I’ve never told anybody about our little evening with Ingrid and Philippe. I’ve never discovered if anything happened between Him and Ingrid. When she and I had lunch together shortly afterward, I carefully avoided the subject. I don’t see what useful purpose would be served by knowing.
Ingrid phones me at my office to invite us (Him and me) for a weekend in her beloved house in Formentera.
I leap at the suggestion. The idea of Him and me forming “a couple,” for however short a time, seems like a unique opportunity to make myself just that little bit more useful, more necessary, more enticing to Him.
Ingrid says she’s never said anything to Godefroy about our little four-way dinner in August, but she has told her husband a lot about me, and ever since he’s been teasing her endlessly about introducing me to him.
The day He deigns to send for me, in between giving Him a few daring caresses, I tell Him about my new friend’s invitation. He accepts without the slightest hesitation, and I devote the days before our departure to getting ready for this secret escapade.
Although Ingrid has told me all I need to take is a pair of jeans and a couple of swimsuits, I stuff my bag full of fine lingerie and dresses with low necklines and transparent sarongs, and borrow Bérénice’s Gucci sandals, which are a good four-plus inches high—unless Ingrid is wearing Tod’s, there’ll only be less than an inch between us.
On His orders, I go to Erès and buy a black tulle garter belt and matching designer stockings for Ingrid. I wish I had them, too. What I’d like more than anything is for Him to give me a gift one day. A real gift, something He chose, something that cost Him money. At least that would prove He cared about me a little.
I know we’re all very keyed up, anticipating a weekend of debauchery.
His perversity intrigues me, and His kindness worries me. A few days before we leave, I tell Him about the recurrent nightmares I’ve been having lately, nightmares in which He orders me to let another man fuck me. Strange as it may seem, after all the months of strict training and all the mistreatment, there’s still a line I won’t cross: I can’t bear the thought of another man’s cock inside me, that’s one humiliation that is too horrible to bear, I could fuck all the girls He wanted, prepare each of my friends one after the other and then give them to Him, I’d agree to seduce their boyfriends in exchange, but being penetrated by a third party completely turns me off. All I want is HIM. And despite the fact that He won’t touch me, I’m absolutely faithful to Him. I know His feelings, or rather His lack of feelings, for me don’t allow for jealousy, but I don’t want Him to give me away. The only order I couldn’t possibly carry out, the only order I’d have to disobey if I didn’t want to plunge into a deep depression, would be to place my body at the disposal of other men’s cocks. He knows that and plays on it.
I want Him more than anything else. I need to feel Him inside me.
I’ve never been tempted by casual sex with strangers or one-night stands, and I feel nothing but disgust at the prospect of being fucked by another man.
I want Him.
Several times, sensing my hesitation in obeying His orders, He’s kept me in line by threatening to subject me to a gang bang. He’d force me with blows and insults to get down naked on all fours like a bitch and offer my vaginal and anal orifices to all these other men with their hard, eager cocks. Rough hands would grab my hips, unknown cocks would transfix me, I’d scream but He’d hit my face with His long, tapering hand and pull my hair back and lift my head and slap me again; He’d press His foot on my lower back and make me arch like a real slut and all the men would insult me in turn before they fucked me, poor souls alleviating their sense of inferiority, at least for the time it takes them to ejaculate, with the incredible sensation of humiliating and fucking a bourgeois woman, and gaining a feeling of domination from it—an illusory feeling, since I belong only to my Master, who’s chosen, I suppose out of some desire for recognition, to offer them the woman who’s given herself to Him.
One Wednesday afternoon full of sunshine and the joys of spring, after I’ve told Him about this recurring nightmare, He sends for me, and kisses me and licks me and sodomizes me with His fingers, and whispers in my ear that I’m His best pupil and He’ll take care of me.
I don’t really know what to make of that, but by the time I leave, I feel a bit calmer, convinced that He cares enough about me to keep His promises. I trust Him.
The wind is blowing really hard as we get off the plane. Godefroy has ordered a taxi, and it’s waiting for us outside the terminal, to drop us at the boat that will take us to Formentera.
