Chapter 67: Paris, Francois
The first fingers of dawn were tracing the rooftops of Paris when Sandi slipped from between the sheets and headed for the bathroom. She bathed quickly, the hot water a shock and a solace. She soaped herself thoroughly, wincing as she washed between her legs, the flesh tender and swollen. The marks, the memories, were a pleasant burn. She dried, did her hair with efficient grace, and applied her makeup with a steady hand, emphasising her eyes, colouring lips that felt bruised and well-used.
The outfit was laid out on a chair: her armour, her invitation. She stepped into the barely-black hold-up stockings, rolling them meticulously up her calves and almost to the very tops of her inner thighs. The sensation was a constant, secret caress. Next, the lacy ivory bra, its cups sheer enough to hint at the dark areola beneath. The ivory blouse followed, faintly transparent, the outline of the bra a tantalising pattern showing through. The charcoal grey skirt was a severe, elegant cut that, when zipped, stopped a precise hand’s breadth below her the stocking tops. She'd chosen not to wear panties so the black stilettos completed the look, locking her into a poised, dangerous gait. She placed a pair of skimpy panties in her handbag, just in case she needed them.
Downstairs, the hotel restaurant was hushed. She ate a small breakfast of pastry and coffee, the china clinking softly in the morning calm. She felt eyes on her—the other guests, the staff—and the attention was a warm shiver against her skin. In her warm winter coat she walked out into the crisp Parisian air, and descended into the metro.
The train to Haussmann Saint-Lazare was crowded. Sandi stood, holding a strap, acutely aware of the space her body occupied. The swaying of the carriage made the stockings whisper against her skin. A man in a suit, pressed against her by the swell of commuters, shifted slightly and she felt the firm pressure of his erection against her thigh through the fabric of his trousers. She didn’t move away. She let the contact remain, a silent, public transaction that made her pussy moisten anew. He got off two stops later, his face flushed, without ever meeting her eyes.
The Henderson Group’s headquarters were a monument to glass and steel. Her heels clicked a sharp, authoritative rhythm on the marble floor of the lobby.
“Ah, Madame Walker,” the receptionist said, her smile professional. “Yes, we are ready for you today.”
The induction was a blur of paperwork and polite procedure. A friendly woman from HR named Eloise gave her a tour: the pristine toilets, the gleaming coffee machine that hissed like a serpent, the water dispenser with its endlessly cycling blue light. She was issued an identity card, a company email address, and finally, a key to a small, anonymous office on the seventh floor.
The office was nondescript: a desk, a chair, a computer, a phone. Its only remarkable feature was a window offering a breathtaking slice of the Parisian skyline. Sandi sat, placing her handbag neatly on the desk. She didn’t touch the computer. She simply looked out at the city, at the hazy morning light bathing the chimney pots and grand boulevards.
Her body hummed with latent energy. The soreness between her legs was a persistent, thrilling reminder. The stockings were a tight embrace on her thighs. The sheer blouse felt like wearing nothing at all. She crossed her legs, the movement slow and deliberate, hearing the faint rasp of nylon. She waited.
The intercom on the phone buzzed, a harsh electronic sound in the quiet room. She picked up the receiver.
“Madame Walker? François Cousteau is ready for you now. Please come to the executive suite on the tenth floor.”
“Thank you,” Sandi said, her voice calm, even. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and picked up her handbag.
The elevator was empty. As it ascended, she caught her reflection in the polished brass doors. A professional woman. A promising new member of the team. A valuable asset. A canvas of hidden lace and bare skin, her cunt still slick from the memory of the night, aching for the promise of the day. The doors sighed open onto a carpeted hallway of silent power.
She walked towards a set of double doors, her heels sinking soundlessly into the pile. Before she could raise her hand to knock, the door on the right opened.
He was taller than she’d expected, early fifties, with the lean, athletic build of a man who played tennis in the suffer and skied in the winter. His hair was silvering at the temples, cut short and precise. He wore a suit of dark navy that fit him impeccably. His eyes were a cool, assessing grey.
“Sandi Walker,” he said, extending a hand. His English was flawless, his accent a faint, pleasant melody. “François Cousteau. Welcome.”
