Chapter 68: The Left Bank
The limousine’s partition was up, sealing them in a bubble of soft leather and quiet engine hum. The scene outside—the grand facades of Paris, the bustling bridges over the Seine—felt like a silent film scrolling past the tinted glass.
“You could have fucked me in the restaurant,” Sandi whispered, her voice low against the plush seat. “You could have fucked me in the atelier in front of Madame Selene. You can fuck me now.” Her tone wasn’t demanding; it was a genuine, simmering curiosity.
François smiled, almost a chuckle. He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the city passing by. “I want to savour you, Sandi.”
“Savour me now,” she suggested, shifting so her stockinged thigh pressed against the fine wool of his trousers. “Take your time. Do what you want. Have me do whatever you want.”
He laughed, a soft, warm sound. “I want to see you in that dress. I want to flaunt you on my arm. In a left-bank, bohemian, cellar bar. In Montparnasse, maybe, where the likes of Picasso, Henri Matisse, Jean-Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald smoked, and drank, and womanised. I want to walk you down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, or maybe the Boulevard Saint-Michel, or the Rue Bonaparte.”
Sandi was quiet for a moment, studying his profile. “You remind me of my husband,” she said finally.
He turned his head, his grey eyes capturing hers. “Is that a good thing?”
She nodded solemnly. “It’s very good. But dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Let me ask you something,” she said, her hazel eyes searching his. “Do you want me all to yourself? Or do you want to share me?”
François didn’t hesitate. “I will want you all to myself.” He paused, letting the possessiveness hang in the air. “But afterwards.”
She eyed him fearfully, a flutter in her stomach that was part thrill, part dread. “And before?”
His smile was slow, deliberate. “I’ll want to share you. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
Her mind raced, wondering, not for the first time, if Caleb was already colluding with him somehow, if this was some elaborate game they were playing with her as the prize. She dismissed it; the logistics were impossible, the psychology all wrong. Caleb was back home, trusting her, cheering her on. This danger was hers alone. She trembled, a fine vibration deep in her bones, because François was precisely the kind of man—confident, commanding, unashamed in his desires—who could come between her and the life she had built with Caleb.
“Would you share me with my husband?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“Of course,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “But would you like to be shared between us?”
The image bloomed in her mind, vivid and utterly corrosive to her old self. Two men, taking turns possessing her whether in London or Paris, her workplace or at home, or in the bedroom, their hands on her, their focus absolute. Her husband’s familiar touch and this new, commanding stranger’s. She felt a sudden, slick heat between her legs. She nodded, a sharp, quick dip of her chin.
He patted her knee, a proprietorial gesture that sealed the unspoken pact. “Good.”
The dress arrived at 7:58 p.m., delivered by a silent young woman in a black suit. The garment bag hissed as Sandi unzipped it. The crimson satin, now perfectly tailored, felt heavy and cool in her hands.
She dressed slowly, a ritual. The stockings first, rolling them up her thighs with meticulous care, the lace tops settling high. The stilettos, black and severe. Then, the dress. She let it slide round her shoulders, the silk whispering against her skin like a lover’s promise. It settled, the cross-over front creating that deep, treacherous plunge. She fastened the single, ornate button at her hip. It pulled the fabric taut across her body. She looked in the full-length mirror. The woman who stared back was a stranger of thrilling, alarming beauty. The dress was less clothing and more a declaration—of intent, of hunger, of a boundaries dismantled.
She wore no bra. Her nipples, hardened by the cool air and the sheer audacity of it, pressed visibly against the satin. She wore no panties. The short, bias-cut skirt would reveal everything if she moved just so. She applied a deep red lipstick, blotted it, and sprayed a cloud of perfume into which she stepped.
At exactly 8:15 p.m., the phone in her room buzzed. “The car is here, Madame,” the concierge said, his voice admirably neutral.
