The vacation’s been great, but I’m impatient for it to end. I’ve been cruising through the days like a boat slicing through water, no longer content with the pleasure of the sun on my skin and the water between my legs and the dinners and the men getting excited and the women confessing.
The days are passing and I belong to Him. I need His smell and the touch of His skin and His commands.
I’m bored, the hours follow one another, I recall His voice, I’m waiting for Him, and reveling in the wait.
To pass the time, I try to take care of myself. I keep track of my tan, have myself massaged with relaxing oils, every day my skin is becoming smoother and more bronzed, I hope He’ll like me.
Through all these long weeks, He’s called me just once, to ask about who’s in the house. It seemed as if He was ready to come here. I’ll never know what attracted him: Saint-Tropez or my mouth.
Our reunion in Paris is steamy. For once, He forgives my absence with kisses. He wants me to be free tomorrow night.
Indescribable joy. I feel alive again.
I want to surprise Him, think of things before He does. I want Him to know I understand Him.
I call the beautiful Ingrid and invite her to dinner. Luckily, her husband is still away, and she’s alone for a few days. It’s better that way.
I invite her to join “us” tomorrow night, explaining that I won’t be with my husband, I’ll be with a friend who’s “a bit of a devil” but whom I’m sure she’ll like. She laughs and accepts the invitation, without asking any questions.
I think about Him. All I think about is Him.
I insist that Ingrid wear a skirt. She laughs and agrees, without asking why. I don’t know if she’s understood, but she seems to be well disciplined. I’m sure He’ll like her.
We arrange to meet at the Café de la Mairie at nine o’clock. I promise Him a surprise. He laughs and tries to find out who, what, how, but I manage to fend Him off.
After hesitating for a while, I decide to wear the gray-blue slip dress I bought on vacation. My hair is longer and lighter in color, my legs are tanned and slim in their flip-flops, my eyes as light as His are dark. I’m feeling quite confident.
I’d like to make Him love me tonight, I’d like Him to know how unconditionally devoted to Him I am. I’d like Him to fuck me, too, to deign to possess what He’s scorned so far. Then I’d belong to Him. Then He’ll have had everything of me. My soul. And my body.
I imagine the look on His face when He sees this incredible girl.
I feel she’s ready. I remember the expression on her face as she watched me kissing Sixtine, and how she immediately approached me. I’ve imagined her touching herself, I’ve thought about my hands on her.
I arrive at the place Saint-Sulpice on my scooter. I’m on time. He’s already waiting. From the stares I’ve been getting from the drivers along the quais, I know how good I look, I know the preparation was worth it.
He’s on the phone. He smiles and hugs me, and continues His conversation. Just the pressure of His arm around my shoulders as He presses them against His chest moves me more than I can say. Maybe one day, in some small way, I’ll be able to make Him feel He can’t do without me.
Without actually listening to His conversation, I gather He’s asking someone else to join us tonight. When He hangs up, he confirms that He’s invited a friend of His, someone I don’t know.
“Philippe. I’ve known him for fifteen years. He only has one fault—he’s right-wing. He works at the Élysée.” That’s all I’m going to find out. For the moment.
I’m a bit disappointed. Three was a good number.
I don’t want another man, and I’m afraid the gorgeous Ingrid will be embarrassed or maybe a bit less comfortable than if there were just two of us devoting ourselves to her.
Of course I don’t say anything, and keep fending off His insistent questions about the nature of my surprise, as we sit down on the café’s uncomfortable chairs. I feel a little tense, and order a glass of champagne. I hope she’ll show up. Before long, I’m feeling dizzy.
After a few minutes of polite conversation about our respective vacations, we’re joined by a tall man in his forties with a pale complexion and drawn features. He has the earnest look of an overworked civil servant.
They both stare at the young women passing, and question me about my surprise. I keep my answers vague. I even have a bit of fun lying: “She’s a doctor, short, a bit ordinary, a bit plump, but very extroverted.”
I can tell He’s worried, He throws me a reproving look as he listens to my description, then leans toward me and whispers in my ear: “If she isn’t worthy of me, I’ll beat the hell out of you.”
His words make me tremble. I close my eyes for a moment. I’d like Him to fuck me here, right now, to plunge into me in a single movement. I’d like Him to hurt me. I’d like His teeth on my breasts. I’d like Him to bite my neck and my buttocks. Maybe also take off His leather belt and beat me as hard as I know He can.
I’ve stopped listening to His conversation with Philippe.
I sit upright in my chair, with my legs crossed high, not knowing what to do with my hands as one cigarette follows another.
I feel I’m His, totally, unreservedly.
Just as the boys are starting to lose patience, I see the stunning Ingrid crossing the square toward the café, looking for me. I don’t move. I wait for her to spot me among the tourists enjoying the summer evening, and the moment she sees me and gives a big wave, I turn and look at Him as He watches this statuesque girl walking toward us with her long catlike strides.
