Honestly, why did we come here? I feel my age. I am the autumn leaves, appealing and beautiful in their own way, but winter approaches. Tonight’s invitation is courtesy of Eva, my oldest friend and the gallery curator. She is very persistent that I meet the owner, Solange.

Considering my situation, this is something I should have declined. For eleven days and four hours, seeking Aveline is a form of paralysis. Daydreams haunt me, and my messages are unanswered. I go from gallery to gallery, clinging to tiny slivers of hope. This is Paris, and there are so many it is a pointless endeavour. Yet my intuition insists because I am unconvinced by Lilou’s story, I must know Aveline is all right.

Sipping on champagne, the pianist plays the first movement of Gnossiennes and provokes my melancholia. Amidst the stone columns and vaulted ceilings, this gallery imparts an almost religious experience, yet it jars with tonight. I know things change, and it is a constant vigil to avoid becoming cynical, but these gatherings used to be about art. We admired it and talked about it. Now? I have been here long enough to understand that art is debased, and this should be a supermarket. These are people I do not want to meet, talking about subjects I do not want to understand and listening to things I do not want to know.

These people barter in gossip; the more salacious, the better. I am finished if they latch onto what happened between Aveline and us. Smiling at a stranger, I receive a disdainful look in reply. I would say fuck you too, but I am too timid. I know I am out of sorts, leaning against my steadfast man, placing my hand on his heart. There is no destiny here, only fate, and it rests in their hands.

This is the price I pay when I cannot separate my public, private, and secret life.

Martin kisses my hair, and I need his reassurance. He looks so handsome, deliberately subdued in a dark suit, blending in as a form of camouflage. I am restrained, too, wearing a little black dress and a matching jacket with an embroidered Jacquard relief. Just lipstick tonight with my hair up, dignified, and adorned in diamonds as gifts from him over the years. They are nothing ostentatious; we are not rich, and each item was bought with sacrifice and love.

Lilou Bouchard is here, resplendent in Dior, intensely feminine in a black velvet two-piece trouser suit and pearls. I cannot see Romain, her husband. Situated in a corner adjacent to ours, we move like chess pieces on the chequered floor, keeping our distance. We shall remain this way all evening, exchanging occasional glances without a hint of emotion.

I am cowed, and this is not me. A woman looks me up, then down and sneers. Fuck… I am fuming, and it swells inside, pressurised and explosive. I yearn to dance, grind and writhe. I need to feel bass and rhythm, not lacrymose piano and champagne amongst this court of idiots. I must break free. Old memories swirl like a kaleidoscope; there was a place just like this and not so long ago.

I wish I were there instead.

-=-

Mademoiselle brought me to orgasm on the promise that she would exhibit me in public. On a Saturday evening, the day after I dressed as a submissive for my husband. It was not an empty threat. Adorned with my pearl choker and a tailored velvet dinner jacket, the satin lapels hid my naked breasts beneath a sheer top. A black mini skirt covered the essentials, and I was not wearing panties, only hold-ups with that tormenting plug in my behind. The previous day, I almost combusted from the intense arousal. This was more overt, and from the heat between my legs, I was soaked.

Martin waited for me at home. My reluctance was no role-play, and the metallic nervousness at the back of my throat could not be quenched. Walking hand-in-hand, Mademoiselle led, and she could feel my apprehension from my clammy hand. Entering Champmeslé, a lesbian bar, they would know what I was.

Grateful for the shadows, Mademoiselle was striking in a lace dress, her bustier and panties clearly visible, flanked by a borrowed silver Devoré jacket. Disaffected, her eyes and lips are painted, and mine are too. It was a Siren call, and the place was packed to standing room only. The thump of deep bass flowed through my immolation. Her faintest caress was pure electricity through my veins. They admired and objectified me. Lingering on my eyes, lips, and body, they incited me to a boiling delirium.

I was incredibly suggestible, floating on the benefit of two white wines, with a volcanic lust bubbling inside. Situated with our backs against a wall, Mademoiselle stood alongside me. Her fingers pushed on that plug, fucking my ass with tiny increments, challenging my ability to maintain my poise.

The caress of hot breath on my ear and rasped words were a litany of explicit descriptions that scandalised my mind. Commenting on the flaxen-haired woman, Mademoiselle undressed her sublime figure in my imagination, demanding my wanton gaze into her eyes. I needed to fidget; I craved her, my husband, and Mademoiselle. The blonde approached. Caught in her sultry expression, my imagination sparked, drying my mouth with excitement and trepidation. With a tilt of her head, her smouldering gaze revealed her desire, and tender fingertips caressed my face. I was incensed and betrayed by my heaving breasts visible through the sheer fabric.