François was waiting beside a low-slung sports car, not the limousine. He leaned against the door, also transformed. The impeccable suit was gone, replaced with dark jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a leather jacket. He looked younger, sharper, dangerous. His eyes travelled over her, a slow, comprehensive sweep that left a tangible heat on her skin.
“You look,” he said, opening the passenger door for her, “like a very beautiful problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Sandi asked, sliding into the low seat, the skirt riding up to expose the full length of her stockinged thighs.
“The kind I want to spend a very long time solving.” He closed her door, his knuckles brushing her knee as he did so.
They did not go to a restaurant. He drove with predatory ease through the Paris streets, away from the wide, lit boulevards, delving into the narrower, shadowed arteries of the Left Bank. The car purred, a contained beast. He parked on a cobbled street barely wide enough for the vehicle, all shuttered workshops and graffiti-tagged doors.
“Here,” he said.
The place was called Le Rêveur, The Dreamer. It was a bookshop by day, he explained, holding the heavy door open for her. By night, the rear opened into a hidden jazz club. They passed through corridors of musty, book-scented darkness, the sound of a upright bass thrumming through the walls like a heartbeat. The space they entered was a cellar, all rough stone walls and vaulted brick ceilings. It was packed, smoky, hot. A quartet played in a corner, the music a complex, sensual lament.
Heads turned as they found a small table near the back. The looks were not discreet. Sandi felt the collective gaze like a physical touch—men and women alike, assessing the crimson dress, the stockinged legs, the profound cleavage, the woman who wore it all with a serene, challenging stillness. François ordered a bottle of champagne without consulting her. When it arrived, he poured two glasses, his fingers brushing hers as he passed one.
“To gratuitous things,” he said, his voice barely audible over the music.
She drank. The bubbles were sharp, electric.
They sat for a moment, listening to the saxophone’s mournful cry. François leaned in, his voice cutting through the haze of smoke and music.
“Tell me about Tom Miller,” he said, his grey eyes unblinking. “Last night, in your hotel room, when he took you out, and then back to his place.”
Sandi’s glass paused halfway to her lips. The suddenness was a cold splash. She held his gaze, the pieces slotting into place with a quiet, definitive click. He knew. Possibly from Tom. Or from someone else watching, and following her movements, so a private investigator or some other kind of spy. A strange calm settled over her. Tom wasn't important now so she wasn't overly concerned about his situation, and besides, she'd said nothing so her conscience was clear – and the possibility of Francois being so interested in her as to have her followed was thrilling.
“What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom,” she said, her voice low but clear. She took a sip, letting the champagne’s bite focus her. “That’s my rule.”
“So you're discreet?” The question was a probe, a test of her principle.
“It is a point of honour with me.” she said flatly, setting her glass down, meeting his intensity with her own. “The only person I will tell is my husband, and he has no connection with you.”
Then the thought entered her head - or does he? But she quickly dismissed it as a concern because it didn't matter – whatever the situation, Caleb was on her side.
A slow, approving smile touched his lips. His concern was settled. He leaned back, the leather of his jacket creaking.
“And after you left Tom? The taxi. The hotel bar,” he queried.
Now she was concerned. Having her spied on was one thing, flattering in a way, but what was motivating him – surely not control? So she studied him – and all she saw was a deep fascination – one that gave rise to a perverse heat blossoming in her chest. He had wanted her enough to have her followed. It was the ultimate, twisted compliment.
She then saw the hungry look in his eyes, identical to the one Caleb got when she narrated her adventures. This was the currency he valued. She decided to spend it freely.
“I phoned Caleb in the taxi,” she began, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass. “I told him everything... What happened on the train. What happened with Tom. Then, in the hotel bar, I had four men. Philippe, Marcel, Luc, Gaspard, as I'm sure you probably know, for it wasn't the most private of locations...”
She watched his pupils dilate, a dark swallow of arousal.
“What you maybe don't know, is that I slept with both Philippe and Marcel, meaning between them. We fucked again in the night, and when we woke up.”