I see Him in a new light. He leaps like a young goat when He sees the choppy sea, takes deep breaths, looks up at the Mediterranean sky, and smiles. I’ve forgotten He spent His childhood by the sea, though not this one.
Ingrid’s so sweet to me, she knows how tense I am in anticipation of this weekend, which I’ll surely never live through again. She knows I’m aware how unreal the coming hours will be, because one day, in a month or a year or maybe even tomorrow, He’ll leave my life as He entered it, His desire will either be dead or be aroused by some other creature He’ll feel the need to test His power of domination on. Never for a moment has it occurred to me that I could be the one who decides to stop, to put an end to the way my heart quivers as soon as I think about Him, as soon as I hear His voice, as soon as I feel His skin or smell His smell.
Formentera is an incredible island, so natural, so amazingly unspoiled for such a built-up part of the Mediterranean, the big church square is so authentic, empty except for a few fresh produce shops, people walk around in jeans and beige sweaters, but we’re not on the Île de Ré or any other off-shoot of France.
When we get to our hosts’ house, we find a tray of oysters waiting for us on the doorstep.
I’m very touched by Ingrid’s thoughtfulness: she’s remembered I told her He loves oysters.
I watch Him out of the corner of my eye. He’s brimming over with happiness. I’ve never before seen Him really smile, never heard Him laugh.
No sooner have we gotten inside the house than He asks Godefroy where our rooms are—they’re upstairs—and hurries to take our bags up, drops them inside the room, and takes me in His arms and hugs me very tight and asks me to give Ingrid her gift and convince her that we should change for dinner.
I take a deep breath. I realize the dance is about to begin. I take the little package from Erès out of my travel bag and give it to Ingrid.
“You know the kind of images we’re going to leave in His head matter a lot to Him. I think it’s time we submitted to the dress code.”
Ingrid smiles and takes the package, but I know her well enough by now to know that although she looks relaxed, there’s an anxiety there that she isn’t sure she can keep under control.
Seeing the four little clips on the garter belt, she bursts out laughing.
“But what is this thing?”
“You’re going to be very, very beautiful. Come on, I’ll help you put it on,” and I take her hand and lead her into the bathroom, where we shut ourselves in.
In no time at all, she’s taken her clothes off. Naked, her tall, willowy body is even more spectacular than I imagined. I congratulate her, tell her I think she’s really magnificent, and kiss her lightly on the cheek. Then I slip the garter belt around her hips and stretch the designer stockings over her endless legs.
“I can’t go downstairs like this.”
I agree. Unable to stop giggling, she shows me her wardrobe, and we finally opt for a little black silk dress, which is so short the tops of her stockings are still visible.
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’ve come equipped.”
She helps me with the hooks of my famous Dior bustier with the purple roses—the one I lent Léa for her weekend in Rome—and watches me with a smile as I put on my black crossover dress and my stockings and my shoes with their exaggeratedly high heels.
“Well?” we hear from downstairs.
Clearly, the boys are getting impatient.
I push her toward the stairs, and the two of us walk down, giggling like two little girls who’ve dressed up as femmes fatales but don’t take their roles at all seriously.
He’s been waiting for us, sitting comfortably with His legs crossed on an old fawn leather sofa, His shirt slightly open, His eyes bright. Godefroy is standing a bit farther back, a glass of champagne in his hand. This is the first chance I’ve had to get a good look at him. Although he’s much older than Ingrid, there’s something unusually elegant in the way he moves, the way he conducts himself, something proud about the way he holds his head. He’s slightly balding and he wears his salt-and-pepper hair in curls on the back of his neck. His eyes sparkle with intelligence and I sense he’s someone who’s curious about life and full of enthusiasm.
Ingrid skips up to him, twirling her dress as she does so, happy to give him a glimpse of her underwear. With rather more restraint, I go and stand in front of Him, my legs a little apart, my back arched.
Instinctively, I put my hands together behind my back.
Ingrid has sat down next to her husband, and both of them are watching us. Slowly, with an action that reminds me of the first time He sent for me, He runs His hand over my ankles and up my legs, lifting the back of my dress a little as He does so.