We were hidden amongst the masses, and the attractive stranger unbuttoned my jacket, revealing my semi-naked body. She grinned as I simpered, and my wide eyes were brimmed with helplessness, and

“You can kiss her if you want.”

Oh fuck, Mademoiselle.

A lopsided grin greeted my gaze, and I had already devoured her lips. Her scent filled my nostrils, and their satin texture captured mine. Surrendering instantly, Mademoiselle’s hand caressed my inner thigh, brushing the cauldron of my sex. With a high-pitched and stifled whimper, I let the woman into my mouth as she cupped my breast, its thumb circling the erect nipple. Static as an object, communicating my need through its pressure and vacuum, the delicate flick of her tongue prised my lips wide open.

I am breached, and my delicious stranger pressed deeper. Its ebb and flow are instinctive, our tongues caressed as I descended into madness. Daring to touch her, she was so supple at the waist, warm in my hand, and I roamed over her curves, squeezing her behind. Willingly, I would have done anything to salve this rampant lust. Mere seconds were hours, and with each thumping rush of blood, I could not care less if I was seen. My mind was a long tunnel, and this was the only light.

As our lips parted, my eyes opened, and our stranger burned before me. I am truly helpless, a willing toy for them both to do as they please.

“You are a good pet for your mistress.”

“Thank you,” I gasped.

She chose to grin and kept me guessing. A sweep of her delicate fingers against my cheek forced me to lean into them.

“Adieu,” she whispered.

With a swirl of hair and a waft of her heady scent, she is gone. I am bereft, panting, and turned to face Mademoiselle. Grinning, she licked her fingers, our heads tilted. She pressed her lips to mine, fuelling my impulsiveness and picking up where the blonde had left me.

“You are a good slut. Follow me, Madame.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

She bundled me into one of the toilet cubicles. I was more than ablaze; I was a raging inferno. She clamped her hand over my mouth with an austere expression on her beautiful features. As her hostage, she suppressed my squeals while she took me with her twisted fingers. Sloshing in my cunt, she did not relent until I succumbed to a vicious climax.

Flushed, freshly fucked, I endured more avaricious stares all night with my juices sticky on my thighs. I was ravenous for Mademoiselle and for them. More women were beguiled to kiss me and touch my body under her precise instructions. I was no longer composed of a body, mind, and spirit; I was an ethereal lust, craven, and promiscuous for more.

As a craven banshee at home, taken by them both, I yelped and wailed as they ravaged my drenched holes. I was their toy, their foil, collared and leashed. Mademoiselle narrated the event of the evening. Passed between them to sate their lusts, they combined to drive me to new unexperienced heights. The pressure to climax was constrained until Mademoiselle convulsed hard, grimacing and shaking in a totemic orgasm. Underneath her, sucking on her clit, as the metronomic fucking from my husband overwhelmed her. He fucked my ass, that chain taut as Mademoiselle rubbed at my throbbing clit for the wildest orgasm. It was so powerful I could not be touched without sparking the portents of another.

Mademoiselle had no such qualms, fingering me into convulse fits, and lightning struck again and again.

Clinging to the bed with the room spinning, I lay wretched as a whimpering, quivering wreck.

-=-

The world zeroes in on me, and there she is. As chess pieces, the Queen moves towards my King.

We are similar in age, yet she is timeless in a plunging neckline and sequined creation, jet black and rouched to her curves. She is tall and elegant; her features are lean and arresting. Sharp, razor-cut bobbed hair typifies her confidence, and her movements are the culmination of years of muscle memory, slinky as a cat. Those sphinx eyes beguile even with her most neutral expression.

“Solange!”

“Ines, darling!”

We exchange air kisses, “It has been far too long. This collection is a triumph.”

Her warm smile is reassuring, “Then, you have spent more time admiring it than the rest of these… guests.”

“Really, I love it.”

“Darling, despite the pitiful amounts of creativity I find today, I yearn for tomorrow. I had to call in some favours… and spend some money. Have you seen what is over there?”

I look to where she is gesturing, “No, it is too busy.”

“It is wasted on these philistines,” she mutters, “I have no idea why I invited half of them.”