She let the images hang, vivid and crude. Then, feigning a flush of shame, she looked down at the scarred tabletop.
“I… I made a pact with Philippe and Marcel... They were so sweet... Vowing to be there for me if I ever needed their help or assistance... Chivalrous like knights of the round table.”
The thought of it suddenly felt absurd – chivalry after what they'd done with her – but it justified what she'd told them – what she wanted to confess to Francois for the sole purpose finding out what kind of man he was.
“I gave them consent. To just take me, whenever they want. My consent a give. It was foolish, I was overwhelmed…”
François’s hand covered hers, his grip warm and firm.
“It's not foolish.”
His voice was a rough whisper.
“It is the most exciting thing about you,” he said very softly and gently. “It helps me understand what you mean by gratuitous... To the outsider, yes, I was the epitome of gratuitous... But to you and those boys it was profound... You forged such a bond that they pledged themselves to you... And in return you pledged yourself to them in the most sincere way that a woman can...”
Her breath caught. He understood. He truly did. He slid closer on the velvet banquette, his arm going around her shoulders. She melted into his side, her head resting against the soft cashmere of his sweater. He smelled of clean wool and the night air.
“You don't think it's shameful then?” she asked him, purely so that they could delve deeper into it together. “Or over-indulgent on my part?”
He tilted her chin up, they stared into each other eyes, with Francois seeing just how desperately she needed his approval, and just how she wanted him to convey it. So their lips met. The kiss was slow, deep, and profoundly searching. It was not about conquest, but recognition. Her mouth opened under his, and their tongues touched, a shared taste of champagne and complicity.
The romantic mood shattered as his other hand settled high on her stockinged thigh. His fingertips sliding upwards to brush the bare skin above the lace. She gasped into his mouth, her body arching of its own volition. Her knees parted almost involuntarily, a silent, wet, encouraging invitation.
His fingers slid higher, under the hem of the short satin dress. There was no barrier, only the slick, hot flesh of her. He traced her slit through her damp folds, and a low groan escaped her.
“So wet already,” he murmured against her lips, his breath hot. “For me, or for the memory?”
“For you knowing,” she managed to whisper.
His middle finger pressed inside her, just to the first knuckle. Her inner muscles clenched around it. He began a slow, corkscrew motion, his palm grinding against her clit with each rotation. The cellar seemed to tilt, the jazz becoming a thrumming soundtrack to this violation.
People started noticing, and watching. She could feel their eyes from the shadowy tables. A woman across the room sipped her drink, her gaze fixed on Sandi’s flushed face. A man near the bar watched François’s arm move under the table.
“They can see,” François whispered, his finger delving deeper, curling. “They can guess. Let them. Relax.” His voice was a hypnotist’s command. “Wouldn’t you like to watch? If you were them?”
The thought was a lightning strike. To be a spectator in a room where every pretence fell away. Where hunger was laid bare, and bodies met without preamble or apology. A deep, thrilling tremor ran through her cunt, which was now gripping his finger tightly.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word a confession more intimate than any sexual act they’d described.
“Good,” he said.
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. His thumb found her clit and began a relentless, circular pressure.
“Come for them. Show them what you are.”
Her head fell back against the velvet, her eyes squeezing shut. The pleasure was a coil pulled taut, amplified by the public secrecy, by his utter command. Her hips rocked against his hand, seeking the perfect friction. The sounds she made were low, animalistic grunts, lost in the music but felt in the vibration of her throat.
“That’s it,” he urged, his fingers pistoning hard now. “Let go. Be my filthy, secret thing in front of everyone.”
The orgasm ripped through her, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched viciously around his invading fingers. Her back arched off the seat, a strangled cry catching in her chest. Wave after wave of raw sensation pulsed from her core, draining the strength from her limbs. He held her through it, his hand a steady, claiming pressure until the last tremor subsided.
Slowly, he withdrew his glistening fingers. He brought them to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers, and sucked them clean. The act was obscene, a final seal.
