Drifting through the air, a muted jazz singer lamented the loss of her lover. Alone in the dining room, Antoine sat back in his chair, beguiled by the monochrome photographic print of Madame Bonheur. As the centrepiece on a wall, younger as a Mademoiselle, she conveyed an unknown emotion. Her eyes were so vivid with possibility, her strong jawline poised, tilting her delicate nose with closed painted lips. She exuded confidence.

Sitting amidst the stylish élan of its décor and furnishings, it was nothing like Antoine’s apartment. Polished chrome and smoked glass, mahogany woods and cream leather were all subdued by moody lighting. The intimate setting was unmistakable, permeating his naiveté, and the wine had loosened his tongue. Pondering those rumours again, he put them out of his mind; an unguarded remark could still ruin the evening.

Gliding back to the table, in light and shadow, Lucky smiled, more beautiful tonight than in the picture. Delicately painted, it accentuated her mesmerising features, and her wavy blonde hair swayed like meandering smoke. The sleek black dress revealed her beauty and personality. Demure, trimmed in chantilly lace, sensual in how it shimmered over her hourglass figure, Antoine was beguiled all over again. Smoothing the fabric as she sat, she leaned forward, and flickering candlelight danced over her flawless, ivory cleavage.

He managed to avert his eyes just in time.

Antoine sipped at his wine, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, ask anything, however,” she held up a finger, “it has been an excellent evening so far. Do not spoil that.”

He understood her dry sense of humour and grinned with her.

“This picture of you? Were you a model?”

Tinkling laughter followed, revealing the tiny lines in the corners of her eyes.

“No, my husband was an outstanding photographer.”

“He was a photographer?”

“Yes. He passed away two years ago. Suicide.”

Her nonchalance was a false friend. Realising his fears of a blundering faux pas, Antoine could not hide his sense of horror.

“Oh God... forgive me. I am so sorry. I should not have asked.”

“Oh, no, it is okay.” Her nonplussed tone reassured him, “He was very successful and made a lot of money. But inside, there was a fragile and secretive man. Too secretive even to those who loved him most.”

He fidgeted with his glass, “I am still sorry, though.”

“Thank you. I miss him, of course, and it is true,” Lucky muttered, swirling the wine in her glass. “Time is a great healer.”

Her motives for this evening were no longer shrouded in mystery. This act of kindness had nothing to do with those ridiculous rumours.

He took more than a sip of wine, “I know why you invited me to dinner.”

“Perhaps.” Lucky leaned forward with interest, “But tell me anyway.”

“Because my mother tried to kill herself, and you are trying to cheer me up.”

Tilting her head, she mused on his assertion, “Do you need cheering up?”

“If I said I did not, would that be a bad thing to say?”

“No, but do you find everyone says the same things to you? It will be okay. You will get through it.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled.

“No one says that life must go on. Seize the day. Be selfish, and do what you must.”

Antoine mulled over her words, “This is how I feel.”

“You came here tonight, so I know you understand.”

“I do,” he stated quickly and reciprocated her smile.

“And regardless of the rumours about me?”

Peering up from his glass, her playful smile prickled his face with heat.

“Erm…”

“Antoine,” she tutted, “I know what they are. I have spies everywhere.” Her grin widened, “Do you think any of them are true?”

“No.” Antoine spluttered, burning red hot.

Lucky recharged their glasses and sniggered, “Not even the salacious ones?”

He considered his answer twice, “Okay, maybe I did.”

“Antoine?”

Helpless, he looked up and latched onto her determined gaze, “Yes?”

Rising from her chair, she offered her hand, “Bring your wine, and I will show you which rumours are true.”

Led upstairs, she peered back with a wicked grin, and hot blood surged through his pounding chest. From doubt to certainty, back to doubt, and then to hope, Antoine was undone. This was her boudoir, and placing their glasses on a pedestal, she returned to him. With a hypnotic gait and sultry eyes, this is what a woman looked like with that on her mind.

Just like the photograph on the wall.

Sliding her hands over his shoulders, there was no electricity in her touch but magnetism in her eyes. Held by a tender squeeze of her waist, the distance between them narrowed. Dark, depriving one sense, he placed his lips upon hers and illuminated another. Months of tenuous hope poured into this simple act, and Lucky purred with appreciation. Boosting his confidence, Antoine squeezed her hip to bring her close, and his fierce erection pressed against the slight flare of her stomach.

