It is what it is – c’est comme ça and I am alone. Sterile streetlights cast random shadows on the ivory-rendered walls. There are fifteen panes of glass in their window, and this is a boulevard of four-storey buildings. Should I feel guilty? No, I live vicariously through them.

She rides him with an elegant nonchalance in the warm, yellowy light, flicking her hair from her face. He is prone, tall and athletic, with long limbs and built for speed. I prefer men with more meat on their bones. She… I know her. Our eyes met in the café, and we greeted each other as familiar strangers. If only she knew why I smiled; I have seen her delectable body naked.

Peeling his hands from her breasts, she hauls herself upright. Poised like a tigress, this is not fucking, but hunting. She moves hypnotically, rolling her lithe body like the gentle waves caressing the shore. Licking my fingers, I savour the tang of my juices.

Peering down at him, I imagine how her eyes blaze with determination spiced with lust. She is a woman I identify with, a woman like myself. Clasping his thigh, she braces herself against his chest and quickens her tempo. Thunder is coming, and I yearn to hear her whimpers. Faster still, and her hair lashes with the unleashed energy. She flays at him from the hips, grinding, then short hops.

These movements are familiar and well-practised; she likes to do this, and her inevitable struggle builds. The minutes feel longer, and I devour her ascent to the summit. Enduring the murderous peak with her, my core bound in knots upon knots, and I am desperate to relieve the pressure.

Lightning strikes, her mouth opens, her eyes close, and her face is skywards, venerating the intensity. Then, her head falls when it cripples her body as a tumultuous storm. Welcoming the surge, I tremble with her, savouring a much-needed release.

He takes control and rolls her prone, prising her legs open wide. Labouring in a missionary fuck of push and pull, she encourages him, locking her slender legs around his body. I wonder if she is begging for his seed or what words she uses to make him capitulate. He stutters and crumples on top of her and slows in jagged thrusts as if dying.

My second climax does not banish this melancholia.

Filled with his seed, I envy her. She lies in his arms, safe, not vulnerable, contented and not guilty. Resting in a close embrace, they are young and full of vitality; they know nothing of cynicism and pain. A frisson of attraction rises as she nestles her behind against his crotch, revealing her lithe curves. I understand her mischief; a good lover would never let that go unpunished. It is a clue to his inexperience, and she is unrequited.

I gave up the company of women for my marriage. I would show her so much more, and when we were finished, she would rest in my arms, gratified, weary, and welcoming the long hours of blissful sleep.

Running my fingers through my hair, I stare at the milky grey ceiling and return to the comfort of nostalgia. The abrasions of my life wore away the vivid colours, and their memories do not inspire my numb sense of self. I was free as a bird once, and I am not a prisoner now. I answer to no one, but my soul is caged. I rattle its bars, hoping to escape. Only the extremes jolt me from my malaise.

Between my thighs, I stir at the sensitive heat again.

I recall the time, place, and grip of two energetic men. The skid of our damp bodies, sandwiched between them, I was the willing sleeve for their steely shafts. Hot inside me, touching everywhere, antagonising my savage need to be ravaged. Being called a dirty whore fuelled my descent into mindlessness. My harsh, plaintive yelps were timed with their thrusts, and they rose in pace, taking what they wanted.

My body was in raptures as they rifled my holes. From the rasps of shallow breath and quickened blood to the hot scent of sandalwood and the creaking bed, I was abandoned…wanton. The depth of my sexuality was a bottomless pit, illuminated by my determination to experience it all. Pushing back, I received the deepest penetration. I bit on salty flesh, goaded their worst, and the sting of a stranger’s loins slapped my behind. Merciless fingers squeezed my sensitive nipples, sending more bolts of lightning through my wracked body.

The constant invasion was never-ending as these rampant men took their turn, and I was electricity. Gripping the sheets, instinct urged me to abate my hunger. I croaked in a gurgle of defeat, and the vicious tremors swept reality aside. Lost in the detonation of countless spasms, they pounded me into oblivion. I was limp, whimpering, and they took their turns to inundate me with their seed.

Seizing up, my third orgasm rolls through me as a distant squall, and I cramp, but the aftershocks fade quickly. This is no replacement for the real thing.

-=-

In a daze, I welcome the need for sleep, but there is a sudden movement in their window. She strolls towards it with a fluid gait, and hope flickers that she might see me. My attraction to her flutters as energetic butterflies, and her warm smile at the café haunts me. When her arms extend, it reveals her sublime figure. As a half-lit silhouette, she is art, from her shoulders to the hang of breasts, through her waist and taut stomach, the guile of her hips to the gap between her thighs and smooth pelvic floor.