Her body hummed, loose-limbed and glowing from the inside out, every nerve still singing from the unspeakable public release. The humid air of the cellar clung to her skin, and the murmur of conversation seemed to swell, as if the room itself had inhaled sharply.
François watched her, his grey eyes like polished stone in the dim light. He didn’t smile, but a deep satisfaction settled in the lines of his face. “Call him,” he said, his voice a low thrum that cut through her daze. “Call Caleb. Now. Video.”
It wasn’t a request. It was the next logical, inevitable step. Her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled in her small clutch for her phone. The screen was a blinding rectangle in the smoky gloom. She found Caleb’s name, touched the video icon, and raised the device. Its glow illuminated her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes.
Caleb’s face appeared, backlit by the familiar lamplight of their living room. “Hey, you,” he said, his smile warm and easy. It faltered for a second as he took her in. “Christ, Sandi. You look… Incredible... Stunning... Where are you?”
She panned the phone slowly, showing him the vaulted brick ceiling, the shadowy crowd, the haze of blue cigarette smoke swirling in the spotlights. She tilted it down, giving him a view of the crimson satin draped over her body, the deep plunge of the neckline where her hard nipples pressed visibly against the fabric. The short skirt-part had ridden up, revealing the stark black lace bands at the tops of her stockings.
“It’s a jazz club,” she said, her voice still throaty from crying out silently minutes before. “On the Left Bank... Where anything goes... It seems...”
“Sandi, you haven't, have you?” Caleb asked, hopefully, before getting keenly interested. “You look a little flushed... A little flustered... A little breathless... Like you're recovering... Physically and emotionally... From having just had an orgasm... Dare I hope that's the case?”
She took a shaky, quivering breath, her eyes locking onto the screen. “Yes,” she whispered, the confession a hot rush in her throat. “Right here... At the table... François… With his fingers... Up under my dress...”
Caleb was silent for a long moment. She watched his expression cycle through surprise, then a dark, fascinated intensity. He let out a soft, ragged laugh.
“Fuck, Sandi... That’s… hell, that’s amazing.”
There was no jealousy, only a vibrating, palpable excitement.
“It goes without saying that the thought of it really gets to me, you know that don't you,” he assured her. “So if you're calling because you feel bad... Don't... You know that don't you, surely... So why are you calling... Are you okay?”
“I’m…”
She trailed off, her gaze drifting from the screen to François, who sat watching her with an unnerving stillness.
“He reminds me of you, Caleb. It scares me,” she said in a whisper. “He's just like you in your attitude... To... You know... What we talked about...”
The silence on the line was different now, charged with understanding.
“Don't be scared... Is he there for you now?” asked Caleb.
“He is... So don't worry about me...” she assured him, forcing the words out. “It's us I'm worried about... You and me... For he's so like you... So supportive of my... New attitudes... He doesn't just want to...”
She didn't want to give voice to the words so her husband did.
“Fuck you?” he offered, with his choice of words making her quiver, as was hoping it would.
“No,” she confirmed.
“He wants to celebrate you,” said Caleb, extrapolating in accord with his own inclinations. “Hence that dress... Hence taking you to that club... Having you give full expression to everything you now are... By making you come...”
“And he wanted me to call you,” said Sandi. “But that only makes it worse, doesn't it... He wants to share me with you... With others... And the temptation is too great... I won't be able to resist... So I want you to make the decision... Fuck my job and fuck my career... I'll come home now, not even tomorrow, but now, if you want me to...”
“Give him the phone, Sandi,” Caleb said, his voice firm and gentle.
Her hand trembled as she held it out. François took it, his fingers brushing hers. He held the device up, framing his own face.
“François Cousteau,” he said, his voice clean and professional, a stark contrast to the scene around him.
“Caleb Walker.”
