I was floating on a sea of honey, which was a bittersweet feeling. Martin always did this as a parting gift when he left on business, and Little Bird must have heard our orgasms through the wall.

Awoken early, I could not doze: my heart ached with his absence. Showered, I fished one of his work shirts from the laundry, smelling of him. You might think that was quirky at the least, perhaps a bit disgusting, but I needed him close. This was how I would work, dressed in his shirt, wearing his scent, and carrying the remnants of his seed.

It had been ten days of vices, and we rode this rollercoaster of sensual pleasures. Exhausting ourselves, we recovered as a torture device of libidos, fatigue, and tantalisation. The ever-present temptation was there to submit to Little Bird, and I was sure she noticed. With my husband’s assistance, our dynamic remained intact.

Breakfast was sweet English Breakfast tea; I had no stomach for more. It was my sop to marrying an Englishman, but I had not taken his surname. There is a contradiction.

-=-

Working, I used the early light well and paused at the sound of bare feet on the wooden floor. Little Bird did not walk in; she glided. It was almost eleven o’clock. She wore her chantilly lace collar, and the black satin robe barely covered her body. It shimmered in the sunlight flapping with each stride as her body jiggled beneath it. Loosely tied, the long, open V-shape revealed the curves of her breasts down to her midriff.

Fuck, if that was not a cry for attention, what is?

The sway of her hips threatened to reveal so much more. Of course, my eyes went there, but the bow and the robe denied me a view of her naked sex. My mind was detached from the rational realm and dwelled in the artistic one. It was only a short jump onto these tracks.

What was that I said about tantalisation?

“A good night?” I muttered, trying to find my concentration.

Shit, I am supposed to be the dominant, not a friend.

“Yes, thank you.”

“How was Angelique?”

“Good,” her tone was nonchalant.

Well, I fucked that up.

Distracted by her beauty and this obvious petition, I lingered on her. Fresh-faced with no makeup, her natural beauty shone through. Her hair was unkempt, adding an evocative frisson to her demeanour. If she was doing this to be a distraction, it worked. I could pull at the bow and take her. My concentration was slipping, and this painting was a commission piece, oil on canvas. Using a palette knife, my hand started to tremble.

Little Bird got up from the sofa.

“You are restless,” I sounded so feeble and vacant.

“It was the noises you two make.”

So she did hear us, good. Her fingertips skimmed over the kitchen countertop. They would caress me like that.

I knew that lopsided grin; she needed to fulfil those carnal vices. But what vice? Taken or the taker? I should assert myself, but the ambiguity shivered through me. Distracted by this sudden honesty, I indulged myself in this weakened state of mind.

A swish of the palette knife followed, and I cursed.

There was my mistake. Annoyed, I cleaned the palette knife and scraped it away with care. I had to stop. Looking upon Little Bird, she waited for the toaster. As another sop to my husband, we had sliced bread too.

God, I really miss him, even his love of sliced bread.

I admired the curve of her behind and those long sculpted legs. I wanted them opened wide to mash my sex against hers. Taking my palette, I put it into its plastic bag and sauntered over to the freezer; it would keep. Her eyes tracked every footstep as I tried to walk tall, proud, and unconquerable.

“You are not working today, Little Bird?”

I damned myself as soon as I said it. Her pet name sounded superfluous.

“No, Lilou called me. I sold an expensive painting yesterday. She told me to take the day off and said I earned it.”

Lilou Bouchard, I will see you later.

Sitting opposite, I pretended to rifle through a magazine. I had to devour Little Bird, and she bit into some toast. Those baby blue eyes looked up. The tip of that fiendish tongue licked at some crumbs on her lips.

No, this was the right thing to do.

I stood, unbuttoning the shirt from the tail end upwards, and let it fall from my body. Little Bird’s wide angelic eyes conferred her submissive demeanour, and she sat on the sofa’s edge. A handful of her hair felt so soft through my fingers as I clenched it.

“This is your breakfast.” My deadpan tone finally got it right.

I gasped as her soft tongue slid between my folds. Yes, I was soaked, and my husband was there first. She went at me as if she was famished. That wide-open gaze displayed her obedience and poured it into my mind, lapping at my sex. Fuck, I needed this.