The excitement in His eyes tells me I was right: my friend is absolutely to His taste.
I notice she’s wearing a skirt, and I smile. Good, she’s followed my instructions. I guessed she had a strong desire for freedom, and I was right.
I can already imagine her in my arms.
>We dine on the terrace of a little restaurant in Saint-Germain. I don’t feel hungry, and make do with seven slices of tomato, which amuses Him.
I know He knows all this is only for Him, only to please Him.
The conversation is lighthearted, amusing, and suggestive. Philippe can’t take his eyes off me. I’m afraid he wants me and that He’ll grant his wish by lending me to him. The two friends seem very close, but I sense that Philippe is gentler—more spontaneous, too.
The cool rosé wine makes me a little tipsy. I know I’ll do whatever He asks me to. I also know He’s grateful to me for my gift.
He stares at her, bright-eyed, imagining her breasts under her pale silk shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra. She has small breasts and you can make out her hard, dark nipples through the shirt. There’s a sprinkling of freckles between her breasts.
She seems very much at ease. I feel very proud of my new “recruit.” I can’t imagine any of my usual friends here instead of this young foreign model.
She tells them about how we met, but doesn’t mention that I kissed Sixtine. She’s already realized there are some things that can’t be said, and to avoid any misunderstanding, she changes the subject. She tells us about her photo sessions in Ibiza, how the photographer’s assistant kept trying to sneak off with her, how her freckles resisted the efforts of the makeup artist. She mentions her house in Formentera.
He puts His hand between my legs and leans toward me and whispers in my ear: “She’s magnificent. What a nice gift. Thank you.”
I smile at Him. That’s the most beautiful compliment He could have given me. The essential thing is that every moment He grants me is a feast for Him. My own unsatisfied desire doesn’t matter. All that matters is His pleasure. I’d give Him everything I have, I’ve even seduced the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had the luck to meet, just for Him.
Philippe has noticed I have the shoulders of a horsewoman. He rides, too. He says he’d like to ride with me.
I look at Him. He smiles. “If I say so.” I’m grateful to Him.
The idea that I’m here to do His bidding excites me and terrifies me. He slips His fingers between my panties and my skin and puckers His lips in what could be a smile. I’m very damp. Ostentatiously, He fondles me a little, then takes out His middle finger and raises it to my mouth. I suck His finger between my lips.
Ingrid and Philippe have been watching every move. Now she lowers her head, but Philippe is still looking at me insistently. I keep His finger between my lips and sustain His friend’s gaze.
I want Him to fuck me.
“Let’s go,” He says at last. He sticks a few bills on the table and drags us after Him.
“Where to?” Ingrid asks.
I’m amused by her boldness. She doesn’t know there are some questions He won’t answer.
For the first time since He made me His thing, He puts His hand on my shoulder and we walk like that, side by side, along the street.
I interpret the gesture as a sign of affection and find it very moving.
As I walk in the hollow of His shoulder, I observe Ingrid, who’s on my left, closely followed by the handsome Philippe.
I can sense she’s trying her best to overcome her nervousness.
To encourage her, I put my left arm around her waist. She smiles at me, and He smiles, too, satisfaction lighting up His dark face.
It’s a warm night and the air is mild. We walk as far as the rue du Cherche-Midi, where He takes us through a big metal gate. Ingrid and I look at each other. I find it really amusing to be here in the streets of Paris, at the entrance to a place I’ve never been, with the most beautiful girl in the world, who’s agreed to follow me even though she hardly knows me and certainly has no idea of the nature of the games He likes to subject me to and that are the very reason I’ve invited her.
I take her hand.
Behind the gate, a succession of dark corridors and shiny steps. At last, we come to a thick black door, padded in leather with brass nails.
He rings. Time passes. Philippe, Ingrid, and I stare at the door. Finally, a peephole opens. An eye must be staring at us, but we can’t see it.
I squeeze Ingrid’s hand very hard to stop her shaking.
The door opens.
A tall dark man, who looks as if he’s come straight from the gym, wearing a Gaultier-style stretch vest cut as low as you can go, puts his head and one shoulder through the door of the unsettling dungeon. His manner isn’t very pleasant. All he does is appraise our thin bodies in our loose summer clothes, the colors of which, although very sober—Ingrid in beige and me in gray-blue—seem to surprise him.
“Do you know where you are?”
I find it very hard to contain a laugh of embarrassment and excitement.
If this ill-mannered Cerberus only knew who he was talking to—a supermodel, one of the president’s top aides, and two distinguished representatives of the Paris bar!
All He does is nod His head, but His silence speaks volumes.
I observe Philippe, who’s hung back a little, maybe one step behind us.
The protein-fed bodybuilder looks us up and down. “You know tonight’s a special night?”
Without even parting His thin lips, He smiles, places one hand on Ingrid’s shoulder and one hand on mine, and pushes us through the door.