He did not yield as they folded into a tight clinch, strong and muscular against her; the situation overwhelmed Lucky by degrees. Demonstrating his inexperience toyed with her long-held fantasy. Taking his hand, she placed it on her breast. Soft and broad in his hand, its span could not constrain it. The ebb and flow of her lips upon his quickened. Unable to resist the temptation, she opened his mouth, fuelling a stifled groan as her tongue played with his. Deeper and deeper into passion, Lucky peddled backwards towards the bed. Captured in his embrace, Antoine’s strength broke her fall.

She did not count the weeks, months… or years since she had a man in her bedroom. Yes, she had been attracted to Antoine for a long time. Yes, this would be a special memory for him… and her.

Lucky would make a man of him, and he would reawaken her need for sexual fulfilment: a gift for a gift.

-=-

The thin wooden wall thudded as Celine pushed him against it. As a flurry of wet, hungry kisses, she pulled his jacket off his shoulders, trapping his arms. Aggressive, pulling his hair, she exposed his thick, stubbly neck, dark as burnt umber. Sucking on it, her hands ranged over his rugged chest, down his side to the bulge in his jeans, kneading its rigidity.

Illuminated by grotty striplights, she tilted her head to scrutinise the beast of a man with his balls in her grasp. It gave him time to recover; his eyes narrowed as she goaded the animal within. Throwing off his jacket, he pulled her loose top down. Exposing her breasts, she felt the warmth of his squeezing hands. Urgent mouths competed for supremacy, their tongues sliding as snorted air betrayed their need. Pinching her nipple, it brought a fiery spice to her churning loins.

Who went to this kind of sleazy bar in the worst part of Paris? An establishment that provided bored-looking table dancers and was almost empty. A place that needed doormen like this? She wanted him as soon as she saw him. The thump-thump of incessant bass was the invasive sound that concealed their passion.

Last night was not enough. He showed such promise but failed to quench her needs.

Lifting the hem of her dress, the tiles were cold and leeched through her boots. The belt buckle slipped open easily, as did his jeans. Revealing who had the upper hand, Celine leered into his maniacal eyes, yanking at the rough denim, pulling it down over his sturdy thighs. She marvelled at the thick outline in his tight briefs, nuzzling on the constrained shaft with her playful eyes locked on his. He pulled them down, freeing the ebony beast and narrowly missing her face.

Celine rewarded his eagerness, taken in both hands, and its rigid weight promised much. Licking at the plump glans, she revealed her delight at his predicament. His deflated groan met with her muffled purr, pulling on his thighs as her mouth provided a facsimile of her broiling hot cunt.

She found his thick fingers through her hair disappointing. Using his thighs for leverage, she impaled herself onto his fat shaft, the corpulent head grazing the roof of her mouth. Taking him deeper, her throat spasmed around it, and he bellowed like a wounded animal.

Gripping fistfuls of her hair, it began, and the shuffling of his hips fed it to her. Celine plunged for it, throwing out his rhythm, pressing the tip of her nose against the soft down of his pubic bone. Groaning louder, he asserted himself and took charge, urgently rifling her mouth. Drooling heavily, saliva ran down her chin and dripped over her breasts.

Lost in the musk of his loins, snorting for air, her mind sang for more. This was what she was, and the sense of danger was an addiction greater than the act itself.

His strength surprised Celine. The limited space in this toilet cubicle was no obstacle as his rough, dark hands span her around. Pulling up her mini skirt, she pushed out her behind. Held against the thin wall, he kicked her legs apart and rubbed his cock against her drenched sex. Taunting her, she whimpered in frustration. She had to have him; she wanted its superior dimensions and the pleasure it could provide.

“Go on then,” she hissed, “stick it in me.”

He gave out a derisory snort, “Yeah, you sure?”

“Fuck me… fucking do…”

The determined invasion stole her breath and scorched her body. He was big, squeezed tight inside her drenched box. Instantly panting, he sawed it deeper and deeper into her nubile sex. The first thrust slapped her pert behind against his loins and made her yelp. Fully impaled, both shovel hands gripped her waist, and the second thrust dissolved all strength from her, fusing her mind. The third emptied her mind, and the fourth hammer blow amplified the insane pleasure.

“Fuck me…” she whimpered, “fuck me like a slut.”