When He reaches my crotch, He moves the panties aside and touches my cunt. I close my eyes, concentrating on the sensation.
He stops before I come. I open my eyes again and kneel to kiss Him, but He indicates with a flick of His eyes that He prefers me to stand. I immediately do as He says. He unfastens the belt of my dress and slips it over my shoulders. It falls to the floor, spreading out over the earthenware tiles.
I’m standing in the middle of the living room, in my elegant bustier, my back exaggeratedly arched.
With a sideways glance, I see that Ingrid and Godefroy have stopped kissing and are watching us.
“Is she beautiful? Do you like her?” He asks, without taking His eyes off me.
“Stunning,” says Ingrid while Godefroy stares at me like an expert sizing up a horse.
“I’ll lend her to you. You can do what you like with her.”
He stands up and goes to join them. I stay in the middle of the room, not daring to move.
Now Ingrid stands up and comes to me and kisses me. “Darling, you’re magnificent,” she says, in her charming accent.
I return her kisses, glad she’s taken it on herself to look after me.
There follows a kind of dance between the two of us. The two men, of course, don’t miss a second of it.
Ingrid clasps me to her sublime body and moves her mouth lightly over my face and the back of my neck and my bare shoulders. I set off to discover her skin, her breasts, the hollows of her body. I linger on her freckles, kissing them and moving my finger over them. We embrace and fondle, trying with our fingers, our mouths, our lips, to arouse the most sensitive points of each other’s body.
Godefroy has come up to us. I tremble when he places his hand on my thighs. He moves his fingers over my face and around my eyes and onto my lips, and I turn and kiss him.
I feel His eyes on me, watching me. When my tongue meets Godefroy’s, He smiles.
When He takes Ingrid in His arms, she turns to me, like a true friend, looking for my approval before she responds. I give it with a smile, and then close my eyes and try hard not to think about anything.
He’s touching her. I can hear her breathing, I want to be in her place. Godefroy, getting bolder, inserts his middle finger between my legs.
Ingrid pushes Him away gently and comes back to her husband, who immediately turns and takes her in his arms.
She takes off her dress. She’s naked now apart from the garter belt and the stockings, which accentuate the perfection of her body.
Godefroy sits down on the sofa, and she sits down on top of him. They barely move. From the expression in her eyes, I guess that all she’s doing is contracting her vagina around his cock. The pleasure I can see on his face tells me I’m right.
I want Him. I kneel at His feet and move closer to the bulge I see rising in front of me. Very gently, I slide my lips around His cock and begin sucking on it, with slow, regular movements. From time to time, I withdraw my mouth and lick underneath, with little flicks of my tongue, back and forth, but try as I might, I can’t reach His anus. So instead I put my left forefinger inside, sliding it in as far as I can and turning it, while I continue moving my whole mouth up and down His cock. I concentrate, focusing on His pleasure, which I can feel mounting, aware of every particle of skin my tongue comes in contact with. I sense Godefroy kneeling behind me to fondle me while Ingrid kisses him. I push him away when he tries to enter me. He doesn’t insist, but gets back on his feet and returns to Ingrid and plunges into her again from behind, still standing—she has opened her long legs wide to make it easier for him.
Now He takes me by the shoulders and pulls me up and sits down on the sofa.
I hug Him as tight as I can and beg Him to fuck me, here and now, finally, I can’t go on like this, it’s been too long, I want to feel Him inside me, I can’t wait any longer, all these months, all this desire, I kneel by Him, His hands in mine, and look in His eyes and beg Him. He smiles but doesn’t answer.
Godefroy and Ingrid leave the room, their steps on the stairs tell me they’re heading for the shelter of their bedroom.
Not long after, He takes me by the hand and leads me up to “our” bed. They’ve left the door of their room open, and I catch a glimpse of them making love very tenderly. He’s lying on top of her, and she’s moaning languorously.
I’m quite intimidated at the thought of sleeping by His side. It’s the first time we’re going to be in a bed together, and I’m more scared of this intimacy than of anything He’s yet asked of me.