“Did you masturbate listening to us having sex, Little Bird?”

The sudden jerk of her head was so slight but enough of an affirmative that it made me purr with delight.

“Touch yourself as you eat my cunt.”

Watching the steam rise from her jet-black coffee, so did the passion she gave me. The zig-zag motion of her tongue mimicked it too. Now, she was restless as her nimble fingers stirred her sex. Tasting the effects of our congress, I smeared a copious fresh arousal onto her lips. She fidgeted, so I held her tight against my mound and pressed her delicate nostrils to my smooth mons.

“Did you orgasm as we fucked?”

Her reply was muffled, yet the thrum of its vibrations was enough to be understood. It was a direct challenge to my authority.

“You will not do that again until I tell you!”

Weak, Ines, weak!

Those full lips sucked on my clit, and she flicked at it with the tip. She knew my guilty secret right here, right now. No, she will burn for me; I was in charge, yet my constant moaning said otherwise.

We had done this enough times to know what approached. That sucking sensation was my Achilles heel, and I relented. Her deft tongue flicked and propelled me there. It wound my body tighter than a clock spring. I was not strong enough to endure this standing, and her shoulder provided the crutch, gripped tighter as it swelled forth. With rushing floods of air sucked and blown at speed, I shuddered as it peaked and purred as the convulsions surged through my body.

Floating again, I staggered back a little and looked down at her. She reclined, her lithe body curled against the sofa. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, those sultry eyes carried a message of defiance, not submission.

In no hurry to cover herself, she rested as a symphony of nubile curves, presented as the plat du jour, and very fucking edible. With heat-prickled cheeks, the rash on her decolletage and the heave of her breasts revealed her heightened arousal. Down her toned body, around her hips to those slender thighs, I was there, fixated again by the bare flawless hillock of her mons. Her dew glistened around her sex. I had to remain strong even if there was doubt in my eyes.

Clutching her breast, rolling its hardened nipple between her fingers. The middle two fingers of her other hand plunged into her sex with a low sticky sound as her thumb provided expert friction onto her clit. Oh, those eyes, filled to the brim with that unknown potential.

And I watched, mesmerised.

Oh, she knew, she fucking knew.

My performance could have been more convincing this morning, so I dug deep. I had wavered too many times.

“Stop!”

Like a juggernaut applying the brakes, her hands obeyed slowly, “Yes, Madame Duprix.”

The lush syllables conveyed her contempt with her searing eyes. Leaning over her, I pulled the robe to cover her body and plucked a kiss from her simpering lips.

“I need to go out. When I return, we will continue.”

Fuck, I ran away, but I had to.

“Little Bird, I will know if you have touched yourself. So, do not.”

“Yes, Madame Duprix. Will you be long?”

“Long enough to make you beg for it.”

-=-

As a daydream, it ends, and my vision sharpens onto the rising bubbles in my glass. The world around me snaps into view. It should; this place is bustling with people.

At a café table in Montmartre, I am amongst the ghosts of siege rebels, bohemians, world-famous artists and courtesans. I sit at its epicentre - Place du Tertre. The dome of the Sacre Coeur is stark white against the azure sky; it adds romance and spirituality to this magical place. Nowadays, art is created before your eyes in this square. You could pose for a portrait, watch artists at work, and buy some as a souvenir. It is so accessible, fun, and involving – I love this place.

Sipping on sparkling water, I waited for my appointment with Lilou Bouchard.

Working a pitch here years ago, she was little more than a teenager. She liked to peer over my shoulder, and I was happy to indulge her curiosity and questions. Lilou flowered into a striking, ambitious and intelligent woman; she rouses admiration and envy in equal measure. It does not help that she is a difficult person to like.

Her father is a minor player within the Paris art elite, and she is the apple of his eye. Lilou is intensely photogenic and was on the front cover of Paris Match last year when her engagement was announced. Married into the crème de la crème of the art world, they are one of its power couples. Warm-hearted towards her friends, I am not sure if I am one of those, but she is a cold-hearted bitch regarding money, with no exceptions.

