Chapter 87: The English Invade
The Eurostar shuddered into motion, sliding away from the stark modernity of St Pancras into the dark throat of the tunnel. Inside carriage seven, the air was warm, thick with the murmur of business conversations and the rustle of newspapers.
Caleb watched Maya shift in her seat opposite him, her winter coat—a sleek, knee-length wool blend—falling open slightly as she did. Beneath it, he knew, she wore nothing but sheer black hold-up stockings and stiletto heels. A silk scarf, patterned with peonies, was draped around her neck, in an attempt at hiding the fact that she wore no blouse or dress.
Next to her, Imogen was a mirror image, her blonde hair a sharp contrast to the black stockings he glimpsed when she crossed her legs. Ian sat beside Imogen, his jaw tight, a paperback novel lying unopened on his lap.
“This is fucking unbearable,” Maya whispered, her voice husky. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the movement deliberate. The man in the seat across the aisle, a silver-haired executive, glanced over, his eyes widening before he quickly looked back at his laptop.
“Keep your coat closed,” Ian muttered, not looking up.
“It’s hot,” Imogen replied, and she let her coat gape open fully for a three-count before pulling it together. The fleeting glimpse of bare thigh, stocking top, and the shadowed apex between her legs was a branding iron to the retina.
“They’re going to cause a scene,” Caleb said under his breath to Ian.
“They already are,” Ian replied. He finally looked at Imogen. “What do you want?”
“I’m wet,” Imogen said simply, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “The vibration of the train. The people watching. I’m soaked. And I don’t want to just sit here.”
Maya leaned forward, her scarf dipping.
“If you two won’t do something about it, we’ll find someone who will. That gentleman over there has looked six times. The attendant in the vestibule, twice.”
Caleb felt a familiar, dark surge of possession. It wasn’t love; it was a territorial imperative, sharpened by the game. He stood up.
“Toilet. Now.”
Maya’s smile was victorious. She rose, taking his hand. The walk to the accessible toilet at the end of the carriage was an event. Her heels clicked on the floor. Coat brushing against seats. Every step, the sway of her hips promised the nakedness beneath. Eyes followed them, a hot tide of stolen looks.
Caleb locked the door. The space was cramped, clinical. The roar of the train was louder here, a metallic thrumming in the bones.
Before he could speak, Maya turned, shed her coat, and hung her scarf up too. She stood utterly naked save for the stockings and heels. Her body was magnificent, lean and strong, her pussy shaven smooth like Sandi’s. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filled the tiny room.
“Fuck me,” she said, no request in her tone. “Before I lose my mind.”
He unbuckled his belt, pushed his trousers and boxers down. He was already hard. He turned her roughly to face the small sink, bending her over it. Her hands gripped the porcelain edge. He positioned himself and drove into her without ceremony.
She was drenched. Her cunt clenched around him, hot and slick. He set a brutal pace immediately, each thrust rocking her body against the sink. The mirror showed her face, flushed, eyes squeezed shut then flying open.
“Yes! Just like that,” she hissed. “Fuck your slut on the train. Fuck me like you own me.”
He grunted, his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging into her flesh. The train swayed, adding a chaotic rhythm to their collision. It was raw, functional, a pressure valve blowing. The sounds were obscene: the slap of skin, her choked cries, the constant drone of the tracks.
Her orgasm hit her suddenly, a series of sharp, internal flutters that milked his cock. She bit her own arm to stifle a scream. “Caleb… don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He fucked her through it, his own climax building, a tight coil in his gut. But as he pounded into her, her words came in breathless fragments.
“I’m thinking… of François...”
Caleb slowed. “What?”
“I said I’m thinking of François,” she panted, pushing back against him. “The one who owns Sandi. I imagine him watching this. Telling you to go harder. Telling me I’m a good whore.”
The image, unwanted, sharpened his arousal. He drilled into her harder.