Her words resonate, putting me at ease that I am not alone. The view is obscured by bronzes on plinths and a sea of bodies. A head moves for a few seconds, and suddenly, I am floored.

My picture.

“Solange,” I gasp.

She beams and lets me savour the moment.

Perhaps, it is the three glasses of champagne or knowing a true connoisseur appreciates my picture. Maybe it is what happened eleven days ago. I weep, just a few tears.

“Oh darling!” and she places a hand on my shoulder.

Martin puts his arm around me, smiling proudly, and gives me his handkerchief.

“Sorry… it is.” Stuttering, I take a deep breath, “You are… wonderful.”

Looking through her fringe, she shakes my shoulder a little, rattling the sense in me, “You are wonderful, Ines. I was at Lilou’s last week and had to have it. She told me what I had to pay to secure it.”

“She did? It was closed bids.”

Solange nods, “A favour for a dear old friend.”

Shit, they are friends?

“Truly, I am overwhelmed.”

“You are too kind.” A tilt of her head suggests a change of tack, “Speaking of dear friends, I know Eva is yours, and when it comes to her persistent request… she speaks with my full authority. So please stop refusing her because you are refusing me.”

Sipping on my glass, the jolt is what I need, “Okay, I understand.”

“Ines, you have a sublime talent. We must talk, and you must let me represent you.”

I sigh; life is all sighs now, “Yes… of course.”

“Excellent, darling, and I should ask if you are all right. As always, there are many situations when added together, can create such a reaction.”

“Oh?”

“I understand you have fallen out with Lilou.”

Fuck, she knows!

In this heightened emotional state, anything close to a lie is impossible, “Yes, I have.”

“Apparently, you were arguing about one of her employees?”

“My friend, Aveline. Lilou fired her, and I wanted to know why.”

Solange frowns, “The rumour is you are more than friends.”

This dread is not the hulking mass I expected. It is a pervasive ice-cold fluid, filling me from within.

“How so?” I ask, playing the fool and playing for time, “Aveline had problems at home, so we offered to put her up in our apartment until she found a place of her own.”

Solange steps forward as a deeper incursion into our personal space, “How can I say this? I have heard you are sharing more than your apartment with her.”

My racing mind is dashed in a collision with an immovable wall, and I am dazed and drowning. This is more intense than I imagined. It will happen, and our exposure is the ultimate price we must pay. Lilou, probably Romain, and now Solange, they all know. This bitter fear leeches into my bones, my blood is chilled, and my thoughts are frozen.

“Oh… now… that is amusing,” Martin scoffs. “Seriously, what would a twenty-something want from a couple the wrong side of forty?”

She scrutinises us, “Is it amusing?”

He shrugs, “Only if you are not on the receiving end of such gossip.”

Perfectly weighted as a comment, it is a bare-faced lie dressed as the disinterested truth.

Oh, my love, thank you.

Bouyant, and following his example, this is a weight I must carry, or I will drown, “Solange? I had no idea we were this interesting.”

“Honestly?” She looks at both of us in turn, “Not especially, and please, no offence… only a few know who you are.” Solange glances at her nails, “Besides, Lilou has told me this is all nonsense.”

As she steps back with a kindly smile, my sense of relief is palpable, hidden by a sip of champagne.

“Lilou did that?” asks Martin.

“Yes, and she did not fire your friend. Aveline walked.”

“Really?” I cannot hide my surprise, “Lilou told you that, too?”

“Yes,” and she groans, “Romain. God, that man is so dull these days. He is losing his touch.”

Holding out her little finger, she drinks her champagne.

My impending social humiliation and death are postponed, “Is he the source of this… accusation? Sorry, Solange, but what the fuck?”

She is not taken aback, “Indeed. Last week, I had to talk to Romain about tonight. He is a terrible gossip. Literally, he makes this kind of shit up all the time, and he was furious with you, Ines.” She paused to lean in, “I think he has anger issues.”

“Yet, I have no dealings with him, and it is a cruel revenge for arguing with Lilou. I notice he is not here tonight. That is most unlike him.”

“He is in Antibes.”

“Antibes?”

Her expression casts a clear aspersion, “The plot thickens, darling.”

“How?”

“I suggest you ask Lilou. I despise gossip.”

I frown.

“Not persuaded? I like your stubbornness. It shows spirit,” her eyes light up. “Okay… Lilou would want you to know, and you can call this a gesture of goodwill. She called and said she was sending someone to me, asking for my help. Romain was bullying her.”