She took his hand. His grip was firm, dry. His gaze swept over her, a quick, comprehensive assessment that missed nothing: the sheer blouse, the severity of the skirt, the length of the stockinged leg it revealed. His eyes held hers for a fraction longer than was strictly professional.
“Please,” he said, stepping back to usher her in. “Come into my office.”
François Cousteau’s office was a study in restrained power. The floor-to-ceiling windows presented the city in a breathtaking, silent panorama. A vast mahogany desk, its surface a mirror of polished grain, stood clean but for a single tablet and a crystal tumbler. The air smelled of lemon wood polish and a faint, expensive cologne. He gestured to one of two low leather chairs positioned before the desk.
“Please,” he said again, his voice a soft baritone.
Sandi settled into the chair, crossing her legs with a slow, deliberate motion. The skirt rode higher, exposing another inch of stocking. She knew he saw. He took the chair next to her, not behind the desk, drawing a little away from her so they could both swivel and fact each other, creating an intimacy in the vast room.
The attraction was instant and mutual. Though François had wanted to have sex with her based purely on her reputation, it was the real life woman, her looks, her body, and the mix of professionalism and raw sexuality who now left him awed. For Sandi's part, she'd have had sex with him because he was a powerful man, like she had with Klaus Heinrich, but he was not only physically attractive but softened his aura of total dominating power and competence with a gentlemanly charm. He studied her for a moment, his grey eyes cool but intent.
“Your file is impressive,” he began, leaning back.“The turnaround you orchestrated in Liverpool was… unexpected. For someone with your relatively brief tenure in strategic roles.”
“Thank you,” Sandi said, her voice level. She kept her gaze steady, her hands relaxed in her lap.
“Of course,” he continued, a faint smile playing on his lips, “your formal experience in mergers and acquisitions is, by your own CV’s admission, limited. Five years ago you were an Office Administrator. A mother. A home-maker. Your rise is meteoric. Some would say… suspiciously so.”
Sandi felt a familiar thrill, the same as when a man’s hand first brushed her thigh in a crowded room. This was a different kind of groping. She met his gaze.
“I studied for years while doing that office job. I earned my MBA. The qualification speaks for itself. As do the results I've achieved since Ryan put his faith in me.”
“Do they?” François asked, tilting his head.“Results can be orchestrated. Momentum can be borrowed. Ryan speaks very highly of you, of course. But one wonders if his advocacy is… Objective.”
She understood the implication. It was a direct probe, a testing of her composure.
She refused to blush.“Ryan values competence. As I’m sure you do. If you believe my relative lack of traditional career pedigree is a problem, the solution is simple. Have a word with Ryan. Send me home.”
François watched her, silent. The hum of the city below was the only sound.
“You’ve basically been banished,” he said finally, his tone shifting, becoming almost conversational. “After the furore you created with Klaus Heinrich.”
Sandi’s pulse jumped. So he knew. Of course he knew. The corporate world was a small, vicious village. She kept her expression neutral, a mask of polite inquiry.
“So what am I here for?” Sandi asked.
“Ostensibly,” François said, spreading his hands, “to identify areas where cooperation between our two companies will be mutually advantageous. To map synergies. A two-month liaison role.”
“But really?”
He let the question hang. His eyes travelled down her body, from her face to the visible shadow of her nipples against the ivory blouse, down to the exposed sweep of her stockinged thigh. The look was appraisal, not lechery.
“Who knows?” he said softly, looking back into her eyes.“You’re an interesting woman. I think you have potential. And I don’t like Klaus either.” He paused, letting the confession of rivalry hang between them. “So I couldn’t stand by and let him have you thrown to the wolves. And Tom Miller speaks highly of you too. The two of you have worked quite closely I believe.”
The silence this time was thick, charged, for just how much did he know. Sandi uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the whisper of nylon loud in the quiet. She saw his eyes follow the movement.
“I find I work better on a full stomach,” François said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.“There’s a place by the river. We can talk more freely there.”
The limousine was a silent, black bubble gliding through Paris. Sandi watched the city scroll past the tinted window, her reflection a ghost overlaid on grand buildings. François sat one side, Sandi the other, the space between them charged like the air before a storm.
“Tell me about Klaus,” he said, his gaze fixed ahead.