He gets into bed first, naked. I put on one of those vintage negligees with thin straps that I collect, and join Him. He takes me in His arms. When I’m lying on my back, He raises Himself on one elbow and kisses me. When I open my lips to receive His tongue, He takes His mouth away and puts it back again with infinite gentleness. I surrender to this kiss and my senses explode. I detect a tenderness He’s never shown me before, and that I’d never have suspected.
He spends a long time like this kissing me. He’s on top of me. I feel the weight of His body. The sweetness and warmth of His mouth are intoxicating. With one hand He strokes my breasts and my stomach and then moves it inside me. With extraordinary dexterity, He increases the pressure of His fingers. I feel as if I’m about to come. I take His hand in mine and draw it out of me.
I beg Him to fuck me.
He kisses me again on the lips.
I beg Him to fuck me.
He kisses my cunt.
I beg Him to fuck me.
He makes me cry out.
And then NOTHING.
Later, much later, I fall asleep, curled up in the hollow of His body. I’m happy and I want to cry.
Even later, I dream about His cock forcing its way into my anus, I put my hand between my legs to alleviate the pain, which is gradually becoming pleasurable. Our almost simultaneous orgasm floods my sleep with light.
I take His hand, which is resting on my body, and squeeze it. I grip His fingers and tears roll down my cheeks. I want Him too much. Why won’t He fuck me?
The emotion is extreme, a kind of overwhelming despair. It’s more intense than anything I’ve ever felt before. The meaning of passion. The violence of desire. The senselessness of frustration.
I wake up in the early hours, my head heavy. My pillow is wet with my silent tears.
It’s an incredibly hot September morning.
As He wolfs down a croissant, He gets excited by Godefroy’s suggestion that we spend the day on his boat. Ingrid and I set off to buy Parma ham, figs, and melons for a picnic on board.
Formentera is bathed in a soft light. We pass a group of Italians who are talking loudly, and who turn to look at us.
Ingrid asks me how my night was. She congratulates me on our discretion, she didn’t hear a thing despite the thinness of the walls.
I lie, and tell her I fell asleep very quickly, I’d been really exhausted and the sea air knocked me out. I wipe my eyes discreetly. I can’t tell her He refuses to fuck me. She wouldn’t understand. Nobody would understand. I feel alone. I think about my son and my husband and about my life, which I’m jeopardizing for an affair that isn’t an affair.
On my ridiculously high Guccis, it’s a bit difficult to follow Him. But at least I know I look good, with my tanned legs and my arched back and my new black Erès top and matching muslin sarong, which I’ve tied, as short as I can, around my hips. Godefroy is carrying the picnic basket. I look at the people we pass and wonder if they have any inkling, if their lives are anything like ours.
Our hosts’ little powerboat is very comfortable, the foredeck is covered with huge mattresses.
Ingrid, Godefroy, and He are in an extremely good mood, laughing as if they had grown up together and share the same secrets.
No sooner has the boat left port than Ingrid drags me fore and suggests I strip off my clothes. “At least here we can sunbathe without getting any marks,” she says, slipping out of her bathing suit.
The motor hums and gains speed. The coast is magnificent, spectacular, wild.
Ingrid asks me to oil her back. I massage her from the neck down to just above the buttocks.
The boat soon stops in a small cave. The walls of rock surrounding it are the color of saffron in the Mediterranean light. Ingrid rushes to the prow and, on the pretext of telling Godefroy the best moment to drop anchor, leans over to look down at the bottom of the sea.
The fleeting image of that incredible girl, stretching her legs and jutting her body forward, will remain engraved on everyone’s memory. No sooner has the anchor sunk in the underwater sands and Ingrid stood back up again than we hear the sound of someone diving into the transparent water. When I go to the aft deck a few minutes later, I see Him, naked under the water, His muscles rippling as He swims the breaststroke.
Godefroy leaves the controls and joins Him. I suggest to Ingrid that we put together a platter of food, topped off with cherry tomatoes and served with rosé wine. She agrees, though she pokes gentle fun at the way I’m always trying to do my best for Him, always carrying out His orders before He’s even given them, and we hurry belowdecks and come back out again a few minutes later, our arms loaded with refreshments.