“Bullying?” My eyebrows say it all, “Let me guess, eyes and lips in full make-up, prim and enigmatic?”

Her long elegant finger points at me, “Yes, pretty too.”

“Aveline,” I gasp.

Solange grins, “Are you persuaded now? So, we had a little chat, I was impressed, and she denied Romain’s nasty rumour with such elegance. Sadly, I have no vacancies.”

“Oh.”

Her smile widens, knowing I am on tenterhooks, “But… I did know someone looking for a new assistant.”

“Solange, please,” I plead, “I did not know this. She left us without explanation and is alone in the world. I just want to make sure she is okay. Can you help?”

“Of course,” purred like a feline, “Go to Gallery Clemence. You will find her there.”

Just like that, my eleven days of torture are over, and I cannot contain my relief, “Thank you, sincerely… thank you very much.”

“Now, speak to Lilou for me, darling?” Solange implores, “How long have you known each other? I think she needs all the friends she can get.”

I defer, and she smiles, “Lilou said you are a good person. Life is too short, Ines.”

Taking Martin under her wing, she mingles with the other guests. Of course, before leaving, he made a very public show of affection and told me he loved me.

“Good luck. Take as long as you need.”

Honestly, that man, I do not deserve him.

I need another drink, and it is four deep at the bar. There is no way I am doing this without fortification.

-=-

Could I dare to dream again rather than reminisce?

Kissing Mademoiselle, he would taste me on her lips, and she had Martin under her spell. This was inevitable; he was blackmailed into participating. Returning from work, he saw me restrained in his Eames chair. Naked, my body was livid, bursting at the seams with arousal. Taken to the edge of climax too many times, I was a hot mess of mottled skin and ragged breaths.

Mademoiselle was attired in her most provocative lingerie, and those bands of silk and buckles crisscrossed her sublime curves. She stood poised in fully-fashioned stockings. Those long, lithe legs were ready to wrap themselves around his mass, with patent stiletto heels as spurs to goad his thrusts.

Restless and helpless as I watched, Mademoiselle hunted him down as her quarry, deceived by her puppy dog eyes, worshipping his cock on her knees. He wore that collar for her, and men are just as malleable at the height of arousal.

Reclined on our settee, undressed. I endured how Mademoiselle rode him confidently with a roll of her hips. Her feet were placed on his knees, and this view was for my benefit, with her legs wide open. She fucked him as a woman in a manner that made any man relent. Unable to tear my eyes away, wriggling with frustration as this pornography… my fantasy played out.

Her dark tresses swayed as a curtain, hiding half of her face. Those full red lips pouted with pleasure at my predicament. Calm as a metronome, plunging to take Monsieur’s entire length, lofting her sex, dragging her cunt lips up and down his shaft. She never did look more beautiful than in the throes of orgasm. Taking one, her arousal frothed as a brilliant white cream and soaked his balls. They excoriated my mind, sweeping everything away except my attention to his act.

The rustle of her stockings quickened as the suspenders slackened and tightened. It was agony to watch as my aching arousal pulsed through me. Mesmerised as she took Monsieur in short hops and swirls of her hips, her words were so calm and determined. She would take his seed, unloading him, draining his balls before my eyes. This was the pinnacle of a tawdry fantasy, my man tempted to breaking point by an assertive woman, and I could only watch.

Monsieur thrust upwards to meet her, and she has broken his will to resist. Sweeping the places that excited her, Mademoiselle encouraged him. The leash was taut as she squirmed, drawing tighter circles with her hips, filled to the hilt. She grabbed his hand, placing it over the quivering mound of her breast, spicing her movements, teasing out her stiffer moans. Agile fingers worked over her clit, as she dropped down hard, slapping her taut behind against his loins. Flushed, her eyes were slits as she trembled. I cannot fight, my body is incensed with the need for relief, and she yelps for a potent climax filled with rigid meat.

I watched the swell of his shaft and knew he was close. The flare of heat on Mademoiselle’s juicy cheeks, the rash across her decolletage, she was there too. Her smouldering gaze penetrated mine; I knew what she wanted. Reaching between her thighs, she caressed his tight balls.

“Madame, these are very full. Tell me. I want Monsieur to hear it.”

“Take him… Oh God, please, Mademoiselle.”

“You want me to take his seed, Madame?”

I had to groan, “Fuck, yes. Take his cum, Mademoiselle.”

