. Adapting her posture, she eased down and gasped as the hot steel invaded her slick folds.

Impaling herself by degrees, she captured him, gripped by her smooth, muscular walls.

“Huh,” he croaked, blinking.

Eva rocked slowly, letting her breasts sway, hoping to hypnotise him into acquiescence. She simpered with its pleasure, rubbing her swollen clit, providing a vision of ecstatic bliss to greet his bleary gaze.

“Good morning, Vincent,” she gasped, “this is what I want for breakfast.”

Sitting upright, braced against his chest, she clasped his shin, grinding back and forth.

-=-

Languid, her body made of lead with a muddy mind, Brigitte struggled to keep her eyes open. She spied the bedside clock; nine hours of sleep was a blessing. Reaching for the telephone, she requested a double espresso and croissants in bed.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Devereaux, I will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father asked me to relay a message. He insists on your presence at Marzan de Jean Balzac tonight. Eight o’clock sharp. Will you need Christophe to take you there?”

Brigitte struggled to process the importance, “Erm... yes, have Christophe ready at seven-fifteen.”

“Very well.”

Propped up in bed, she placed the receiver down.

“Insists on my presence,” she muttered and frowned.

-=-

Peering up at the cloudless sky, Antoine remained in the shadows, and the refreshing breeze soothed him. The box was light enough for this cooler prelude to another hot summer’s day. Rounding the corner into the courtyard, birdsong took over as the sound of traffic diminished, and he followed the gardenias along the veranda to her door.

Antoine ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his shirt, and pressed the doorbell. Waiting with excitement, Madame Bonheur should come with a warning sign: may cause sudden and spontaneous arousal.

As the door opened, a hint of a sheer robe with a fur-lined hem quickened his blood. He traced a path from Madame Bonheur’s slender ankle along her shapely leg to the curves beneath her French knickers. He resisted lingering on her lacy camisole and the embonpoint of her breasts, settling his eyes on her pleasing features.

“Madame Bonheur, a delivery from Bernand and Son.” It was his most assertive tone, full of pride.

She tutted, “Antoine Bernand, I have told you before, call me Lucky.”

“Okay”, he sighed, “Lucky.”

“Much better, and how much is this box of treasures?”

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the ticket, “Twenty-two Euros.”

Reading the invoice, she looped a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing her elegant neck and jawline. Fresh out of bed, her blonde, unkempt hair illuminated by a halo of sunlight. It was her eyes Antoine lost himself in, expressive, wide, and full of promise. They cast a spell, shining with her heart-melting smile.

Her lips dimpled her high feline cheekbones, “Excellent, come in.”

Antoine followed, and the sheer long coat swayed with her elegant gait, bouncing her lustrous tresses. Her lingerie shimmered and revealed the curves of her hips and luscious behind.

“Would you like a cold drink?” her exquisite pronunciation echoed through the hallway.

Forcing down a lump in his throat, his body was willing, but his father’s words echoed in his mind, “No, thank you... Lucky. It is only myself and my father in the shop today.”

“Fair enough. Just place it there.”

In the kitchen, Madame Bonheur disappeared from view. Lucky as her nom de plume was a play on her surname in English. Single and living alone, she inspired gossip. At its most scurrilous, she was an upmarket courtesan, a kept woman who fulfilled the needs of wealthy men. Or, Lucky was a serial adulteress who drove her late husband to drink and an early grave. Antoine discounted it all; Madame Bonheur was a peerless and striking woman.

Returning, she glided towards him effortlessly, and he struggled to maintain eye contact. Veering helplessly to her breasts, their nipples were erect and poking through.

Worse, she knew he was admiring them, forcing a flush of blood to his cheeks.

A curl of her closed lips greeted his chastised expression, “Here... twenty-five, keep the change.”

“Th... Thank you.”

“How is your mother?”

With a crash landing, it brought Antoine back to Earth, “Oh... still unwell.”

Nothing suggested that Lucky would admonish him for staring at her breasts.

“It cannot be easy. Please pass on my regards.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Touching his forearm, electricity tingled through his bones. “And you, Antoine? Are you taking care of yourself? You look a little underfed.”