Now Ingrid dives in, and with a graceful crawl soon reaches the boys, who are swimming toward the coast, in search of sea urchins, I suppose.
The three naked bodies glide noiselessly through the water. The only sound is the seagulls squawking above our boat, no doubt in expectation of the leftovers from our picnic.
I watch the gulls and think about the son I’ve abandoned for a whole weekend and the lies I’ve told my husband and the values my parents tried to instill in me. And I see myself here on the deck of a boat, in a Spanish cove I’m not supposed to know about, with a couple who aren’t really my friends, trying to please a man who gives me nothing in return, who doesn’t love me, doesn’t respect me, and keeps me in an inexplicable state of dependence I can’t escape.
I think again about the terrible prediction I was given. One day, a woman will be killed. I’m afraid. I feel as if I’m no longer in control of myself.
I fear for my life.
Voices float up from the ocean, inviting me to join them. I have no desire to dive in, I don’t like swimming.
They soon emerge from the sea one by one. But He immediately balances on the aft deck and jumps in again with a spectacular and dangerous dive. For a moment, I imagine His childhood by the sea, see Him running on the beach, having His first sexual experiences in the sand.
Ingrid takes a shower. Godefroy kisses her while the water is still running down her body. I serve the glasses of cool rosé.
He’s sat down beside me and put His arm around my shoulders. It’s a surprising thing to do, but everything becomes clear when He leans toward me and whispers a command in my ear. He wants me to “look after” Godefroy, who’s sitting calmly opposite us.
I squeeze His hand to give myself at least a shred of courage and get up and go and stand in front of Godefroy. I look at Ingrid, who gives me her permission. I lean down and kiss him.
My friend’s husband seems quite pleased with my initiative and responds to my kiss by inserting his hand in my bikini bottom—the only thing I’m wearing—and moving it away, to get at the inside of my cunt. I feel His eyes on me and let him do it. “You’re very wet,” is all he says, putting his moistened finger in his mouth. His cock makes a bulge in his swimsuit.
As for Him, He’s stood up and approached Ingrid and is fondling her pointed breasts. She sighs and gives Him her lips, which He immediately takes.
For a moment, we look at each other. I can see His desire for her in His eyes and I know what’s going to happen.
He strokes her chest and shoulders and moves His hands down to her buttocks. They’re both the same height, and they stand there, straining toward each other as if their stomachs are joined by a magnet. He touches her cunt, then crouches to lick her. She opens her legs to let His tongue enter more freely, and her hands grip the guardrail of the boat.
At the sight of his wife yielding, Godefroy pushes his fingers farther into me and begins moving them back and forth between my cunt and my ass.
I’m afraid he wants to fuck me and I turn away from him and go to Him. Looking for a distraction, I kiss Ingrid on the lips, then take her breasts in my mouth. They’re as hard as green apples. But He stands up and asks me to go back to Godefroy. I know He wants me to leave Ingrid to Him.
I think again of the club in the rue du Cherche-Midi where I’d let myself be dragged away by Philippe, leaving Ingrid to Him. I’ve never found out what happened. I’ve never wanted to know. It’s better if I never know.
But today I don’t think I could bear the sight of Him possessing this woman in front of me. I’m haunted by the images of last night, His persistent refusal to fuck me.
Why is He so determined to keep His pleasure distinct from mine? Why won’t He come inside me at the same time as He makes me come? I want Him. I want Him between my legs, between my buttocks, I want Him to take possession of me with His cock, I want Him to cry out when He’s deep inside me.
Daring to defy His repeated instructions, I don’t let go of Ingrid. I kneel and take her open cunt between my lips and suck her juices—they’re a bit acidic, she’s quite damp inside—and put in two of my fingers and rub the wall in front of her vagina with one of them and turn the other one slightly, trying to push in as far as it’ll go, and put my other hand into her anus and move in and out to the rhythm of her moans, though maybe it’s my own movements that are causing them. Meanwhile, I keep moving my tongue around her clitoris, sucking it tenderly, licking it. With two fingers buried in her cunt, which oozes moisture as her pleasure mounts, I plunge the whole of my middle finger into her anus and turn it, trying to part the walls, feeling her sphincter tightening and relaxing.