The temptation to reach for my cunt and prise out my climax forced me to test my bonds. Mademoiselle purred with a satisfied contempt. As the mistress of her playthings, she extracted herself from her impalement. Walking towards me, one foot in front of another, the exaggerated sway of her gait made her hips sway, and breasts jiggle. Holding the leash, she has my husband, my lover… she has Monsieur in tow. A clammy hand on my thighs braced her as she knelt. Her gaze into my eyes revealed her delight as I lofted my bare mound towards her mouth.

A pursed grin waited.

“Please, Mademoiselle… please eat my cunt.”

“You need to cum, Madame?”

“Yes,” I beg, “please, Mademoiselle.”

She lurked over my wriggling mound, and Monsieur gathered her hair and draped it over her shoulder. That red-painted mouth was only a few centimetres from relieved this insanity. Licking her teeth, I begged for relief. Reaching behind her, I witnessed how she flinched, filled with thick, swollen meat.

“Slowly, Monsieur,” she hissed.

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he growled.

Her features softened as he took her. Her lips shone, and warm saliva dripped onto my livid sex. Hitting my clit, I gasped as it trickled down my swollen lips. My limbs tightened, and I cried out when her mouth engulfed my cunt. I writhed, unable to halt the undulation of my hips. Stabbed by her long tongue, the invasion of my sensitive folds drew my loudest cries yet. Monsieur obeyed the tension of the chain and did as he was told.

Sucking on my pussy lips, her thumb swirled on my clit. It barrelled through me, gathering the fiery tension into a white-hot ball of pressure. Impossible to hold out, I ached through my fingers, toes, limbs, and everything focused on my throbbing sex. Mademoiselle smiled as the soft pad of her thumb decided my entire fate at her whim. The cushion of her behind met his loins, and our eyes were fused together.

“Cum, Monsieur. Fill me up.”

Mademoiselle leered as her thumb’s pressure and circular movement cast its spell. I am wriggling, straining against my bonds; my limbs tightened, eased and flexed again.

Glancing at my husband, it was only for a second, but a thousand words.

“Look at me, Madame. I will show you what it feels like to take his seed.”

With that, I am lost, fighting to contain myself. Monsieur stuttered and groaned in defeat. Pouting with a gasp, flashing her eyes with a vivacious grin, it bared her teeth.

“Mmm, Monsieur, yes… put it in deep,” she purred.

As he ejaculated into her cunt, I clung on. At the limits of control, my involuntary hips would not stop, and the certainty of my climax could not be controlled.

Monsieur grunted, announcing each spasm, and she leered into my eyes, “Yes, Madame, I am squeezing him tight, draining his balls.”

“Oh… oh God… oh fuck! Mademoiselle... I have to....”

“Cum for me, Madame.”

My body ignited, sweeping me away into the contortions of my orgasm. My limbs could not break free, and it telegraphed through my orgasmic cunt and into my body. I arched, twisted and cried aloud. I did not know what sound I made or if any words were spat forth. It was dark, and I shuddered as if my flesh might rip from my bones.

When that pulsating glow coursed through me, I slumped, and my head lolled to one side. Blurry-eyed, my bonds were loosened. At liberty to move, she directed me between her thighs.

“Show Monsieur how eager you are to please me.”

I could hear him hunting for air. Lapping patiently, steered by Mademoiselle’s hand in my hair and with her eager hips, I tasted them both, drinking it down. She smeared it over my mouth, and I brought her to the summit. Hastily taken, I was clamped to her sex as she strained, stretched out, and shuddered in climax.

Hot and aroused, I throw the cold champagne down my neck.

Now, I must deal with Lilou Bouchard.

-=-

Lilou does not throw her drink over me, but we struggle with social niceties. Leaving the gallery for a discreet conversation, we venture onto the Pont des Art bridge. It is famous for the padlocks that adorn it as emblems of undying love. Sadly, they have removed so many; how ironic for us.

Holding the railings, I feel like a stranger to her. We peer out over the Seine, and Paris shimmers in its dark reflection under a dusky sky. She is so majestic that they adorned her with the Jardins du Trocadéro and the Eiffel Tower. On her island, a wounded cathedral remains the soul of this graceful city.

“Lilou…” I am hesitant, “Solange told me what you did for Aveline… and you are trying to protect my secret. Thank you, and I am very sorry for what I did. I was wrong.”

“No, do not be sorry,” she whispers without emotion, “You were very close to the truth.”