This gallery was a gift as her wedding present, and it is where Little Bird works. Discretion is more than vital, and it is good she is not here. Lilou has a sixth sense for what is unsaid. I am here to discuss my participation in a forthcoming event and need to negotiate her commission fee. This is a world away from the hand-to-mouth existence of the artists in the square. I know how tough that is, and so does she.

Whilst I am grateful, I snort with derision. Negotiate? I would be lucky to pay Lilou seventy per cent of the sale price, and I would still be a corporate drone if I was good at business.

So I enter the lion’s den, and the scent of jasmine is designed to calm. I resist as she appears from around a corner.

“Coucou!”

“Lilou!”

With an air kiss on each cheek, she hugs me. That is reserved for only her friends, immediately putting me on guard.

“Ines, you look amazing.”

Flattery always works, not in this case, but I opt to play along, “Aw, you do too. Marriage really suits you. Congratulations.”

“Oooh, I could say the same for you. You are glowing. Would you like a coffee?”

“I will have an espresso, please.”

Yeah, she will kill you with kindness, then strike like a cobra. I look at the picture that mine will replace. Lilou stops and gestures at it.

Here we go… 

“Ines. You have an excellent eye for these things. What are your thoughts?”

I peer at it and frown, “It is good,” I have to wear my glasses, which I hate, “Yet, these marks here lack urgency. See? They are more smeared. The colours are vibrant and should have a lot of life. It can only be a deliberate gesture of contempt unless the artist was tired.”

Lilou smiles, “Perhaps. The subject is an older woman. Maybe it represents a loss of her vitality. Perhaps it is a statement that only fools rush in to conquer her?”

If that is aimed at me, it is an insult. Or, might it unsettle me that she knows about Little Bird? I must be strong.

My sweetest smile broadens, “Are we discussing your fee?”

She laughs delicately, and it does not mock, “Ma cherie, really?” Lilou fixes me with her eyes, “It is seventy per cent, my best and only offer. And… you are right about this work. It is sold now. I will not miss it. I was so pleased I gave my assistant the day off today.”

Well done, Little Bird, it is hideous.

I nod sagely, “Perhaps that is for the best... on all fronts.”

“Ines… your work will light up this place!” her eyes are beaming, and she leans in to share a confidence, “It arrived today, and it is wonderful. I will promote it to ensure it sells for an excellent price.”

Someone is in a good mood, and I am a mix of emotions. My concern is dispelled, the insult rankles, and I am relieved about Lilou’s fee.

She extends her arms and clasps my hands, “Come, we are friends. We will drink coffee and gossip.”

Of course, I accept, and I am ready to do battle.

Because I am fucking one of your assistants.

-=-

I jolt and gasp like a fish out of water. I am unaware of my surroundings and alone. Then, it lurches up from the depths, and the dent in the pillow next to me is cold. I must have dozed off.

Darling, you woke me early, and I need you.

There is light leeching through the curtains, and I check the bedside clock; it is only four in the afternoon.

I cannot help it. I have to play it back in my mind. What have I done?

Homeward bound, my carefree stroll down Rue Lepic symbolised the certainty of my world. I was content, helping with a contribution to provide for us. Martin would be pleased; we were rebuilding our finances after the last few years. The latticed metal lift carried me upwards with a frustrating weariness. The zip of the key in the lock matched the rush of blood, adrenaline, and sexual desire. Well-oiled, like myself, the muted closing of the front door was still loud enough to attract Little Bird’s attention.

She was nowhere to be seen, not in the lounge, usually watching television and glued to her phone. For an unknown reason, I checked my easel, which was unmolested, and I called out to her.

Nothing.

Not in her room, and the bathroom was unoccupied.

She was in our bedroom, which was presumptive of her, so I opened the door.

“Mon dieu,” I gasped, “Little Bird?”

“Aveline,” she purred.

“Oh fuck.”

I was undone in an instant. Her makeup was fresh with moody dark eyeshadow, and her hair was tied back as the model of efficiency. A ripened plum colour made her kissable lips bloom. That posture was so self-assured, amplified by the lilt of her jawline and smouldering, undaunted eyes.