His slow booming laughter followed, “Oh, I will.”

Igniting all her lust at once, he clattered against her, smothered in a bear-hug. Pulling on her nipples, he nailed her like a machine gun. Struggling to breathe, interrupted by involuntary yelps, he overloaded her body. Shaking her lithe frame, the spontaneity and how he sullied her pristine body exploded as flashbulbs in her mind. This was the dirty thrill she yearned for. The snug friction fed the swelling tension, encouraging his stout shoves.

“Yes… yes… oh fuck, yes!”

“Harder… fuck me… fuck me…,” she squealed, “fuck me!”

“Oh, you are getting that,” gruffly spoken, and clearly amused, he redoubled his efforts.

Clamping on his thick cock, the rising waves of ecstasy overwhelmed her. Pounding at her, this spicy orgasm lacked the potency she craved.

“Huh… Huh…”

Ploughed hard, there was no more yelping, just this forced expulsion of air. The rich timbre of his booming laughter followed. Celine plumbed the taboo depths of her mind, igniting her body in reply. Pressed against the wall by his bulk and lifted on tiptoes, her entire body shook. Every shove stung her behind, and his stout girth stoked the raging inferno within.

“Cum inside me, you bastard,” she spat, “Make me your cumslut.”

“Yeah, you want it?” His calm composure undid her.

“Fuck!” she reeled, skewered deep, “Yes! Yes! Creampie me, you bastard!”

Celine whimpered her plea incessantly.

“Dirty fucking bitch!” he barked, slamming into her.

Granted the pornographic ending she dared to imagine, the crest of a second wave rose. Crammed tight inside, swelling to the point of no return, she let go. Wailing through the seizures, helplessly convulsing, he showed no mercy. Her body shuddered, aflame with severe aftershocks and his deep, stabbing lunges. With snatched short breaths, he slowed. Lifting her onto her toes one last time, her stranger pulsed hard.

“Yeah,” he boomed, “there it is.”

His muted plosive grunts signalled how much he gave her.

Suddenly empty, with a hot glow of relief for company, her panted gasps mixed with the muffled thump-thump of lazy bass. Peering down, his cum splattered onto the grubby terracotta tiles. Celine heard him dress, and the cubicle door creaked open.

“You know the way out,” he muttered.

For her, it was spectacular. For him, she was just another easy fuck.

“Perfect,” she murmured as his seed dribbled down her thigh.

-=-

As grandiose as the name Marzan de Jean Balzac was, the opulent baroque interior of the private dining room exceeded it. Brigitte conquered her Scallops Au Vin with Haricot Vert one morsel at a time, the silver knife and fork weighted perfectly. Sipping on vintage Sancerre, it complimented the dish perfectly.

She chose an off-the-peg Dior dress suited to her slender figure. It was a two-pronged act of defiance towards her father. Brigitte pinned up her hair, and the carefully applied make-up sent a clear message. Combined with her mother’s pearls, she was a woman, not his little girl. A small act of defiance for herself and Elodie, who told her where to find them.

Whilst the food was a triumph, the company was less so. This is why Brigitte’s father insisted on her presence. A side glance caught the attention of Monique de la Vallée, and they exchanged a wary smile. Newly upgraded to his fiancée, young enough to be Brigitte’s older sister, her bespoke engagement ring glimmered in the chandelier light. Despite the age difference and her father’s inability to commit, they were to be married. She had no doubts about Monique’s purpose and should expect a step-brother or sister soon.

Her father put down his wine glass, “Of course, there will be changes.”

“Oh, how so?” Brigitte would not look him in the eye.

“My house. You will be moving out.”

Those words stung as an unexpected scorpion might; first came the stab of surprise, then an escalating pain made it unbearable. It roused her toxic despair, pushing aside her calm demeanour. Confirming her worst fears, marking her with a deep stain of rejection, Brigitte grappled to find her courage. She would not let her heartache show in front of this stranger… and future stepmother.

She matched her father’s blank expression, “Am I getting my own apartment?”

“No, I have asked my mother, and she has agreed to take you in.”

Condemned to be a prisoner by the accident of her birth, stuck in the Seventh Arrondissement with her bitch of a grandmother. This was her own personal hell.

“I… I would rather have my own apartment.”

Brigitte could not hold the welling tears back. The sound of his cutlery against the bone china plate forced her to look up.

