Chapter 81: Wearing the Contour Sheath
The screen went dark. The sudden silence in the Parisian kitchen was profound, broken only by the faint rush of traffic from the boulevard below. Sandi stood trembling, the phantom buzz of the implants still echoing in her nerves, the solid, unyielding fullness inside her a constant anchor to the reality of her confession.
François gently pried her hands from his forearms. He stepped back, his eyes appraising her. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin.
“A fascinating proposal from your friends,” he said, his tone thoughtful as he picked up his own phone from the counter. “It presents… logistical opportunities. But first, your training continues. And it requires a witness.”
He tapped the screen, held the phone to his ear. “Pierre? Come up. Now, please.”
Sandi’s breath caught. Pierre. The handsome, silent chauffeur with the knowing eyes. The man with whom she'd already conspired with.
A soft knock came at the apartment door barely three minutes later. François, now wearing a silk dressing gown tied loosely at his waist, opened it. Pierre stood in the hallway, impeccably dressed in his dark uniform. His expression was neutral, professional.
“Monsieur.”
Pierre’s gaze flicked to Sandi, standing in her underwear in the centre of the room. His eyes took in the restrictive black Sheath, the stockings, the high heels. There was no surprise in his look, only a quiet, focused attention.
“I presume that Sandi has already established a sexual rapport with you,” said Francois, raising a hand to stop the man from responding one way or the other. “I don't need to know the truth of it. I'll be sanctioning it soon enough. It will be one of your duties in fact. Do you understand?”
Pierre gave a single, sharp nod. “Perfectly, Monsieur.”
“Good,” said Francois, concluding one item of business, and turning to the next – Sandi. “The garment she's wearing... Run your hand over its contours... And the parts of her body it leaves exposed... The upper halves of her breasts... And of course her nipples...”
Pierre moved closer to Sandi, standing in the centre of the room.
“Sandi,” said Francois, in a coaxing tone. “Offer them if you'd like him to put his lips to them...”
She stared into Pierre's eyes, pleading for his understanding of what Francois was doing with her, pleading for his acceptance of her surrendering of herself to it, pleading for him to bear with it all until the two of them could be alone. He gave her the faintest of nods and so she slid her hands under her breasts and lifted them a fraction more that the Sheath was already doing, with her eyes now telling him that though his mouth on her nipples might mean very little to him, at that particular moment it would ignite something powerful inside her. And so it transpired with her being unable to passively let him kiss her there in purely sensual fashion and instead using both hands to clutch at his head and push herself against his mouth.
Francois drew Pierre away, quietly pleased that he had to, and then he put his arm around him, as the two of them stared up and down her body.
“Feel her nether regions,” he suggested, before moving behind Sandi and wrapping his arms around her to pin her arms at her side.
Pierre complied and Francois explained about the dildo and the butt-plug as Pierre's hand explored between her legs, with her standing astride to facilitate, and the man detecting the faint vibrations as the flat of his fingers pressed upwards against the sleek but totally impenetrable material of the protective garment.
“Today is going to be torture for her,” explained Francois, “because she's going to have endure constant stimulation with no possibility at all of the slightest relief from it, or the release of what's going to build up inside her... But it's all for her own good... And you understand and accept that don't you Sandi...”
She nodded solemnly into Pierre's eyes.
“And as I see that you two have in fact already established an understanding, Pierre,” said Francois, “I'm wondering if you'd like to join me this evening when Sandi's pent-up need is tended to...”
Pierre just nodded furiously, his mind in such turmoil that words escaped him.
“Good. So Sandi's lesson for today is about external validation. About being used as an object of arousal without the immediate promise of penetration or the ultimate release of orgasm. It is about amplifying the need, having her let it take over, such that its satisfaction becomes her only goal.”
He stopped behind Sandi, placing his hands on her shoulders.