The curtains close, extinguishing light, hope and nostalgia. Clutching a pillow and behind closed eyes, faded reminiscences swirl as a collage of random moments. My memories are brittle and paper-thin. They are easily torn, and I confront the truth again. I settled for someone who might love me rather than lust over me. I lied to myself and ignored who I was. Worse, I married him, and now I am an unhappy divorcee. Who is the bigger fool, the innocent or the guilty?

I stop and open my eyes. I do not want that nightmare tonight.

If emotions are the music and colour of life, I am surrounded by silence and naked, plain walls. I stare at them, grateful for the weight of my eyelids. There is a creak from this old building; they always unsettle me. I am still not used to living here, and the low rumble of tyres outside reassures me that I am not alone.

My limbs are heavy, and I must stop lying to myself. I am alone.

C’est comme ça.

-=-

Awaking early, there is optimism in the rising sun; it is the best time to think. Sitting on the terrace in an old smock dress, I finish my coffee as the new dawn fades. Their curtains are closed, and I lose myself in the Parisian skyline and the tableau of leaden grey rooftops. I must retire inside as the sun shines along the boulevard. The light is perfect; it is time to work.

Confronted by the blank canvas on my easel, I am anxious and hold the pastel with the apprehension of a novice.

An ugly black line desecrates the virginal white, and more follow as chaos without order. So many facets of my life exist like this - started and finished, but there is no ending or closure. Gripping my free hand into a fist, that is enough pity, and I seize on my craving for something beautiful. The coarse, broad strokes slither to describe her curves from memory. Faint echoes from a subconscious mind grow louder, and finer lines bind them together, forming her features.

In the silence, my courage grows. She is a composite from all those years ago; myself, memories of past lovers, and the woman from the apartment all melded together. More details bring her to life. Muscle memory supplies a deft touch as the conduit for my desires. The way she holds a gesture, the poise of her half-opened lips, and the enigma in her eyes. She will tell our story on this canvas: all the moments of pain, joy, fear, lust, love… moments filled with life! There is a pressure building; I must contain myself, and my hand must not tremble until, with one final swipe across the canvas - it is done.

Breathless, as if swimming up from the depths, I burst free for air. For too long, I have not created anything meaningful. I swell with excitement, finally connected to something greater than myself - connected to the world filled with beauty.

I must continue; my palette is ready. Peering over my glasses, I adjust the easel. To apply oil paint to the canvas, I need a more muted light, but I cannot find it. Tutting, the calico blinds must be lowered a little.

At the window, I pause, struck dumb. My mind scrabbles to understand, is it adultery, infidelity, or is she like me before my marriage – a libertine?

-=-

He is a sight to behold, and I am still attuned to my artistic mind’s eye. His sun-kissed skin covers a hard body sculpted from oak, labouring to contain the raw energy within him. His broad shoulders, solid biceps and defined contours plumb my wildest fantasies. He is a man who commands respect and perhaps even fear. Someone I would show all my profane contempt for and gleefully receive his punishment.

He stands tall and proud on thick thighs as sturdy as tree trunks. Gazing downward at her in silent pleasure, she kneels before him naked. A model of obedience, meeting his eyes as his rampant shaft skewers her mouth. Its girth matches his bulk; I imagine she struggles to receive it.

Watching over her, he commands her with nothing more than a urbane smile. She takes his urgent thrusts, pressing a slender hand on his loins, and it does not hold him back. Her teardrop breasts quiver, and I can see the frantic movements of her arm guiding quick fingers between her thighs. I know she is helpless to the sensations coursing through her. She will need to be drenched; for such a slender nymph, she will feel everything when he takes her.

Clasping her head in his hands, he presses his entire length into her. She resists, pushing against him, and weakens instantaneously. Suddenly full, poleaxed, it mollifies her completely. It is beautiful and terrifying. He pauses as if ready to strike her. As he withdraws, she retches, wipes her mouth, and is hauled up like a ragdoll from the floor.

My blood is hot, and there is no indecision based on morality, and I have to see more. He is pulling her to the bedroom, and I follow to mine.

Tugging at her limbs, she is posed as a human mannequin, on all fours, arms locked, spine curled, and her breasts hang before my eyes. When she is penetrated, she pitches up, the dark void of her mouth visible and eyes wide with alacrity. He pulls her onto his shaft and makes her breasts sway. Gathering her long hair, it is the leash that binds her to him.

I cannot help myself. I am flushed through my core, and my face burns. It is lust and shame, their intimacy betrayed by my prying eyes. The compulsion to fuck is inescapable; I am possessed by the need for a man inside me. A man like him, doing as he pleases, using me, using everything I know, provoking everything I have to sate us both.

I am in full view, standing at the tall window. I will not cower in the faint shadows.