“What?” I frown, “How so?”

She does not reply, and we watch a river cruiser pass beneath us. I did not hear her weeping.

“Lilou?” I place a concerned arm around her, “What is it?”

“Oh God,” she snivels, “I have been such a bitch.”

Now was not the time, and I gave her Martin’s handkerchief, “Lilou? Do you want to talk about it?”

She steadies herself, dabs her eyes and nods. Reaching out, she takes my hand, and her fragile expression invokes my need to protect her. We are cast back in time as the struggling artist and the insecure young girl who used to watch me paint, fascinated by my palette of colours.

Our slow steps mark the passage of time, and scarlet red is for passion. It was a story of a dominant husband and a submissive wife who loved him unconditionally. When Aveline blossomed during Spring as a submissive. Romain noticed, and her seduction followed. There are the cold blues of sadness; Lilou was humiliated, watching him fuck another woman.

Aveline… what were you thinking?

Blood red is for rage, and the letter ‘S’ is for Sadism. Romain punished Aveline with a riding crop for being a brat, violating her safe word. Lilou protested and received a similar beating. Aveline snatched away the crop, throwing heavy ornaments in a fury that made Lilou wonder if she would kill him. Romain retreated and left the flat. With his authority compromised, he was furious.

This is why Aveline switched.

Black is for despair, and Lilou recalled Aveline’s tenderness, consoling her. She understood Lilou’s desolation, similar to the misery of being controlled by her parents.

She speaks as if Aveline is her only true friend.

Serene aquamarine calms and sunny yellows describe glimmers of happiness. Lilou lied to Romain; and kept Aveline employed at the gallery. She changed her hours to avoid him when he was due to visit. Once, she gave her the day off when he arrived unexpectedly.

It was not for selling that awful painting.

As we approach the tree-lined embankment, there is one without any leaves, symbolic of Lilou’s situation. We turn our backs on it and keep walking.

Royal purples are for courage and a pact made on a fateful Sunday. They waited for him to return, and Aveline was confrontational; she would never submit to him or anyone again. Lilou meant to deliver the killer blow – their marriage was over. She would tell Romain to leave, and Aveline would move in.

There is the brilliant white of fear because she could not do it. Conditioned and dependent on her abusive husband, her courage evaporated at this crucial moment.

Aveline returned to our apartment with a hint of Shalimar on her clothes.

Mid greens are for envy and Gaspar Quincampoix’s betrayal.

Nique sa mère.

Romain heard it all. His plan for me was equal parts of distraction and extortion. For Aveline, it was deception and obsession. Putting my lunch invitation aside, the bait for Aveline’s trap was Lilou leaving her husband. Requesting they meet up, Lilou would not be there; Romain would be waiting for Aveline at their flat. He was furious about our living arrangement and her lies.

Sky blue is for the chill in Lilou’s eyes, and I can see disbelief in them, “I… I could not do that to her.”

She called to warn Aveline. Always the wildcard and still upset about Sunday night, Aveline ended their friendship, quit her job, and hung up.

Thundering through our apartment, ashen-faced.

There was no chance to expose Romain’s plan and reveal he knew where she lived. For two panic-stricken hours, Lilou’s calls went unanswered.

Seeing the echoes of horror on her face, I squeezed her hand, “When I told Aveline I was meeting you for lunch, I think she was worried the truth would come out. Did she contact you?”

“No, she had my messages.”

“And so, packed her bags and left.”

“Oh, Ines… I am so sorry. You knew something was wrong.”

Fear makes people irrational, and her lies were warranted to protect what little she had. Romain’s obsession, violence, and the notion of feeding Aveline to the wolf were the final straws. She demanded a divorce, and when her parents learned why, they were incensed. As the storm of anger intensified between the two families, Romain fled.

There is a transference of the past into the present, and each footstep is a trial. Lilou halts and begins to tremble. Gathered in my arms, she is desolate, shaking as she sobs. Once, I saw a driven woman with all the confidence of a good man supporting her. She had no need for me, and marriage changed people.

I should have been there for her. I should have made more effort. How stupid of me.

Cerise pink is for a woman’s work. I hold her and understand this hurt intimately. Lilou is not alone, she has a lot of life to live, and I am proof of that. This is not permanent and can heal if she really wants to. Forcing down her anguish, she dabs away her tears, and we sit on one of the benches, holding hands.

This is the price we paid, and my palette rests.