“You will participate now, Pierre,” said Francois. “You will feast you eyes on her... Seeing her only as an object of desire... Seeing only her feminine need for the masculine... Because no other aspect of her personality or character is of any relevance now... It it Sandi...”
She stared in to Pierre's eyes and slowly shook her head.
“Tell him Sandi,” said Francois, more of a suggestion than a command, more an offering of an opportunity for her to take things forward with Pierre for her own ends than anything coercive or exploitative.
“I want to live for sex,” she said, with tears starting to well in her eyes, tears of hope for understanding and acceptance, tears of hope for an emotional as well as a physical connection, bond, or relationship starting to form. “Everything else will be secondary... Eating... Drinking... Sleeping... Washing... Working, if I can... I know this is going to sound awful... Terrible... But all I want is sex... Cock... And fucking...”
“No, no, no,” said Pierre with genuine feelings of sympathy and affection, as he stepped close, wrapped his arms around her, drew her close, and held her tight. “It's wonderful... Beautiful... And I'll be there for you... I'll die for you... Sandi...”
There, he'd dared us her name.
Francois once again drew Pierre away from Sandi, so she once again stood there alone in the centre of the room, her breasts displayed and her nipples offered, her legs in black hold-up stockings and the highest of black stiletto heels, her torso and especially her pelvic region encased in the sleek black Sheath.
“For now Pierre,” said Francois, leading Sandi to an armchair, and sitting her down in it, “you will touch her... Indulgently... For you not her... Letting her total sensuality intoxicate you. And you will make yourself come. Do you hear me? Do you understand? The whole point is that you use her to make yourself come... But let me warn you... Not one drop must desecrate her perfection.”
Pierre’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded again. “As you wish.”
The early morning sun streamed in, laying a warm stripe across the sleek black of the Sheath. Francois studied Sandi and then gave her his instructions.
“Sit back. Legs wide apart. Breasts pushed out. Hands on the arms of the chair.”
She obeyed, the cool fabric against the backs of her thighs. The position pushed her pelvis forward, making the prominent outline of the Sheath’s external structure even more visible. The dildo inside her shifted slightly with the movement, a reminder.
François then gave Pierre his instructions. “You will use only one hand to touch her. The other is for your own pleasure. You may touch her breasts, her throat, her stomach, her inner thighs. You may gently caress her most intimate parts, through the Sheath, but only for your own pleasure with any she experiences being merely incidental. If you try to make her come I will dismiss you. The goal is your orgasm. Her state is my concern.”
Pierre approached the chair, his shadow falling over her. He started with her shoulders, his hand sliding down over her collarbone. It was a clinical touch, yet his fingers were warm. He cupped her left breast, his thumb rubbing circles around the nipple, which was already tight and straining against the Sheath’s open cup. Sandi hissed, her back pressing into the chair.
“Look at her face, Pierre,” François murmured from the side, his own phone in hand, his thumb hovering over the screen. “See how her body reacts even to this simple possession.”
Pierre’s hand moved to her other breast, kneading the full weight of it, his fingers tracing the underside. Then his hand slid down, over the hard, sculpted plane of the Sheath that encased her abdomen. He palmed the smooth, unyielding surface that covered her mound, the pressure transmitted directly to the trapped flesh beneath. Sandi’s hips gave a minute jerk.
His other hand was busy at the front of his trousers, undoing the fastenings with practised efficiency. He drew his cock out. It was half-hard, thickening rapidly as he began to stroke himself, his gaze locked on Sandi’s exposed body.
The duality was maddening. One hand roaming over her as if she were a sculpture made for fondling. The other, working his own flesh in a steady, grim rhythm. He leaned closer, his breath washing over her neck. His fingers trailed down the inside of her thigh, slipping behind her knee, then gliding back up to the crease of her hip. So close to her cunt, but never touching it. The promise of contact without the payoff.
Sandi was panting, her knuckles white on the chair arms. The implants inside her felt enormous, a persistent, aching fullness. But it was a static feeling. It lacked the crucial friction, the release.