She is baying for more, trying to look back at him, and he tugs on her hair to keep her in place. My body is a cauldron of boiling hot lava, and this spectacle roots my feet to the floor. I know what I need; my hands slip off the crossed straps, and the cotton fabric provides an unwelcome caress as it falls to the floor.

My hand roams over my shoulder, my slender upper arm, across my fulsome breast. Gasping, my fingers toy with my erect, stubby nipple, and they meander down my taut stomach again. My fingertips are cold against my taut abdomen. Sliding them under the elastic of my panties, I tremble when I breech the slippery heat.

The simplicity of their act lets my imagination flourish. I would pull her head down and gaze into her feral eyes. Her mouth pulled to my sex, and the lash of her tongue would devour it. Its electric tip flaying my aching clit, the vacuum from her pursed lips sucking on its hood. Cupping my sex, whimpering, and tongue fucking me. Holding her hands to knead my generous breasts, I would stare deep into his eyes as my challenge to him. I would not be conquered so easily.

I want them to see me and pull my panties from my waist, yanking them down past my hips. Now, I am like them, completely naked, openly masturbating before them.

He is driving harder, giving her what she craved the night before. Taking her wrists, he pulls her arms back, and she is lofted before me. She melts before my eyes, quivering with the force of his lunges, mouth open, eyes closed. Her sublime breasts quake, and her hair flails as thousands of whipcracks. She is trapped, and this is nothing like the tenderness of last night. He is a sublime fuck, masterful, craven, gloriously masculine. The rush of blood in my ears will not distract me; I can imagine the rasping of their breath and the sound of their bodies colliding together. Panting, my fingers plunge into my sex, and I burn with a long-forgotten intensity.

I would inspire him, rolling her prone to straddle her face. Grabbing her ankles, I would hold her legs apart and watch him plundering her hole. The drag of her delicate lips back and forth, shiny with her juices, her hips matching his thrusts. Grinding on her mouth, letting her kiss and lick and suck and bite me because she cannot get enough, making me come hard and fast.

My fingers dart furiously across my swollen clit, and I can barely keep up with the pace I set for myself. I would take control and make them slaves to my desires. I am behind him, cupping his balls, caressing them to yield their contents into her pristine cunt, telling him I am next to take his seed.

I am burning white hot, knowing that I will be quenched in a torrent of noise and magnificent spasms. I am at its apex, and her eyes open wide. There is our connection; she sees me, and we are undeterred. Seething with adrenaline, it is too late to be squeamish. Her eyes close, and she convulses. It rattles through her legs and arms, her features contorted in this most intimate moment.

Begging to be consumed, my legs shake, and my tense body craves release. He gathers her in his arms, trapping her flailing body in a bearhug. He bucks ferociously, once, twice, three times. I know what he has done and topple into the abyss. Crying out, I brace my crippled body against the wall. Slumping to the floor, I chase out every shudder in the knowledge that she saw me, exorcising all my demons.

Panting hard, a dew of exertion cools on my skin, and the fire within wanes. She lies on the bed with crooked limbs, her face hidden beneath an explosion of blonde hair. Beautiful, even in this dishevelled state, I admire her body, rising and falling with every breath. I hope she can sense my presence and feel my eyes upon her.

Buttoning his shirt, he tucks it into his trousers. Now, I understand who he is to her. Fully dressed, he turns and leaves the bedroom. Retrieving my dress, I stand on uncertain legs and pull it over my body. Watching, she stirs, rolls onto her side and tentatively slides across the bed. She glances at the window, and I am not acknowledged when she walks from the room. Is she going to return? Is she disgusted that a voyeur openly masturbated while they had sex?

A crushing doubt leeches into my mind, threatening to add shame to my burden. Back in the room, her satin robe sways with the brisk pace, and I stand there, soaked with an unbearable trepidation. Pressed to the glass is a sheet of paper and bold black lettering.

Café 1pm?

The place where we met, with an acknowledgement between two familiar strangers. I hold my finger up as a signal. Quickly, I find my sketch pad and write with a shaky hand.

I press my reply to the window.

Yes.

-=-

We met there three months ago on that fateful lunchtime, the atmosphere palpable, itchy with uncertainty. Standing before my table, she dressed simply in a printed cotton dress. With tied-back hair and flushed cheeks, I met her gaze. Those bright blue eyes revealed nothing, with a neutral expression impossible to decipher. Spying the chilled white wine next to mine, she could choose its purpose - an icebreaker or a peace offering.

I had nothing to lose.

“I think you need it,” I surmised. “These metal chairs are cold as well. Would you like some ice for that, too?”

Rolling her eyes to the heavens, the curl of her lips relieved my personal crisis.

“I am Camille. My friends call me Cami.”