“Do not be impudent,” he hissed, “You are staying with my mother, and you have much to learn about our way of life as a Deveraux. You will be taught what is expected and become more…”

He halted, calming his temper before his fiancée, “You will become more polished and suitable.”

“But…”

He raised his finger, halting her words.

“Enough, Brigitte. You have proved my point entirely. Tomorrow, Christophe will take you there. This discussion is concluded.”

-=-

Each gasp for air stoked the remnants of her fading orgasm. Throbbing with the heat of stretched muscles, Eva’s body trembled, her mind adrift between two shores, ecstasy and reality. The power of the early evening sun through the window matched her sense of contentment. Tonight, they would feast; this was merely the entrée for good food, wine, and dancing all night.

Her long hair scattered as an explosion over the sheets, and she rested under its lank strands. Vincent’s seed seeped from her ass, tickling her naked sex. He always provided the mind-altering fucking she craved. The mattress bobbed, and Eva floated as flotsam on a calming sea. Murmuring with appreciation, she raised a heavy arm and scraped the matted hair from her face.

“Vincent?”

He buttoned his jeans and pulled his belt tight, “I need to go out.”

“Huh?” It jarred with her lethargic mind, “We were going to spend the tonight together.”

“Not tonight. I have to go out.”

“Have to?”

“Yes, I am meeting some friends at a bar.”

Her stomach lurched at his guilt-etched expression. Her heart calcified, frozen solid in an instant. No, she had won him back, and they had been happy for months. They were making plans; they had a future together.

“You have to see her?”

The pause blackened her soul, crushing her hopes with the weight of each second.

He shrugged, “Yeah.”

“Vincent, I love you!”

He shrugged again.

An unassailable motive force twisted her body and launched her from the bed. A fury pushed him against the wardrobe, clattering the doors and coat hangers within.

“Sorry!? So this is it? You fuck me. What for? One last time, huh?”

Her fist banged against his chest, then another, thumping away as anger dissolved into sorrow and her vision blurred with tears.

“No, Vincent, no! No, Vincent…”

Pounding away, his arms engulfed her petite body, halting the assault. Weeping uncontrollably, he released her.

“I have to go.”

Watching him leave, Eva fell to her knees, crumpled into a heap on the floor, and the dam broke.

-=-

Pressing her hand upon his chest, Lucky peered down at him.

She smooched his lips, “We can do this all night, or we could?”

Seeing her hopeful eyes, Antoine’s expression revealed the truth. As an older and more experienced woman, she would know.

“I....”

Her finger to his lips halted his words, “You do not need to say it, I can tell.”

Embarrassed, he averted them.

Holding his chin, Lucky retrieved his gaze, “Oh, Antoine, it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I… I want to make love to you.”

Lucky purred, toying with a lock of his hair, “You know, after we do this, you will feel very different towards me.”

“I will?”

She nodded, “You must promise me something first.”

“What?”

“Be respectful, and expect nothing more after tonight. Promise me this.”

“I... I promise.”

“So…” Lucky grinned, kissing him, “We will not make love. We will have sex. A lot of sex.”

“Okay.”

Kneeling over him, she lifted her dress over her head, revealing her black lace bra and panties. Seamless to her body, Antoine undressed her with his eyes.

Lucky smiled, “Yes, you can look. You already know what your presence does to me.”

Antoine frowned, “This morning?”

“Yes, you arouse me very easily.”

Reaching from the front, barring the reveal with her arm. She rolled her shoulders and threw her brassiere over Antoine’s face, giggling. Discarding it, Lucky was as broad in the shoulders as her womanly hips. Flared out from her torso, Antoine lingered on the deep cups of her breasts, capped with crunched areola with long erect nipples.

She brought his hands to them and gasped, “You have a wonderful touch.”

“Thank you.”

Dumbstruck, his thumbs caressed her elongated nipples and sent a shiver through her, “They are sensitive, and I love to have them played with.”

“You… you are beautiful.”

“It has been a long time since a man said that with such conviction,” her closed-lipped grin lingered, “You are very handsome, too.”

His shoes arced and clomped onto the floor. Removing his clothes, the zest of cool air on his skin soothed the heat at his core. Pressed to his lips again, Lucky devoured the last crumbs of his reticence as her fingers slid into his briefs. Wrapping her hand around his shaft, he groaned aloud.

“You are ready,” she purred.