Sitting in silence, we contemplate a ruined marriage and the ties of a long-standing friendship frayed to its last threads.

“How are you?” It would sound trite if I were not so emotionally involved.

She mulls it over, “I am okay,” and lives in a world of sighs too. “There is no going back.”

“You know, despite everything… you are always the little girl that used to watch me paint.”

Lilou leans in and rests her head on my shoulders, “What happened to her, Ines? What happened to us?”

“You are here, and I am here with you,” I sigh, “We are still here.”

“Thank you for listening,” she whispers, “you are a good friend.”

“No, Lilou. I have been a terrible friend and will be a better one.”

“I miss her… Aveline.”

I pull her close, “I do, too. How is she?”

“A closed book, Ines. Cold.”

-=-

It is the sweetest irony that mistakes have to be made. The one thing that Aveline wanted to avoid was the one thing that brought us back together. You can be the most careful driver, and there is always an idiot out there that crashes into you. You can be the most considerate lover, girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, or husband… whatever… there is someone determined to destroy it. From the start of that month, we were all novices, unsure of what would happen.

At Gallery Clemence, it was a fractured conversation of half sentences. I smile now as if we were star-crossed lovers trying to realign our planets. We went out for lunch, and there was no forensic examination of our errors. There was mutual forgiveness because we had context. I preferred to demonstrate this with wisdom and displayed the courage to move on. It is what it is, I told Aveline. Literally, we should shrug and continue with life. I had to set an example to follow, from one woman to another. I hoped Aveline might do that for Lilou, too.

Dinner at our apartment is her idea on one condition, there will be no more Mademoiselle, Monsieur, or Madame. It is easy to agree. That all-powerful genie needs to go back into its lamp.

Her style is inimitable, her posture immaculate, and she simpers in Parisian Red. A lace pattern top with a low neckline and a gold dogtooth mini-skirt provokes our eyes to admire her. With her hair flicked and adjusted by her fingers, there is the eternal contradiction of this fragile and sensual creature. She is her own woman, unafraid, fearless and confident in her sexuality. If nothing else happened, this is something we can draw comfort from.

Thank you, Solange.

Our desires are always a cocktail of novelty, fantasy, and sexual magnetism. There is always emotion, and now there is understanding. Where there was only passion months ago, there is everything else now. We are more than friends and have experienced so much in a very short time. Call it chemistry, call it what you like; it is not love but the closest of sentiments to it.

It is there in a glance, a curl of a smile, or the subtext of our conversation; we read between the lines and share it in the air we breathe. It is in the bouquet of the wine and every morsel of food. It is the relentless question from those days of regret and daydreams of ‘what if’. With the courage Aveline displays, we are in awe of her presence.

Her black hair flows like smoke in loose curls. There are so many memories around us, yet this is not nostalgia. The signs are there in the movement of an eyebrow or the careful orchestration of a hand gesture. She reveals it in the creases that dimple her cheeks or the nuances of her curled lips.

“Do you not agree, Ines?”

As she holds my gaze with those ingenue eyes, tilting her wine glass, I know this is the right thing to do. It is there with everything else, all at once.

With an unspoken glance at my wonderful husband, he concurs, raising his glass too.

Lifting her chin with the subtle tilt of her neck, Aveline grins, and our glasses tinkle together.

Fin de siècle… the end of an era and the start of a new one.

-=-

Roused by meandering fingers, I turn and peer over my sunglasses. Martin draws a seductive pattern on my forearm. Under the acid azure sky, the wash of the lazy tide rouses me. The scent of baked sand and sea air makes me purr as I stretch my arms, arching my back like a feline. The longer shadows bathe my naked body with a more tolerable heat. This is the Cote d’Azur, and the travails of early summer are a faded memory.

“You dozed off?”

There is the urbane smile I adore, and I have to reciprocate, “No, just daydreaming.”

“A penny for your thoughts?”

“Huh,” I mutter, “Talk is that cheap?”

She rises above him, revealing her naked body, and lifts her sunglasses, “Talk is never cheap, Ines.”

Giggling, it is a playful retort. Of course, I cannot help but grin widely too.

“You can tell me all about your daydream as you put some more lotion on me. I do not want my breasts to burn.”

Oh, Aveline...