“Her arousal is peaking, but it is trapped,” François observed, his voice low. “The architecture denies her the specific pressure she craves. Watch.”
His thumb pressed a button on his phone.
A deep, throbbing vibration erupted inside Sandi. It was setting four again—the buzzing, insistent demand that short-circuited thought. A sharp cry tore from her throat. Her body arched, trying to flee the sensation, but the chair and the Sheath held her fast.
Pierre’s hand on her belly stilled, feeling the internal tremor through the material. His own stroking sped up, his fist a blur on his cock, which was now fully erect, glistening at the tip.
“That’s it,” François whispered, more to himself than anyone. “The body in crisis. No control. Pure biological feedback.”
He adjusted the setting. The vibration shifted to a rapid, fluttering pulse, focused intensely on the internal dildo. It mimicked the spasms of an orgasm but denied the climax itself. Sandi was sobbing, her head thrashing side to side. “Please… oh god, please…”
“Please what?” François asked calmly. “You are not to be gratified. You are the gratification. Look at him.”
Pierre was close. His breath came in ragged grunts. His hand on her body grew more possessive, gripping the side of her breast, his thumb pinching her nipple hard. His other hand worked his cock furiously, his hips pumping into his own fist. He was staring at the place where her body was encased, at the helpless writhe of her hips, at the tears streaking her flushed cheeks.
“She’s a fucking dream,” Pierre grunted, the words bursting from him, raw and unfiltered. “Look at her take it. Just a hungry, trembling cunt in a plastic shell.”
The vulgarity, from the usually silent driver, sent a new shock through Sandi. It coincided with François ramping the vibration to a punishing, continuous shiver.
Pierre’s body went rigid. A guttural sound erupted from his chest. His cock pulsed in his hand, and thick, white streaks of cum jetted into it before starting to dribble onto the polished floorboards.
As the last pulses faded, François terminated the vibration.
The silence was absolute, suffocating. Pierre staggered back a step, accepted a handkerchief from Francois before tucking his softening cock away with trembling hands, his face a mask of spent shock. Sandi was a shuddering wreck, her own need a frantic, screaming void inside her.
“Excellent, Pierre,”said Francois. “You may go. Wash your hands in the guest toilet before you return to the car. We will be down shortly.”
Pierre, avoiding Sandi’s eyes, gave a curt nod and left the room, his footsteps receding.
François crouched before the chair.
“You see?” he said softly, tracing her jawline. “You provided the fuel. Your displayed desperation, your helplessness, was the catalyst. His orgasm was his, but you were the instrument. Your own culmination is irrelevant to the function. The need persists. It will accompany you to the office. It will sit in meetings with you. It will fester.”
He stood, pulling her to her feet. Her legs barely held her.
“Now, you will dress for work. You will wear the Sheath beneath the blouse and business-suit I've laid out.”
The grey wool suit was exquisite, a severe cut that transformed her trembling form into a silhouette of crisp authority. She stepped into the slim skirt, its lining whispering against her stockings, and fastened the blouse over the unyielding black Sheath. Her reflection in the gilded mirror was a stranger—a poised executive with hollow, hungry eyes. François adjusted her collar, his fingers lingering at her nape. “Remember the emptiness,” he murmured. “Let it sharpen you.”
The back seat of the sedan was a silent, moving cell. Pierre’s eyes found hers in the rear-view for a fleeting second before fixing back on the traffic clotting the Boulevard Périphérique. François, seated beside her, tapped a document on his tablet. The persistent, low-grade ache between her legs was a metronome counting the seconds.
“Raise your skirt,” he said, not looking up.
Her breath hitched. She glanced toward the partition, but Pierre gave no sign of hearing. Her hands, slightly clammy, gathered the fine grey wool and drew it up her thighs. The cool air kissed her skin above the black stockings. The Sheath’s lower edge cut a stark line across her shaven mound, visible now.