He swallowed hard, “Uh huh.”

“Let me do this for you. Watch me.”

Being naked before a woman played on his mind, and a cold anxiety dampened his excitement. Her knowing smile allayed his trepidation. Lucky admired him, unspoiled… unsullied, tracing over the hills and vales of his muscular torso, his lean abdomen, and along his obliques.

Relaying her delight with a kiss, she wriggled to remove her panties. Beguiled by her long body and slender limbs, the endless curves swept down to her cinched waist, hips, and toned flanks. The peek of light between her thighs and smooth mons swelled a potent lust through his mind and loins.

Veronique Deschamps tortured him, but Lucky did not, and the potency of this situation emptied his mind. With a tilt of her head, her hair fell to one side. She took him in hand with a whimsical smile. Stroking it slowly, she basked in his reaction.

“This feels very strong. I know I will enjoy this.”

Straddling him, his skittish eyes darted over her body. Losing himself in her sultry gaze, she eased down and grinned at his startled reaction. Engulfed in a sensual wet velvet, Antoine gasped open-mouthed, and Lucky beamed. Pitching up, she pressed down, and his façade softened. This was how it felt, a sublime embrace, soft, warm, provoking a wondrous pleasure inside his body.

She enveloped his shaft in this slow, methodical rhythm, pressing her breasts to his torso. Generous in girth, grazing those once familiar places, Lucky placed a smouldering kiss of congratulations onto his lips.

She towered over him and pressed on his muscular torso, “You are a man now. Is this everything you hoped for?”

“More…” he paused, “because it is with you.”

“Flatterer,” as Lucky lofted her hips and dropped down, “Let me show you what I like.”

Through narrowed eyes, her blonde tresses hung as a curtain down the side of her face. Wriggling in tight circles, it swayed her hair and breasts. Antoine placed his hands upon them, using what he knew to pleasure her. Her hips rocked back and forth, unhurried, savouring his reaction. The sinewy massage of his shaft continued, bathed in a repetitive heat.

“Just here,” she gasped, “this place inside me. Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” and Antoine moaned.

“I love it. Find this place, and you will make me orgasm. We will do this all night.”

“Yes,” he stammered, “We will… all night.”

Revelling in the nuances of his ecstatic features, she alternated between this unhurried smearing contact and short hops. Antoine gave in to his instincts; she pressed down to slow him and raised her hips to quicken his thrusts. Clasping her thighs, through trial and error, he found that place and understood this rhythm.

Involuntarily, Lucky panted, “Oh yes, Antoine… yes.”

A surge of pressure rose within; he could not hold out and wait for her. Lucky would teach him how to use his tongue and fingers instead and bring her to orgasm. The prospect scorched her imagination and the notion of watching his innocence fade before her eyes fluttered through her core.

Enjoying the rising swell of his shaft, his ascent towards climax was assured.

Lucky took him in hand with a flourish of her wrist, “Cum for me.”

Bearing witness to his climax, Antoine gasped. Lip-locked, her tongue as an eel in his mouth muffled his groans and the sublime tension ballooned inside.

To think he was nervous once as the certainty gathered within, he reached the apex of the hot ball of tension inside, gazing into her eyes. Groaning with open-mouthed relief, the galloping pulses vented a sticky, wet heat onto their bodies.

“Yes, good boy,” she purred, fulfilling her fantasy, “you did so well.”

“I did?”

“Yes… yes, you did.”

These passionate kisses did not halt and hauled him from this weightless bliss. At his most malleable, Antoine would soon recover, and she would be ready.

-=-

Brigitte cowered in bed, sobbing. That emptiness she tried to ignore swelled with a truth that replaced her denial. It would not let her go and swirled through her mind as a terrifying spectre. Last night, she was lost and did not know why. She knew now. Her mother abandoned her, and her father did not love her.

Everything she strived for counted for nothing, as a model student with excellent grades and someone who always looked her best. Brigitte was never in trouble, always kind and considerate to everyone. She put aside everything her father disapproved of, including friends and interests.

Lonely, unloved, and rejected, her grandmother would not need to destroy anything. Her soul crushed like an old tin can; they would take her personality and recast her into someone else, someone tolerable. That would never be enough for them, and this cruel game would never end. 

Her physician warned her that she would develop a tolerance to these tranquillisers and they were not a long-term solution to her problems.

But taking a few more of these pills might be.