He has slipped behind Ingrid and pushes away my hand and replaces it with His own. I’m at the same height as His huge cock, and take the opportunity to masturbate Him.
Suddenly I feel Godefroy, who’s knelt behind me and is pushing himself against me, ready to enter me. I stiffen, and take my mouth away from between Ingrid’s legs.
I grab His wrist and squeeze it tightly. It’s like a cry for help. But He tugs on my hair and brings my mouth back to Ingrid’s cunt, which closes around me, demanding me.
He orders me to give in.
His voice is unequivocal, there’s no point in arguing. I tremble and hold on to His hand, screaming silently, begging Him not to give me to this man I don’t want, this man who isn’t Him.
He puts His mouth against my ear and whispers that I’m His, I have to obey Him, I’m a good pupil, a nice girl who wants to please her Master.
I close my eyes and try not to think.
I know it’s too late. The image of my son flashes through my mind. I think about my lies, I think about my husband.
Godefroy plunges into me.
My nails dig into His fingers.
He knows. He’s known all along that all I wanted is Him.
And He watches me being fucked by a man I don’t want.
My legs won’t carry me anymore, I’m shaking, my eyes fill with tears.
He still has my hair in a tight grip but, aware no doubt of my distress, moves my face toward Him and kisses me.
I feel as if I’m someone else. I’m outside my own body and I no longer feel the thrusts of the cock inside me.
His kiss means nothing to me.
As if I were dead, I watch Him as He takes His mouth away from mine and stands up and starts to fuck the beautiful Ingrid, who welcomes Him with a voluptuous sigh.
Her body writhes with pleasure.
He takes firm hold of her hips.
I don’t want to think. I don’t want to think about anything. I don’t want to see Him plunging His cock into her as He’s never done to me, fucking her as He’s never deigned to fuck me, responding to her pleas as He’s never responded to mine. And there she is, in front of me, my friend, in front of me, with His cock inside her, and Him thrusting against her buttocks, squeezing her hips with His hands, fucking her.
My eyes mist over as Godefroy moves in and out, his head thrown back, his eyes closed in pleasure.
Now He withdraws with a groan, and as if He’s given the signal for a break, Godefroy lets go of me, too. The two men serve themselves two more glasses of rosé. They’re radiant with contentment.
He hugs me very tight and kisses me fiercely. I try to abandon myself to His kiss, try to chase away this overwhelming feeling of sadness.
He tells me He’s very proud of me, I constantly surprise Him, surpass all His expectations. He’s suddenly very gentle and very tender.
I don’t care.
I’d like to erase what happened from my memory.
Later, when the sun has gone and the air has grown cooler, I jump down from the boat in an advanced state of exhaustion. I feel completely drained, I feel as if my legs have been cut from under me.
But I still manage to walk across the harbor with dignity, stepping carefully on my high-heeled sandals. People look at my dark figure. We don’t say a word to one another, I suppose we’re all sated after such an intoxicating day, a day that will mark us forever.
By the time we reach the house, I’m not feeling very well. I take a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and go up to my room and collapse on the bed, my body still completely salted and sanded and soiled.
He stays downstairs. I hear His voice and the voices of the others.
I close my eyes and think about my baby. I try to convince myself that you have to take responsibility for your actions, and that I chose life, adventure, passion.
But it hurts. It hurts all over.
I cry.
I don’t know if it’s my own sadness, or the atmosphere of the evening, but none of us is very talkative. The excitement has subsided.
I suppose we’ve all given too much of ourselves, and need to find ourselves again. Ingrid is very close to Godefroy, she’s so tender toward him, so gentle. I look at them and envy them. They talk about their plans for a child, and can’t stop hugging and kissing.
I feel alone.
He doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t even look at me. The boys have decided to go out for dinner, and I feel ridiculous in my elegant bustier and my high heels, which for the first time seem out of place. I’d like to lose myself in the folds of a big djellaba. I’d like to be alone, I’d like to see my son and my husband again. I’d like to call them and tell them how much I love them. I can’t. My husband thinks I’m at a friend’s house in Brittany, and he might ask me for the phone number.
Godefroy orders tapas for everyone. I feel strange. I’m not at all well. I don’t want to eat.
I don’t talk, and barely listen to them. I don’t even know what they’re talking about. Anyway, He doesn’t say a word to me.
I’d like to be in my house in Normandy, on my big blue sofa, reading stories to my son.
No sooner have we gotten back to the house than Godefroy and Ingrid go up to their room. They hold hands as they climb the stairs.
He sits down in an armchair and starts watching a stupid variety show.
I’d so much like to have His arms around me but He doesn’t so much as glance at me, just sits there in His armchair, alone.
Sometime later, He calls my name and asks me to pour Him a glass of cognac. When I return with the glass in my hand, He gestures to me to kneel and unbuttons His jeans and gives me His cock, which isn’t erect.
I take it in my mouth while it’s still soft and apply myself to reviving it. He sips His drink without taking His eyes off the television.
A little later, I climb the stairs with a bitter taste in my mouth and go to bed, alone.
I wake up in the night and notice He’s lying a long way from me in this extramarital bed. It takes me a long time to get back to sleep, my eyes misty with distress.
The daylight is streaming in through the blinds. I watch Him sleeping, His face half buried in the pillow. My eyes follow the line of His shadow on the white sheet, as if tracing it with my finger.
His features are so fine, they could be a woman’s. His eyes are closed, there are occasional little tremors under His eyelids, and when that happens, His surprisingly thin lips close and seem to emit a slight sucking sound.
In sleep, He seems so gentle. A strange feeling of peace comes from this man I know is the Devil.
His long, nimble fingers grip the sheet covering our bodies.
Silence reigns within these walls, mute witnesses of our debauchery.
He opens His eyes, stretches and yawns and blinks. He seems completely unaware of my presence. He hasn’t touched me all night.
I don’t want Him to see my face first thing in the morning, so I bury my head in the pillow, and turn my back to Him. If He wanted, He could seize my skin in His teeth, like a wild beast hungry for fresh white flesh.
But He doesn’t, instead He turns around and, in a voice completely devoid of humor that leaves me absolutely stunned, orders me to get dressed immediately and go out to buy croissants, plain and chocolate, and fresh oranges, which I’ll have to squeeze myself, and the Sunday newspaper.
I can’t believe my ears. I don’t know what to say. I’m so stunned, I just get up without a word and set off for the village, which is still asleep.
By the time I get back twenty minutes later, my arms loaded with food, Ingrid and Godefroy are up. They’re delighted by the warm croissants. They make coffee. Godefroy gives me an affectionate hug and asks me if I had a good night. I answer something polite but meaningless. Just as Ingrid is putting the steaming coffeepot on the table, He comes down.
We sit for a long time over our coffee and croissants. I don’t say a word as He talks about Helen, the woman He loves and shares His life with: how she rushes out every morning while He’s still asleep to buy Him croissants and newspapers and comes back and puts a white tablecloth and fresh roses on the breakfast table and makes Him burning hot coffee and watches Him eat and makes sure He doesn’t need anything and keeps quiet so that she can listen to Him talk, and how she perfumes with flower essences the entrance to the building and the eighty-three steps He’ll climb to the door of their apartment and how she arranges dozens of tiny candles along a path that leads Him to a big hot bath scented with essential oils and strewn with rose petals, and how she’s taken classes with Lenôtre so that every night, whether He’s going to be in or not, she can cook Him a feast worthy of a great chef, and how she packs His bags for Him when He goes away and has thought of everything for this weekend.
Ingrid throws me a dismayed, sympathetic glance, but I feel nothing.
It’s weird how cold and empty I feel, as if I’ve been anesthetized.
He talks about Helen and I don’t care, I hear His words but I don’t really listen.
When He claps His hands and tells me to clear the table, I stand up and do as He says, as if it’s of no importance.
Godefroy goes with me, symbolically picking up his own empty cup.