“Hello, Cami, everyone calls me Ines.”

My grin revealed my relief. Pulling up a chair, Cami sat, still smiling, and sipped her wine.

“Ines,” she locked her eyes onto mine and leaned in. “I know you have been watching us for weeks.”

Blushing, I salvaged my composure with a large sip of wine.

“I found it very exciting,” she whispered, “You are a beautiful woman.”

Lurching from embarrassment, I am floored by her overt compliment, “I… I thought you would be angry?”

“No,” she shook her head with a coy smile. “It provided the excitement during some very average sex. Except for today, he was exceptional.”

I frowned, “Oh, I see. Very average.” I tutted, “That is unfortunate, and we have something in common.”

“Oh?” That piqued her interest.

“Would you care for some lunch? I understand the very average.” I gazed at her flushed lips, “I am interested in the exceptional, too.”

Now, I knew what that warm smile meant.

We picked over our salads as kindred spirits. Cami rebelled against the pressure to settle down. Only a few years younger than me, she resisted because he was second best. With a strong sense of empathy and my abridged life story, this was our first thing in common.

The motif of his business card on the table was not lost on me. The brute was an old work colleague, a majestic fuck and nothing more. Staring at it, Cami suggested he was enough for two women. Her comment roused an old smile I thought I had forgotten. Staring into my eyes, she understood immediately.

“Is that the two of us sharing him separately or together, Cami?”

“Together,” she shot back with urgency.

Reaching for my hand, she caressed the back of it with her thumb, and her reticent gaze brimmed with hope.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

-=-

We had him, and I got my wish. He started as a monster. We tamed him into a whimpering mess, reducing ourselves to human wreckage. Once and once only, still, I am sure it provided him with a memory of a lifetime. There have been others since, and we explore our desires together. This friendship defies convention, a situation that one might wonder is unobtainable. Maybe another man might sweep me off my feet, and perhaps the same will happen to Cami. When this happens, they will accept our special arrangement.

The evenings grow longer now, and twilight is a colourful display of ochres and crimson. The view is better from my bedroom window, and I have my back to it. Admiring Cami’s flawless skin, my patient touch belies our state of mind; it contradicts our feverish bodies. I am restless above her, and she arches her back to meet my movements with a gasp. Our lips meet in a wanton kiss, tongues twirling and exploring each other’s mouths. We hear nothing but our snorted breathing and the grazing sound of skin against skin. Her whimpers rise an octave in our symphony of lust.

The musk of sex and hot perfume swirls in the torpid air. Cami is beneath me, and I run my fingers over her delicate features. A wistful smile forms on her bee-stung lips, and they taste of my bittersweet juices. We swoop and rise to the sensual rhythm. Her nostrils flare, and a zephyr breeze of her panted moans caresses my damp skin. Supple and yielding, she clamours to hold me there.

Rising above her reclined body, I love the way her breasts heave, rising and falling with each breath. She is a flower unfurling; her petals are soft against my own, and her jasmine scent intoxicates my senses. Her eyes, so vast and beautiful, sparkle more than a reflection of the moon outside. Cami places a hand on my hip, pulling me closer, writhing against me.

“Like this?” Cami whimpers.

“Yes… I can feel you there.”

“One more, Ines,” she pleads, writhing. “Together… just… one… more. Together.”

“Cami…” I am uncertain, “There… oh fuck, just there.”

The heat rises within, and she rises to meet me. I will not struggle alone, and we grapple to hold each other close. Her lips suck on one of mine, her tongue presses deep into my mouth, imploring me to reciprocate. Our tongues cavort, and we snort for air; her erect nipples brush against my breasts. Our limbs, hands, and mouths cannot express our passion. Cami’s hand roams over my back, her nails digging into my flesh. My rolling hips will not halt, my sex smearing against hers. Panting faster, sharing that gaze of helplessness in each other’s eyes, I embrace the familiar tightening in my stomach.

When I reach my peak, I bury my face in the crook of her neck, biting down on her shoulder as the rapture sweeps me away. I am pulled down, struggling through the onslaught. It is the last one I can conjure. Cami follows soon after, her profound cries filling the room as she climaxes beneath mine.

Slowly, reality swirls back into focus. The slow snare drum and soulful timpani accompany my blissful state of mind. Our bodies entwined, and our breathing lengthens its stride. I look to the wall, and she looks down upon us, our contemporary Aphrodite, a composite of many lovers and us. Her ambiguous expression defines our experience of purity and vice.

I am saturated through to my bones with ecstasy, listless, and words are so difficult to find. Cami rests in my arms, and the sonorous rhythm of her breathing is the lullaby to sweet and blissful sleep.

I am not alone - c’est comme ça.