She walked towards me, and I backed away as my blood thumped and dried my mouth. As the personification of a slinky feline with her claws extended, I was the mouse.

The robe was gone, replaced by lingerie not built for comfort but for devastating effect. Criss-crossed lattices of black ribbon clung to her, integrated into the brassiere. It cast a seductive pattern over her taut abdomen without a crease or wrinkle and hid her sex. Its suspenders held those fully fashioned stockings to perfection.

Black and shiny, she stood on stiletto heels that tightened her calves. She did not wear her choker, and the leather collar was in her hand.

“This is yours now,” and held it out to me.

As I gasped, she did not flinch.

I stammered, “L… Little Bird, stop it this instant.”

Like this morning, it was unconvincing.

All the deception I built around my secret fell away. Thousands of whimsical thoughts merged, propelling my most intense fantasy to dangerous new heights. I always thought I had self-control, experience, and the right temperament. No, Little Bird knew what she was doing all along.

Burning into my eyes, her intent was defined by the muted curl of her smile. Oh God, those lips. I yearned for their caress.

“Remember what you said, Ines… do not lie.”

“Lit…” my last protest faded with a sigh as her fingers caressed my cheek. I had to lean into them.

Now, I wore that collar for her, and it stole my breath.

Where is she? I am still burning for her, still wearing that collar. Fuck, that thing is still inside me. No, I must not touch myself, but I am so aroused and sensitive.

“I am not mean, Ines, but you will do what I say from now on.”

I stammered, “W…what about Martin?”

That smeared a broad grin onto those immaculate lips, “Well… he does not need to know.”

I could not take my eyes off them, “That is not how it works.”

The soft pad of her finger traced over my lips silenced me.

“Your distress will make your orgasms very powerful. You can decide what to do about your husband afterwards.”

Her hand slid into my jacket, holding my clothed breast, scrutinising every nuance of my reaction as she found its hardened nipple with her thumb. There was no chaste expression of a novice. This was a confident seduction from someone well-practised in this art.

I fucking knew it now, and it was too late.

We folded into each other’s arms as lovers separated for too long and by thousands of miles. From a solitary kiss, they arrived faster until our wet lips dripped, and our tongues chased each other. Her ever-shifting caress consumed me until I was a toy for her pleasure. Backed into this dead-end, and she was the only way out. I embraced her as my saviour, willing her on, incapable of resistance. Lip-locked, snorting for air, there was nothing else except the torrid need to consummate this act.

I was panting.

“Say it,” she purred, massaging the confined heat of my crotch.

“Aveline,” I spat out with urgency. She began to unlace the thin belt and pull open the buttons of my jeans.

“No… you will use my name if what I do is too much. What am I?”

“Mistress?”

Her tinkling laughter mocked, “Mademoiselle. You are submissive to a younger woman. How amusing.”

She peeled away each layer of clothes like she exposed my deepest desire. I stood there naked in body and soul.

“Say it,” she hissed.

Her caress began to wander.

“Please, Mademoiselle… touch me.”

It raised a quizzical eyebrow, “And if I do?”

I swallowed back my excitement, “You can do anything.”

She raised her second eyebrow, “Anything?”

“Anything.”

She purred, and that impassive stare returned. She was no amateur like myself. The potential seared through me, and all my worries and responsibilities melted away. Those fingers and full lips exploited all the places that unlocked my passion. My neck, shoulder, and the tops of my breasts. Her hand worked up the back of my arm – oh fuck, I was in trouble.

Sucking on my erect nipple, she flicked it as a hint of her knowledge. She knew what I craved, and I crumbled into feeble whimpers. Her touch drew a florid pattern upon me. Each time it inched closer and closer, I thought I might combust. Breached by two slender fingers, I taught Mademoiselle everything about myself and was caught in my own trap. Fuck, I admired her cunning and reached out to hold on.

I was drenched, and her skilful fingers quickly unlocked my raging lust. Her stony gaze heightened the sublime as her fingers twisted inside my steaming cunt. Her thumb slipped over my aching clit, side to side, and I panted. My eyes narrowed to a blur, savouring her rueful smile. This was all that mattered now.