-=-

Hold me close, undress me, kiss the naked skin you reveal. Take me prisoner for your desires, be my jailer as your hostage, and provide the sweetest torture. Make me confess, overload my mind and body with sublime pleasure. I will not neglect you both, savouring your confection as a temptress with my mouth, tongue and lips. Be the devil that glimmers in your eyes, and be my saint, saviour and deliverance. Be my redemption because both of you are my most hopeful dreams.

Demonstrate with your soulful eyes, press your lips to mine; mould and tempt me into these burning flames of desire. Fill me with the majestic sweep of thick muscle, make my juices froth, paw at my flexing body and make me cry out in ecstasy. Be the lash of a mischievous tongue, the twisted fingers, the impish grin and the full lips that cup my mound. Deliver me to the clamour and rapturous shudders, and sate my hunger.

Move with me, back and forth, as its warp and weft. Weave the ties that bind us, those strands of lust and addiction. I will clutch your elfin figure and writhe to take you there too. Together in unison, propelling us to the indescribable, enduring it with me. Let me see it in your eyes; take my husband into your mouth, and let me watch as I rock the foundations of your soul.

Yes, we are helpless, writhing and panting, mired in wet heat, caught in the grip of ecstasy. Share him with me, share your struggle, and we will hold out until you are sated. Let me devour you and experience the moment where there is no control and only instinct. Bring him with us as our noble and generous lover. Enliven his passions with me, and encourage my animal. Be the wistful smile of my daydreams and the inspiration that sparkles my eyes.

Together, we will erase our frustrations and delete our worries. We will make love as angels and be ploughed as whores. Feel that clasp of tension; know that you created how I strain, seize and flail. We will make you tremble, grip, arch and convulse. Be there when he pushes it inside, and share it with me; I will do the same for you. He will roar, so embrace my lion with your limbs, and we will carry it in our bodies as a fading memento together. Let me hold you and keep you safe at your most vulnerable. Rest against me, lie still, and the three of us will savour the dying embers together.

-=-

The separation of our public, private and secret lives relies on the connivance of a friend. Then again, Lilou trusts her secret with me. She got her divorce and is more like the grown woman from the little girl I remember. I find the scent of jasmine calming in her gallery, and her fee is still seventy per cent; Solange’s is the same. I do not argue; they achieve much higher prices than I can alone.

I have not learnt how to enjoy their soirees, but Martin is becoming quite the bon viveur… his words. It is not French. I am still teaching the Englishman, my loving husband; he is my life’s work.

Aveline spent several weeks with us, there was the pretext of looking for an apartment, but we never challenged her. We took a long holiday at Cap d’Agde together, naked all day and during those languorous carnal nights. Aveline repaired her friendship with Lilou and took up her offer, moving into her flat in Marais.

We missed her, yet we knew there were more degrees of separation to come. This was on our terms, and when we did meet, there were still the fireworks of passion.

It was Clemence that contacted Solange, and she summons Lilou and me. Impressed with Aveline’s self-taught knowledge, the four of us are unanimous. Encouraging Aveline to consider a degree in Art History, she visited the University of Bordeaux, which led to an unexpected encounter with an old friend. This was not the disaffected Aveline I knew well. As romance blossomed, it was clear that Cupid got her in the heart and right between the eyes.

And so fate intervened where the Quincampoix’s failed. We faced leaving Paris as a temporary sojourn too. My husband had a work secondment. For Aveline, it was one of life’s milestones, and she shared her most heartfelt feelings with me. That was an immense privilege.

“I love him,” she gasped. “And... he loves me. I am afraid because I need to be with him. I... I need him, Ines.”

“Afraid?” I shook my head, “No, you are alive. Does he understand you? No secrets? This is important, Aveline, very, very important.”

She nodded, “He knows I am... enigmatic.... sexually.”

I laughed at that one, “It has many names. That one is good enough.”

“You know, in a way... he is similar to Martin.”

“Huh,” I groaned, “You poor thing.”

She grinned, “He is kind and supportive, strong inside, and silent at times.”

“I hope he is silent at the right times.”

“Yes, always those times,” she opined with a wistful smile, “I cannot help but do my best for him.”

“Then invest that wisely. Make him want you. Trust me on that one.”

“Oh, I will.” She was pensive, “I have had the best teacher.”

“Then, you know what you must do.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and we embraced. Perhaps, she had made enough mistakes to know what should be treasured and what was worth fighting for.

We knew they had to be together, and I cried to see her go with tears inspired by joy, not sorrow.

She is still there, safe, happy, and very much in love.

Fly, Little Bird… fly.

- FIN -