Sandi turned from the window, a slow pivot of her shoulders. She offered a small, tight smile.
“I don’t tell tales,” she said, her voice firm. “It didn’t work out. That’s all.”
François nodded, accepting the boundary.
“Fair enough.”
He let the silence stretch, filled only by the soft purr of the engine. Then he turned his head, his grey eyes capturing hers.
“A different question, then. What kind of sex are you looking for?”
The bluntness was a shock, a door flung open. It thrilled her. She held his gaze, the mask of the professional melting away to reveal the raw want beneath.
She told him about the twins leaving home, the silence in the house, the holiday in Greece where she and Caleb had talked about how they wanted to live their lives going forward, their joint decision to explore her sexuality.
“I can understand that,” said Francois. “I can relate to it... It's admirable...”
Sandi stared into his eyes asking for more, a detail that would confirm his sincerity.
“We tend to think that love is the ultimate don't we,” he said. “But love can hold you back... You only go so far when it comes to revealing your deepest, darkest desires. You don't want to risk what you have so you hold back. But I know that a man and a woman can go deeper... So how did you manage it?”
She smiled at his confession of failure for if he'd succeeded, like Caleb had, he wouldn't be chasing her now.
“He told me of his fears, from ten years previous, when he'd thought I'd been unfaithful to him on a summer holiday,” she said. “When I'd leave him on the beach with the children and go back to our hotel to get out of the sun...”
Francois smiled as if knowing that she'd been adulterous and took her side, so she continued.
“It was true that I'd packed a shockingly brief bikini, which I never wore, for him at least,” she said. “And a pair of stiletto heels which, likewise, I never wore for him...”
“I can understand his suspicions,” said Francois, encouraging her to continue.
“I was wracked with sexual frustration,” she said, “and I did want to parade myself in the hotel, when it was quiet in the afternoon with nearly everyone soaking up the sun on the beach or by the pool... Because I did want to have some man take me somewhere, and...”
Francois smiled, its conspiratorial edge inviting her to confess the truth. But she didn't.
“So he brought the subject up on our last holiday,” continued Sandi. “He told me how difficult it had been to contain his jealousy... His insecurity... But he'd managed it... And whether or not his suspicions had been well-founded, he'd been reassured by the fact that it hadn't harmed our relationship... With his own big confession being that, as the years went by, especially when we were on holiday, he started to find the thought of it more and more erotic...”
“And you were on holiday at the time,” said Francois. “And as you'd done your duty with regard to children... And were discussing your future together... You asked him if he'd like you to do it... Have sex with another man... With you being able to say, if he'd reacted badly, that you'd only wanted to please him... So you both took the risk.. And ventured into something that has fed itself in a spiral leading to where you are now... Here with me...”
They stared into each other's eyes and it could have led to one of those moments, so frequently captured in Hollywood movies, where the man and the woman kiss, but Sandi didn't want romance, she wanted sex and the opportunity to give expression to her sexuality.
“Caleb tells me a women of my age needs much more sex than even the most virile man can give her,” she said, softly. “And I'm finding that the more sex I get... The more sex I want..”
He didn't take it badly, this declaration that he could only ever be one among many, and stared supportively into her eyes, hoping she'd say more.
“I don't don't want to date,” she said. “I don't want to play hard to get and make men jump through hoops... I want openness and honesty... So where there's mutual attraction... A man who's direct and unashamedly focusses on that aspect of how we might interact interact... Well... He's the kind of man for me...”
“So can I ask you again,” he said. “What kind of sex are you looking for?”
She wondered how best to put it.
“Gratuitous,” she said. “Which in English is generally considered to be a disparaging, belittling condemnation... But which for me captures the essence of my new philosophy... Where sex doesn't need the foundation of love or a trusting relationship... And flows freely based purely on attraction... With no shame... No guilt...”
She smiled to herself at the memory of the sex she'd had on the train the previous day. She looked up and saw him staring into her, wanting to smile himself, wanting her to share her smiles with him going forward.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, inviting her to share her secret with him, whatever it was.
“You're not one of those possessive men are you,” she said. “The kind who imagine that the woman is just waiting for her knight in shining armour to sweep her off her feet... So she can focus all her attention on him...”