In the kitchen, he puts his arms around my shoulders and embraces me. I let him do it but my obvious lack of enthusiasm stops him in his tracks.
“I’m not feeling too inspired this morning,” I say simply, and take his hands away.
By the time we rejoin Ingrid and Him in the garden, He’s kneeling in front of her and she’s opening her long legs as wide as she can.
I’m suddenly overcome with nausea.
Godefroy, who’s been walking behind me, tries to put his hands between my legs.
Unconcerned, I let him do it. But when I feel his stomach against my lower back, I turn quickly and tell him I had a bad night and feel really tired, and slip away.
I take the stairs four at a time and close the bedroom door and dive into bed.
I think with all my might about my baby. I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.
Sometime later, I’m not sure how long, as I lie huddled between the sheets, I hear the door being flung open.
His voice is harsher than I’ve ever known it.
“What’s all this playacting?”
I can’t answer. My eyes are filling with tears.
“Are you making fun of me? I don’t like tantrums.”
“ . . . ”
“Answer me! I can’t stand this childishness! I warn you, there’s no way I’m going to let you make a scene, do you understand? Do you want me to lose my temper?”
He grips my shoulder violently and shakes it, then raises His hand and brings it down as hard as He can on my face, which I try to hide under the sheets.
But I get my breath back.
“That’s enough!” I say in a low voice. “I don’t want to play your games anymore! I can’t! I’m not making a scene, I’ll never make a scene, it’s just that I can’t go on, it’s too hard.”
He showers me with blows. I weep silently and stare at His hands as they rise in the air and come crashing down on me.
By the time He stops, my face hurts, especially my upper lip, which feels swollen and particularly painful. Blood mingles with my saliva. I sit up and look Him in the eyes.
“I’ve worshiped you like a god. But I can’t play this game anymore. It’s over. It’s too hard for me. I can’t go on.”
In all these long months, I’ve never ever imagined I wouldn’t be able to obey Him. But now I’m telling the truth. I can’t go on.
I look at Him. He catches His breath, and for the first time seems bewildered, thrown off balance.
“Very well. Point taken. But listen to me. What you’ve experienced with me, you’ll never experience again. Nobody will ever treat you as I’ve treated you. You’ll never again have an orgasm without thinking of this, without thinking of me.”
I smile. His vanity suddenly seems ridiculous.
“In three hours,” He goes on, emphasizing His words, “we’ll leave this house. You’ll go, back to your girlfriends, your daily routine, your little well organized bourgeois life. Until then, you have to do exactly what I ask of you.”
And He launches into a speech about how I owe it to Ingrid, for the sake of her peace of mind, her marriage, not to spoil this weekend, not to jeopardize her life and the children she wants with her husband.
The point of it all is that it’s vital that I give my hosts everything they want, and in particular devote the few remaining hours to Godefroy’s pleasure. He’s so thoughtful toward a couple He hardly knows.
I feel drunk and tired. Broken. Betrayed.
I promise to do as He says. And I keep my word.
I’ve never heard from Him again. His number has never again flashed up. He’s never sent for me again.
I’ve never felt His cock inside me. I’ve never known what He thought of me.
Pain. The insistent pain of having lost everything. Even my trust. In myself. In men. Thinking I’m nothing but a cunt and a mouth, available, trained, perfect. Perfect. Perfect for men’s pleasure. So well trained. Unworthy to receive. Unworthy of recognition, unworthy of love. Repeating that I’m worth nothing. Nothing. I was only a plaything in His hands.
Because I loved a man who didn’t love me. Because I gave everything to a man who didn’t even see me. Because I did everything and received NOTHING.
EMPTINESS.
Tears. As soon as I’m alone, the tears come. The distress of being abandoned. Recovering from dependence. Reluctantly. Learning to be autonomous again when I no longer want to be. Ambien and memories, burning like a delicious hot tea. Solitude and the burden of a secret too heavy to bear.
Time passes. One morning, in my office, there’s a phone call from a man who says he’s His friend.
I take the line. It’s Philippe.
He’s given him my telephone number, and permission to use it.