“Well... erm...,” he stammered, “we will not starve in our business.”

It amused her, and her eyes sparkled. “Tonight, Antoine. Come here at seven-thirty. You need some home cooking. Your father is working you too hard.”

“Madame... I mean, Lucky. I should...”

Mesmerised by her determined gaze, it halted his feeble protest.

“I insist, Antoine, and bring a bottle of wine. Chateau Moreau, a Touraine Gamay. You will find it at Monsieur Laurent’s shop next to yours.”

“Okay.”

“Excellent!” she beamed, “And make an effort tonight. You smell of earth and cabbage leaves.”

Chastised, Antoine nodded, “Sure.”

Lucky giggled, “Now, you must go. You cannot keep your master waiting.”

-=-

Vincent’s strong hands would not release Eva’s body. Lost in delirium, she clung on, legs flapping with the power of his thrusts. Pulling on his squeezing behind, the inevitable barrelled through her constrained body.

Ploughing Eva, it made her breasts quiver, the angle perfect to spice her impending orgasm. The noisy clatter of frantic bodies thrashed in the hot, staid air. Limbs prised against limbs, keeping her open, merciless to his intent. Stooping down, sucking her nipple, Eva held him tight as her body sang.

“Oh fuck, yes... yes… YES!” she bayed, “Harder, fuck me harder!”

Churning at the pressure, Eva sank her teeth into his shoulder to stifle future embarrassment. From almost nothing to everything inside her, the sting of wet flesh on flesh rose with her yelps. Filled completely, she ground her clit against him. Humping in unison, pulling on his sweating flesh, Eva opened her legs wide, pulled him in close and wrapped them around his waist.

Gathered in her limbs, curled tight as a spider might eat a fly, Eva consumed him. Vincent’s desperate lunges would not cease. So light in spirit, feeble in body, he plundered her without remorse. She writhed towards climax; Vincent had to know what he did to her and to hell with the neighbours. They needed to know, too—everyone did.

“Please, keep going, please… Oh… oh fuck! I am going to… to… cum!”

They would hear that next door.

“Nique sa mere”, she hissed into his ear, “Nique sa…”

Tight as a ball of limbs, her ankles crossed to hold him in place, and the tension broke free. Her arms flung out, clenched fists pulled at the bedsheets, and her cruciform body arched. Eva flailed as her cunt muscles snatched at his rampant shaft. Vented as breathless yelps, she was mindless, shaking violently.

Floating in a haze, her whimpered mantra demanded it, and Vincent groaned in defeat. Purring at the racing twitches, trapped by her weak limbs, she had what she craved. He collapsed into her waiting arms. Smoothing his hair, hunting for air together, two hearts beat as one, hot, sticky, and finally depleted.

His erection waned inside her, and she did not want him to leave.

“I love you, Vincent.”

Eva hoped this time, she might hear it from him too.

-=-

The mid-day sun blazed. Rounding the corner onto Rue Saint Honore, a new dress for tonight would boost Brigitte’s confidence. Her father’s insistence was unusual for a Saturday evening. Usually, he could be found at his private club playing Baccarat until the early hours.

Walking and admiring a dress in a shop window, she only detected their proximity when it was too late. He was so gentle, grasping her arm and brushing past her without a collision.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle.”

“Antoine!”

His emollient demeanour vanished, “Brigitte.”

For just one day, he would like to forget about University. He enjoyed his course, but the looks of pity, the rumours, and the whispering, he despised them all. Brigitte, and a Deveraux as well, was the embodiment of all his tormentors combined.

Holding his forearm, it halted his eagerness to depart, “Wait!”

“What is it?” His sour expression suggested he would remove her hand in seconds.

“Sorry.” It shot from her mouth like the crack from a pistol.

The hostility in his expression melted away, “Sorry for nearly walking into me, or sorry for yesterday?”

“For both. I am sorry, Antoine.”

Brigitte saw the child in his eyes as he mulled over her words, “Okay… apology accepted.”

Relieved, lifting one burden compelled her to lighten her load further, “I… I did not sleep very well last night because of it.”

Her admission softened his stance, “Oh, I see.”

In the uncomfortable pause, the need for human contact propelled her forward, “I did not know you lived in this part of Paris?”