Holding the clasp, it snicked into the loop, and its symbolism made me tremble. Mademoiselle pulled it taut, and my ethereal gasps rose an octave. The ground felt like it rumbled beneath me and shook my poise.

Her fingers withdrew, and my entire world sank.

“Not yet. Like everything you do to me, it is also what you crave.”

Oh fuck, she knew this all along too.

The momentum of this passion kept me quivering, “Mademoiselle.”

By the shoulders, she spun me around. Opening the cleft of my behind, I felt its cold metallic point twisting around that crunched hole, and whatever gloop she put on it made it very easy to accept. I yelped as the knot of muscle yielded, and I sucked it in.

“That is for later,” she tapped it, amused by how it made me flinch.

Alone now, with my racing heart for company, she ordered me to turn around.

Mademoiselle lay there, reclined on the bed as a maze of ribbons. Her stiletto-clad feet were placed on the bed, legs wide apart, as her hand crossed to her breast. Lofting her sex, she pulled the triangle of fabric away. Revealing her sex, she invited me with a leer in her eyes.

A solitary finger pointed to her cunt, “Hold your leash in both hands and present it to me. I own you.”

Fuck! I am soaked. Mademoiselle told me to wait. I am not to touch myself… but I need to. Yes! That feels wonderful.

Lapping at her sex epitomised my obedience, and I tried to convey that to her. It was not enough compared to all the times I have done this. Enough… there is a word. What is good enough? Enough was not her feeble cries, mediocre trembling, and squeezing her breasts. It was not how she held me to her sex, smeared her juices over my mouth, ruining the last of my lipstick.

Licking her bittersweet juices from my lips was not enough.

Was it enough to be held to her by that leash, and when I made her cry out? As she seized the sheets, legs shaking, and arched her back, pivoted by her heels? Flailing as flotsam on a turbulent sea, the ligaments in my arms tight to ride it out with her? Clamped to her sex, cleaved by my swirling tongue inside her folds, drinking her orgasm, and listening as she called out in spat vowels to damn us all to hell?

That was all I was suitable for, and I loved it. That leash held tight as Mademoiselle bucked, tightened, and detonated again with all the fervour of complete abandonment.

“Enough,” she panted. “You have done well. Now you are my pet.”

That was a moment of intense pride.

I kissed at the beads of sweat on her temple and honoured her quivering body, still wracked by aftershocks. I tried to seize the initiative and slid my fingers inside her to prize out the most profound and sweetest pleasure. She wavered but eased my fingers from her by my wrist.

Despite everything, Mademoiselle was still in total control.

Oh fuck, I have to, and I shouldn’t. The guilt burnishes my need for relief. My legs start to quiver, and I am so close.

The shadow in the chink of light from the doorway knows it too.

Shit.

-=-

I am aflame with primal need and embarrassment. Mademoiselle sidles into my bedroom and tuts. Her lingerie is no more; instead, thick straps cling to her hips and thighs. It juts out from her as… that thing… in black. It looks so thick and erect between her legs.

“I leave you briefly, and you disobey me.”

“Where were you?”

It is a pathetic attempt at diversion, as the slack in the leash is taken up.

“Never mind. Get on your knees,” and Mademoiselle leers at my naked body, “I have watched you take your husband’s cock, and he gives it to me as well. Now you will have mine. For your disobedience, this is going everywhere I decide.”

My initial thought was I have one of these, and they are challenging to use well. Men are designed to do this, women less so. She is young and will be enthusiastic, I will play along, and this torture will pass.

Yet, I am on my knees, and she knows everything I am. Mademoiselle has seen me like this and reflects it upon me like a mirror. Worshipping it with my mouth, I follow her instructions without question. Licking and sucking on it, its dimensions are purposeful, more than Martin possesses, and he is more than plenty for me.