He smiled and shook his head.
“You like my promiscuity don't you,” she said. “Not just because it means I'm easy...And that the sex can be gratuitous... But because... Well you tell me...”
He nodded to confirm her suspicions.
“It adds an extra dimension,” he said, smiling approvingly at her. “It means there's more to explore... But look, we've arrived... So let's continue over lunch...”
The restaurant was all soft light and secluded corners, a temple of hushed luxury. They ate scallops that tasted of the sea, drank a wine that tasted of cold stone. The conversation meandered through mergers and market forecasts, but underneath, a current pulled taut. Afterwards François suggested they have their coffee in the lounge, in a velvet-draped alcove away from the last lingering diners who had mostly scurried back to work.
“Tell me about the most gratuitous sex you've had so far,” he said.
He wasn't asking but inviting her to take them into the psychological realm before they'd even gotten close to the physical, the sensually tactile, conventional way of taking things forward.
“So far?” she asked. “Are you warning me?”
“Yes,” he said, staring blankly at her as if she only had to say if she didn't like the idea.
But rather than take fright he could see that the very thought of it was exciting her, so he took to staring at her lips, imagining himself kissing them and of her mouth opening to take his cock. He stared quite openly at the faint dark circles of her nipples beneath her bra and blouse, and of her offering them to his mouth, to be kissed and sucked. He stared at her legs in their stockings, a tiny sliver of their lacy tops quite deliberately displayed to tantalise him. He saw how she sat, how she kept adjusting her position as if for the pleasure of being able to move her pussy against the cool leather of her seat.
So she told him about the man on the train, starting with how she'd quite deliberately left the house with no panties on.
“Why?” he asked her, immediately. “Please add such details for it's your state of mind as much as what you actually did that...”
He paused not wanting to say it.
“Excites you?” she asked.
He nodded and she smiled – purely to let him know that she was pleased with the direction they were moving in.
“I knew Caleb would want to fuck me before I left,” she said. “When I was dressed and all ready to leave... And I knew it would excite him if he discovered I wasn't wearing panties... But that wasn't why I left them off... Meaning to please or excite him as if we were playing some game... It wasn't a game... I left them off for the reason it excited him... Because I wanted to travel from the safety and security of my home and all my familiar routines... To France and the unknown... With my pussy naked... Accessible under a relatively short skirt... My legs adorned in black stockings... My heels making me feel and hopefully look like a gift... And most excitingly of all... For both Caleb and me... Available... With me hoping, quite desperately, that there'd be a man who'd fuck me on the way...”
“And was there such a man?” enquired Francois, clearly hoping.
“He got on at Ashford,” said Sandi. “The first-class carriage was virtually empty... He stared discreetly... I encouraged him... When our eyes met, I smiled... But being a gentleman, he needed more...”
“What?” asked Francois, when she didn't continue.
She stared into him searching for his soul and deciding whether she dar.
“Can I show you?” she asked, jumping on the possibility of an opportunity that has just popped up into her consciousness.
“How can I say no?” said Francois.
“He didn't know me and we hadn't spoken,” said Sandi. “We were there locked in close proximity... Engaging on the subliminal level... A mutual attraction holding us in its grip... And to save the moment from being lost...”
She replicated the adjustment of her stocking.
“In response,” she whispered, leaving the hem of her skirt where it fell after her demonstration, “he got up, held his hand out for me to take of my own volition, led me away to somewhere more private shall we say, and without a word...”
They fell into a silence and she wondered if he disapproved or she'd devalued herself in his eyes. This was exacerbated when he seemed to fall deep into thought, but she made no move to back-track.
“And your state of mind?” he asked.
“I was exhilarated,” she said.
“Was it the power you wielded?” he asked.
“No,” she said softly. “I didn't feel I had any power as such... I'd gambled... I'd trusted my instincts.. We'd both broken the conventional rules...We'd sunk down onto a lower level... And we'd connected there...”.
“Can we create our own little moment?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I can neither ask, or tell you what to do,” he said. “You're the budding executive and I'm the powerful CEO who can make or break your career... So just tell me what you would like to happen here and now...”
She glanced around to check that the room was otherwise empty, and that the alcove they were sitting in hid her from view should anyone walk into the room.