“You have succeeded where I failed, Caleb, if you don't mind me using your first name,” François stated as simple fact. “With my own wife. The process of… unearthing that innate, profound sexuality. Of creating a space where it can flourish without shame. You’ve done it. I can see it in her. It’s remarkable.”
Caleb took in what had been said, thought about it, and then his voice came through, clear and measured, over the phone, so that Sandi too, now huddled against Francois on the banquette.
“My only concern is Sandi’s happiness. Her personal development. Her journey toward the complete fulfilment of her potential.”
Francois mulled this over, careful not to glance at Sandi to avoid any hint of collusion.
“Are you talking about her career?” François asked, with Sandi sitting perfectly still and hanging on every word.
“No.” Caleb’s answer was immediate, definitive. “Neither of us are all that bothered about her career. Not in the grand scheme. It’s a means to an end. The end we both have in mind is her transition. Into a totally sexual woman.”
François nodded slowly, as if a vital piece of a puzzle had clicked into place. “Do I have your permission to help you both with that?”
“You don’t need my permission,” Caleb replied. “You only need hers. But if you want my approval… then give me an assurance. Your attitude toward her—toward women. This can’t be about bending her to your will. Sexualising her to suit your specific tastes. It has to be about bringing her sexuality, the one nature endowed her with, to the fore. Helping it breathe. Guiding it, maybe, but never commanding it.”
François listened, his expression one of deep, genuine respect. “We should talk,” he said after a moment. “Properly. You should come to Paris. This coming weekend, maybe. As my guest. You and Sandi. I feel we have a great deal in common.” He paused, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. “And thus, a great deal to discuss.”
“Caleb,” Sandi said, after taking the phone back from Francois, “I should take a taxi straight back to my hotel... Lock myself in my room... And get a taxi to the Gare du Nord first thing in the morning... As your wife... I should do that... Because it's not just simple, hedonistic sex... It's not just me giving expression to something that's been bottled up and which we agreed I should try to release...”
She waited for her husband to respond but he knew there was more and she knew he was waiting for her to put it into words.
“It's not him, Francois, as a man,” she said. “If it was, it would be easy, he'd just fuck me... Like all the others... But like you... He doesn't want me for himself... He probably doesn't even want me... But what he knows I'll do... What you know I'll do... With the danger being that I'll surrender, not to him, but to myself...”
She paused again, hoping that her husband would come to her aid, but he didn't, so she continued.
“Caleb,” she whispered intimately into the phone, whilst staring at Francois, and he started caressing her thigh again. “Caleb... I'm coming undone... I'm losing my grip on the reality of boundaries... For how could I have let myself do what I've just done – have an orgasm in a public place with complete stranger's watching... I'm unravelling... I'm losing control... The temptations are becoming too intense... I'm vulnerable... I'm being overwhelmed... I'm reaching the point of total sensual surrender... I can't be held responsible for my actions... I suppose that's what I'm trying to tell you Caleb... If you order me home I'll leave now... If you don't I'm going to fall apart... Disintegrate... Lose executive control... Slip down inside myself... Let something else take over...”
“It's complex Sandi,” said Caleb, in a warm, reassuring, but seductive tone. “It's deep... I didn't know it until just now... When you took me through how you're feeling... But I think it's what I've wanted from the start...”
“But I should be doing it with you,” she appealed softly. “This letting go... I should be doing it with you...”
“Turn to him Sandi,” Caleb whispered, knowing Francois would be listening. “Stare into his eyes... And let your subconscious mind decide whether or not it trusts him...”
“I want him to kiss me,” said Sandi to her husband. “I want him to fuck me...”
“Then let him kiss you,” said Caleb. “Let him fuck you...”
And with that he closed the call. The connection to her old life, to her anchor, had severed for now, by her husband. The world in the cellar seemed sharper, more potent. The saxophone wailed a new, urgent phrase.
François stood, extending a hand to her. His eyes held a new light, a conspiratorial gleam that acknowledged the pact just forged across a video signal. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that promised everything and explained nothing, “we go somewhere the rules are different.”