“Wider.”
She let her knees fall apart, the movement making the leather seat creak. The position exposed everything the garment was designed to protect and display. François finally set the tablet down. He studied the revealed expanse of her inner thighs, the pale skin webbed with faint blue veins, the dark promise at their apex. He began to caress her, his touch languid, tracing the seam where stocking met flesh. His fingers slid higher, skating along the sensitive skin just beside the Sheath’s rigid border. So close. Sandi’s head lolled back against the headrest, a low whine building in her throat. She pushed her hips up, a silent, desperate invitation for him to bridge that tiny, agonizing gap.
He didn’t. He merely watched his own hand roam, feeling the heat radiating from her, watching her muscles twitch with involuntary need. “Beautiful,” he breathed, a connoisseur appreciating a tense, live wire. The entire ride continued like that, a torment of almost-there, her cunt weeping inside its fabric prison, her mind dissolving into a single, throbbing point of focus.
Her office on the fifth floor of the Haussmann headquarters was sleek, impersonal glass and steel. A dense dossier for a proposed logistics acquisition lay centred on the vast, empty desk.
“You will understand it fully,” François stated from the doorway. “You will give a presentation at three. Your analysis must be impeccable.”
He left, closing the door on the tomb-like quiet. The only sound was the rush of her own blood in her ears, synced with the phantom echo of vibration. She opened the dossier. Columns of numbers, merger clauses, asset valuations. The words blurred. She squeezed her thighs together, the pressure a poor substitute. She forced her eyes to track a sentence, then another. The desperate animal in her core snarled and scratched, but she began, painstakingly, to read.
By eleven, the cognitive dissonance was agony. Her mind, sharpened by years of late-night MBA study, began to latch onto contract risks and synergies, tracing logic threads. Her body, meanwhile, was a simmering pot about to scream. The dual fullness inside her was a constant, distracting presence. A more pressing, physical urgency also mounted. She pushed back from the desk, her heels clicking like gunshots on the polished concrete as she walked down the corridor to François’s corner office.
He was on a call, but waved her in. She stood before his desk, trembling, until he hung up. “The dossier is complex, but I'm managing to assimilate it,” she started, her voice tight.
“That is not why you’re here.”
She swallowed. “I need… the toilet. The Sheath… I wondered what you wanted me to do...”
A slow smile touched his lips. “And what would you like the procedure to be?”
Her gaze was direct, stripped of pretence. “I would like you to take me.”
The executive bathroom attached to his office was marble and muted gold. He locked the door. His hands were swift, peeling away the tailored jacket, unbuttoning the blouse, pushing the skirt down her hips. Soon she stood in only the Sheath, her stockings, her heels. He produced a small key from his pocket. With a clinical click, he disengaged the internal lock at the side of the Sheath. He drew down the zip and relieved her of the garment. He then slid two fingers inside her, hooking them, and slowly extracted the slick, obscene length of the dildo. A gasp of relief and startling emptiness fell from her lips. The butt-plug remained, a persistent intruder.
He guided her to sit on the toilet. “Now.”
The release was a shocking, mundane bliss. Her eyes closed. Then she felt his hand. He slid his palm between her legs, directly into the stream. The warm liquid flowed over his skin. His eyes shut, his face contorting in a private rapture. I have always… wanted this, his mind whispered to hers, the confession stark and shocking in its intimacy. The warmth. The surrender of it. He held his hand there until the last drop fell.
He rose, washed his hands meticulously at the basin, dried them with a towel. He returned with a wad of soft tissue. Kneeling before her, he dabbed her dry with a shocking tenderness. Their eyes locked. Her hazel ones were wide, pools of pure, undiluted need. She thought the words at him, pushing them from her core: Touch me. Please. Just your fingers. There. She saw the battle in his gaze, the professional detachment crumbling under the wave of her raw, broadcasting hunger.