“I'd like you to tell me to slowly unbutton my blouse,” she said. “To slip out of it... And my bra... And skirt... So that I'm sitting here in just my stockings and high-heels...”
He's eyes narrowed at the implication that she wasn't wearing any panties.
“Why don't you just do it?” he asked. “Gamble... Trust you instincts... Break all the conventional rules... Sink down onto a lower level... So we connect there...”
“I'm thinking of your reputation,” she said. “You're known here... It's not like on a train where you can be anonymous...”
“So if I took you somewhere we could be anonymous?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Can I dress you for the occasion?” he asked.
She had no idea what he meant but she nodded.
“Then let’s go shopping.”
The atelier of Madame Selene was not a boutique but a sanctuary. It smelled of silk dust and old roses. The woman herself was birdlike, sharp-eyed, ageless. François spoke to her in rapid, quiet French. Madame Selene’s gaze swept over Sandi, assessing not just her measurements but her bearing, her energy.
“Elle est une carte blanche,” François said. A blank canvas.
“Non,” Madame Selene corrected softly, her English precise.“She is a finished painting. We are merely… adjusting the frame.”
She led Sandi behind a curtain. The first dress was a weapon. Jet black, sleeveless, deceptively simple. It zipped up the back, fitted like a second skin to just above the knee.“Walk,” Madame Selene commanded. Sandi walked. The fabric whispered, its weight luxurious. It felt like wearing nothing, yet it sculpted every curve.
“Now, turn,” François said from a chair. She turned. The back was plunging, open to the very base of her spine.“It’s exquisite. But it’s not… dinner.”
Madame Selene nodded, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She produced a second dress. This one was the colour of crushed crimson berries, a wrap style in heavy silk satin that was held closed by a singe button at her hip. Sandi put it on, following the silent instructions. The cross-over front created a deep, precarious V that plunged between her breasts. The skirt was short and bias-cut such that it revealed the lacy top of one of her stocking.
“Now walk to the mirror,” Madame Selene said, her voice a thread of sound. “And unbutton it.”
Sandi stood before the full-length mirror, her reflection a blaze of crimson. She found the large, ostentatious, button at her hip, realising that it was an essential component of the design, intended not simply to keep the dress closed but pull the material taut, to temp and provoke, and draw attention to how precariously was her modest being preserved. The merest slide of her fingers over the fastening released it the dress didn't just fall open but slipped from her shoulders too such that she had to clutch at it to prevent it falling to the floor.
“Let it drop, please,” said Francois, so Sandi did, revealing her entire body from collarbone to ankles - the pale curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, her shaven pussy, the long lines of her stockings.
François moved beside her at the mirror, his reflection standing behind hers. His hands came to rest on her bare shoulders
“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It's not so much an item of clothing as an extension of your smouldering sexuality... Dare you wear it tonight. With no bra, no panties. Only your stockings, and your heels. Dare you expose so much of your nature?”
She stared at him via the mirror.
“I want to,” she whispered.
“And what of your husband?” he asked her.
“I'll send him a photo,” she said softly.
“Will you tell him about this?” he asked, easing her back against him, and pressing his hardening cock against her bottom.
“Will you tell him about me?”
“You can send him a photo,” she said.
“He won't mind,” whispered Francois seductively, in her ear.
“It will excite him,” she whispered back, half-turning so offer her lips to him.
“How about we send him one now?” he asked. “So he can see that you're in good hands...”
“Okay,” said Sandi, and Francois passed his phone to Madame Selene. “Please keep my face out of it,” he instructed her, before wrapping his arms around her and splaying the fingers of one handover her lower belly.
“Lower,” whispered Sandi, and Madame Selene waited until Sandi had coaxed Francois into pressing his middle finger on to her clitoris, had tilted her head back against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth a little to let a low moan escape her lips.
“You don't mind me having his number?” asked Francois, considerately, before Sandi took hold of the phone and tapped it in. “You don't mind us colluding?”
Sandi shook her head and he tapped on Send.
He then asked Madame Selene if she could alter the dress so fit Sandi perfectly and have it delivered to her hotel before 8pm. He then gave her the name and address and it made Sandi wonder how he knew it – and what else he knew.