“Close, my family are the greengrocers on Rue Montorgueil, Bernand & Son. I live above the shop.”

“Oh, wonderful, I love it here.” She paused. “Antoine, are you busy now? Do you have time for a coffee?”

Taken aback by her earnestness, he hesitated, “A coffee?”

Lighter in spirit, unburdened of this guilt, Brigitte smiled.

Antoine frowned, “Is this some kind of joke?” he looked around, “Where are Celine and Eva? Is this another bet?”

Appalled, she shook her head, “No… oh no, not at all. I feel terrible about what happened yesterday and would like to get to know you better.”

“Thanks for the apology,” he gestured to his direction of travel, “I need to go.”

“Antoine…”

Watching him walk away briskly, her heart sank.

“I am not like them,” she muttered.

-=-

Six-thirty, and as Antoine swept the last of the detritus from the floor, his father looked impatient.

“Yes?”

He concurred, “All done.”

Pulling him in by an arm around his shoulder, his father chuckled, “You and I, we make a great team... you work so hard.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He ruffled his hair, “Time to visit your mother. I will open up tomorrow.”

“Thanks, I am going out tonight.” Antoine would not lie, but this was as far as he wanted to go.

His father stepped back, “Good... good,” and paused, frowning. “I know it is not easy for you. You should be having fun at your age. I know...”

His voice trembled, and his affable features creased.

It was Antoine’s turn to pull him in with an arm on his shoulder, “I know, Dad. Do not feel guilty. Please tell Mum I love her, and we will see her tomorrow... together. Lucky… I mean, Madame Bonheur sends her regards, too.”

His father forced a smile, “Yes, good, I will let her know.”

Pulling a note out of the takings, he gave Antoine fifty Euros, “You earned it.”

His father closed Antoine’s hand over the note, ending his reluctance, “Now, go, go and have some fun. See you tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” he sighed, “Okay... must not keep her waiting.”

“Dad... thank you.”

With a cheerful wink, he flipped the door sign to ‘Closed’ and left.

-=-

Showered, Antoine fastened and unfastened the tips of his collar. Prickly nerves lurched within as he untucked, then tucked in his shirt. The liberal amount of aftershave lingered, and he was worried it was too much. If the smock coat was too tight, this shirt had very little give in it, too. Already strong, broad-shouldered and athletic, the extra hours in the shop bulked his frame further.

Hunger squirted through his stomach, jostling with his anxiety. Lucky was right; he needed a home-cooked meal. Gazing at the bottle, he hid it all afternoon as a bizarre contraband. Its contents carried an outlandish hope. Yet, except for an unfortunate experience with Veronique Deschamps last year, women were a mystery.

In pastel blue with khaki chinos, they matched his sandalwood-coloured shoes. He hoped this ensemble added a few years to his delicate nineteen.

The letterbox rattled when the front door closed.

Thinking back to lunchtime and Brigitte’s apology, he reacted badly, doubting any ulterior motive. He recognised a fragility in her that he understood himself. There was kindness in her tone and thoughtfulness in her actions. She kept bad company, though, so she was easily led. A coffee meant very little if she hung around with Celine and Eva. Antoine sighed; he did not have the self-esteem or the strength of character to play their games. They constantly taunted him for being a virgin; was it that obvious? They did not know for sure, but he was.

Amidst the boastful, he heard the stories in class. As the ringleader, Celine worked her way through the men. Fucking anyone who caught her eye, taking it in the ass, and having two guys at once. He heard less about Eva and nothing about Brigitte. What of the rumours about Lucky? Could they be true? What would she do to him tonight? She could do anything she wanted, and his loins stirred. Aware of his surroundings and the looser chinos, he marched faster towards destiny to distract himself.

A hesitant finger hovered on the doorbell, and Antoine swallowed back his nerves. This was reality and not his fantasies. Lucky was a sophisticate; he was a greengrocer’s son. There was no way she was single, and there was no chance she would look at him that way.

Lucky pitied him because his mother tried to kill herself.

The front door suddenly opened, startling him.

“Is the doorbell broken again?”

She beckoned him inside, “Come in, Antoine, come in.”