He succumbed. His fingers, still slightly damp from the towel, brushed over her exposed vulva. She was sopping, swollen, the flesh hot and impossibly soft. A violent shudder racked her entire frame. He explored further, parting her lips, circling her clit expertly with his thumb. She was so aroused it was almost frightening, a state of pure, slick , total receptivity.
“Anyone at all could fuck you now, couldn’t they?” he whispered, awe and a hint of fear in his voice.
“Anyone with a big, hard cock,” she breathed back, the vulgarity truthful and absolute.
He snatched his hand back as if burned. He stood, his own breathing uneven. With abrupt, efficient movements, he re-inserted the dildo, re-locked the Sheath, and dressed her in silence. Each layer of business attire felt like a layer of chain-mail being clamped over live nerve endings.
The presentation was in a cold, blue-lit auditorium. Eight senior executives, all men, watched her from a semicircular table. François sat to the side, phone in hand. She began, clicking through slides on the logistics market. Her voice, to her own surprise, was clear and steady. Then a faint, insistent buzzing began deep inside her. Setting two. A constant, teasing hum. She faltered for a syllable, then continued, gripping the edge of the lectern. He varied it—short pulses, long drones, sudden increases in intensity that made her vision speckle. She spoke about asset depreciation schedules, her knuckles white, a fine sweat beading on her upper lip. She answered questions on regulatory hurdles, her mind bifurcated: one half weaving concise, intelligent responses, the other screaming into a void of relentless sensation. She never broke. She finished to curt, approving nods.
In the car returning to Boulevard Exelmans, she was silent, staring at the neon blur of the city. François’s hand was on her thigh again, a possessive weight. “How did you do that?” he finally asked, genuine curiosity overwhelming his customary control.
She turned to him, her insight crystallizing. “My sexual self is in total control now,” she said, her voice low and astonishingly calm. “But it’s not stupid. It’s… executive. It calculated today. It determined that to get more sex—better sex, from powerful men, on a sustained scale—it needs the vessel, me, to be impressive. To show intellect, drive, strategic flair. So it permitted the focus. It delayed the gratification for a larger, long-term return on investment.”
François stared, utterly staggered. The psychological architecture of it was terrifying and brilliant. “But outside of work?” he managed. “When the calculus shifts?”
“Desperate,” she said, the word a husky promise. “So right now... I'm desperate for immediate, brutal gratification.”
He keyed his phone, booking at table at the ideal place, the inclusion of Pierre already agreed.
The evening dissolved into a slow, deliberate feast of her. Back at the apartment, François took her first on the rug, fucking her with deep, measured strokes while Pierre watched, then kissing her deeply as he withdrew and guided Pierre into her still-clenching heat. They took turns for hours, a relay of relentless possession. They dressed her in a scandalously sheer black dress that concealed nothing of the Sheath’s outline beneath and took her to a venerable Michelin-starred bastion of old Paris. She ate sublime food while one of their hands was always beneath the table, on her bare thigh, a finger tracing the Sheath’s edge. The stares of other diners were like physical caresses.
Returning to the apartment, the fucking resumed, slower now, more explorative. Pierre laid her on the dining table, spreading her wide, and ate her cunt until she sobbed, her orgasm finally, torrentially granted. François fucked her arse while she rode Pierre’s cock, her body a shivering bridge between them. At midnight, François sent a spent Pierre to the guest room. Sandi, insatiable, flitted between them, a ghost of need. She slid into bed with Pierre, curling around his sleeping form, but sleep wouldn’t come. The relentless engine inside her still idled high.
In the first grey light, she left Pierre and padded into François’s room. She slipped beneath the cool linen sheets, pressing her back against his sleeping form. His breath deepened. He did not wake, but his arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer in his sleep. She lay still, her eyes open in the dimness, hovering in the fragile space between the night’s desperate satiation and the new day’s inevitable, gathering hunger.