And so we descend, intrigued, into an underworld of depravity.
No sooner have we passed through the cloakroom, where we give false names, than we’re struck by the silence and increasing darkness of these cellars.
The walls are mostly tiled, but in some places they’re made of thick blocks of eroded stone.
There are some rough areas with chains hanging from them. We’re not sure what they’re for.
Some thirty slippery steps down, there’s a little bar on the right, lit with pink and yellow globes.
The absence of music is surprising. He orders champagne, and I drink my glass in one gulp in order to hide my nervousness from Ingrid. I haven’t let go of her hand.
I know she’s afraid. It’s probably her first time. I suspect she’s thinking about her husband and wondering what she’s doing here with me and two men she doesn’t know.
I give her my most reassuring smile, as if it’s up to me to protect her, and spontaneously hug her and raise her hands to my mouth and kiss them.
He moves in close behind me and puts His arms around both of us and kisses me on the mouth. He’s surprisingly tender, considering where we are, considering the silence is occasionally shattered by disturbing screams.
He lifts the hem of my dress and touches my shaved cunt with His hand and whispers in my ear: “I’m proud of you.” Then He leans over my shoulder and takes Ingrid’s tongue between His soft lips. I don’t feel any jealousy. All that matters is His pleasure.
I step aside to make His clinch with my friend easier. Philippe has held back so far, but now he joins me without a word and puts his arms around me and tries to kiss me. I turn my head away and give him the kindest smile I can.
“No. I’m His.”
Very gently, he opens his hands.
“Don’t worry. I won’t bother you. I respect you. You’re a wonderful girl.”
I give him a grateful look. With a nod, He orders me to go. I know He’s expecting me to leave Him alone with my friend. Immediately, I take Philippe’s hand and suggest we have a look around.
Philippe puts his arm protectively around my shoulder and leads me toward a series of dark alcoves from which we can hear unsettling moans.
We both stop on the threshold of the first alcove, and at once shudder at the sight of a man lying flat on his stomach, his wrists and ankles bound with thin white ropes held in place by what is obviously an extremely tight knot and tied to a pulley fixed to the ceiling. There’s a rope around the pulley, held by an exceptionally thin woman, far from young, who seems to be taking great pleasure in pulling jerkily on the rope, which she’s coiled around her waist. Although she probably only weighs about a hundred pounds, she manages to lift her lover-cum-playmate, who groans with pain each time she tugs on the rope.
Philippe and I look at each other, puzzled. We’re both incredulous, not quite sure what the point of it is.
I’m dying to see Him again but stop myself. I know I’ll never know what happened.
Philippe encourages me to continue our visit.
We pass along a corridor full of men walking up and down, apparently in search of an illusory partner. As I pass, they approach me and try to touch me.
Philippe is great, he holds me against him and puts his arms—strong rider’s arms—around me. For some reason I can’t explain, I trust him and feel reassured in his arms. Occasionally, our eyes meet and we smile at each other, we feel a surprising rapport, here in this place where neither of us belongs.
I don’t want him and he respects me. I’m grateful to him for that.
We continue on our way and enter a square vaulted room, its walls shiny with the reflections from a chandelier.
At the far end, there’s a woman tied to a cross of Saint Andrew. She’s hooded and gagged and wearing a tight-fitting latex bodysuit with holes in the chest from which her breasts jut out, swollen by the constricting material.
Each of her nipples is tied to a little chain with a tight slipknot. I remember the time I had to wear something like that.
A number of men are lying on the sticky floor in front of her, licking it. Another man, who’s small and round, is beating her thighs as hard as he can with a short whip. Each time the whip, which is weighted with lead, lands with a sharp noise, another pinkish streak appears on her flesh, joining the pattern of crisscrossed lines already there.
I feel a strange trembling at the base of my spine. I’m sorry I can’t feel Him behind me right now, when I’m overcome with excitement.
I know He could do anything He wanted with me.
Philippe seems embarrassed. “That’s enough of that,” he whispers, and we turn back the way we came. I’m infinitely grateful to him.
When we get back to the bar, He’s sitting on a stool, and Ingrid is opposite Him, sitting languidly on a squat little armchair. When He sees me, He rises and hugs me. He doesn’t ask me for my impressions. He takes me by the hand and leads us all back up the stairs to the mild Parisian night.
No sooner have I arrived at my firm the next day than He calls me on my cell:
“I’m proud of you.
“You were great.”
“Philippe’s already called me, he thinks you’re fantastic. A real bombshell. I told him you weren’t a bombshell, but an erupting volcano, and I’m very pleased with you. He asked me for your phone number, but I wouldn’t give it to him. I told him I was still keeping you to myself. One day maybe—but not yet.
“See you soon, darling.”
Darling. The word sends a shiver through me. I want Him to feel He can’t do without me. I want to be part of His life.