My eyes are magnetised to hers as she purrs with praise. Deeper and deeper, with an effortless rhythm to her hips, it destroys all my preconceptions. She knows how to move, good dancers are excellent lovers, and the syncopation of her hips makes me choke and gag. Forcing air into my body, it is slick with drool. My hands rest on her loins as I struggle for air, and she laughs.

“This is bigger than your husband. You will feel all of it.”

The lower tone of her voice condemns me. The leash is taut, and she has me from behind. Oh fuck, it is a snug fit and grazes everything. Her precision does not mimic my clumsiness. This is dangerous; I am unlocked, wide open and vulnerable. She knows what she is doing, and this… this is wonderful, and wrong, wonderful… and wrong, but I need this, I crave this.

My spine curves to take it, and the rapture buckles my arms. Towering over me, her foot against the side of my head holds me down. Rifling my cunt firmly, the fluid lunges fill and glance at that place without mercy. I am slipping away into a haze of ecstasy. The noises are not my own, and my uncontrolled emotions are taking me to an unknown place I adore.

Then, she is gone, and I am empty. Trembling, hot and whimpering, it lands beside my face, buzzing with an incessant drone. A toy, mine, and taken from the pedestal.

She hisses her command to hold it there, between my legs, at the swell of my clit. She knows as its low whine changes on contact. Filled again, I am writhing harder, yet the leash remains taut. Mademoiselle calls me a slut, and it tenses me with conviction. The variations are endless; there is no monotony of a push-me-pull-you fuck. On edge, she keeps me guessing; any indication of my familiarity forces a change of tack. I have been studied meticulously; she knows what can make me boil into a hot mess of ecstasy.

I am livid now, my body tight under a short leash, and the tart slap of her loins has a strength alien to the fairer sex. That toy, my tormentor, fuck… I hate it and love it the same. My entire body is beyond its limits, hanging onto the precipice of release by mere fingertips, and she will not let me climax.

“Mademoiselle…”

God, I sound pathetic.

“No.”

I howl now; this ache is beyond any reference; it is in my fingers and toes. I can feel every experience with my husband, our special friends, and everything we have shared slipping from memory. A sudden spasm threatens to release it, yet she pulls on my hip and leash to take it deep. I want to bite at it, clench it, and banish all these demons in one almighty orgasm.

“Mademoiselle…”

“No.”

I am yelping because my stricken body cannot stop what is inevitable.

“Mademoiselle…” my heartfelt desperation tried to convey my losing battle, “Please, Mademoiselle… please, I am begging you.”

“No.”

“Fuck… Oh God, please… please.”

Spittle-flecked yelps soon follow, and the searing heat within is a pressure I cannot take.

“Take your climax.”

Mademoiselle pulls on the leash, fuck, that is the very pinnacle of my desire. The world spins around me, and a final thrust makes me howl. I drop the waspish toy and wail. My head is pulled upwards, and the violence of my orgasm is a lightning strike through my body. My entire body shakes, poleaxed as a startled cat, and the thunder arrives. With flames for blood, my sex clenches at that unyielding thing so tight. It does not diminish as intense waves sweep me away. I curl, then stretch; I convulse and suddenly tense again. As a relentless peak, nothing else matters at this moment.

Falling onto the soft mattress, I am quivering with fading jolts. Limp and washed out with an overwhelming glow, it pulses slightly less than my climax. Mademoiselle’s fingers remove the plug inside me, and more cool liquid tickles that hole.

“What the?” I mumble as I feel the blunt tip squirming around it.

“Mademoiselle,” disorientated, it is all I manage.

The warmth of my fading climax mixes with the burn of this invasion. She is... she is going to fuck me there. The precise and careful thrusts remove my need to protest.

She knows… she knows how powerful these orgasms can be.

“Oh fuck!”

“Shush” is her only word of comfort.

It will happen again as she slides on top of mine, and the leash is tight again. Trapped by her elfin body, she takes that vicious toy and zeros in on my sensitive clit.

As I lurch toward the ascent to orgasm, she nuzzles my ear.

“By the time I am finished. You will be all mine.”

Startled by her words, she clamps her hand over my mouth. I consider using her name to make her stop, but these skilful thrusts wash away my objections.

And I am floating in a haze... on a sea of honey.