“But more than him…” she continued, her voice a delirious stream. “More than him… I want her. I want Sandi. I want to watch you fuck her while I taste her. I want her to show me… show me how she takes it all… A threesome. You, me, and Sandi. That’s what I really want. More than anything.”
He came. The admission, so frank and depraved, triggered his release. He emptied himself into her with a sharp gasp, his body shuddering against her back. For a moment, they stayed locked together, breathing the used, humid air.
He pulled out, tucked himself away. Maya straightened, turned to face him. She didn’t cover herself. Her expression was serene, clear.
“You’re not angry?” she asked, reaching for a paper towel to dab between her legs.
Caleb shook his head, a strange respect cutting through the post-coital haze. “No. I’m not angry. That’s the most honest thing you’ve said in weeks.” He cupped her cheek. “You want to be part of their game.”
“I want to be at the centre of it,” she corrected softly. “I want to learn from her.”
They rearranged themselves. Maya put her scarf and coat back on, the pristine exterior restored. They returned to their seats. Imogen and Ian were gone.
“They’re in the other bathroom,” the silver-haired executive said, not looking up from his laptop. His voice was strained.
Caleb sat. Maya settled beside him now, not opposite, her thigh pressed to his. Twenty minutes later, Ian and Imogen returned. Imogen’s hair was slightly mussed. Ian’s collar was crooked. The air around them smelled faintly of sex and sweat.
No one spoke. The train burst from the tunnel into the black of the French countryside. Rain streaked the windows.
The silence held until the outskirts of Paris blurred past. As the Gare du Nord announced its approach, Maya leaned into Caleb, her lips brushing his ear.
“Do you think she'll be there?” she asked. “After how the two of you left things?”
He watched the station platforms slide into view, a cacophony of steel and steam and hurried lives.
“I don't know,” he said, as the train sighed to a stop. “Maybe... Maybe not...”
“If she chooses Francois over you and me...” said Maya, with a look of love in her eyes... “You can make me yours... There's nothing I'd like better than for you to fashion me into whatever you want... Like you did with her...”
She was there. Sandi stood apart from the swirling crowd under the cavernous station’s arched ceiling, a still point in the chaos. She wore a long, tailored camel coat, buttoned up to the neck, and belted at the waist, her auburn hair a vivid stroke against the grey steel and hurried travellers. Her eyes found them first, then settled. She approached, her heels click-clacking on the concourse floor.
Her greeting was protocol, not passion. “Caleb,” she said, offering a cheek. He leaned in, brushed his lips against her skin. It was cool, smelled of her perfume and distant rain. No lingering touch. No secret squeeze of the hand. Just the polite acknowledgment of a shared, complicated history now filed away. She turned to Ian next.
“Ian. Good trip?”
Her tone was warm but measured, careful not to embarrass him with any effusive display that would highlight her restraint with his best friend, her husband. It was impeccably, coldly correct.
Then she turned to the women, and her entire bearing shifted. The corporate frost melted. Her smile reached her hazel eyes. “You must be Imogen,” she said, taking Imogen’s hands, her gaze appreciative, knowing, “you’re even more stunning than described.. And Maya. I’ve missed you so much.” Her warmth was natural, enveloping. “Let’s get you out of this cold and damp.”
Pierre held the door of the black limousine open. The interior was a capsule of muted leather and quiet engine hum. They settled in, Sandi in the centre of the front-facing rear seat, with the two girls either side. Pierre’s eyes caught Sandi's in the rear-view mirror for a fleeting second before focusing on the rain-slicked streets heading towards the 16th.
The city blurred past, a smudge of neon and historic stone. Maya broke the comfortable silence, her voice bright and conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Sandi, I do hope you don’t mind that Imogen and I have been fucking all your men.”
Caleb went very still. Ian looked out the window.
Maya counted them off on her fingers. “Caleb, obviously. Ian. Ryan back in London. And soon-to-be François, if the vibe is right.” She smiled, all innocence. “It’s not a competition. We’re just terribly friendly.”
Sandi laughed, a light, genuine sound.
“Darling, why on earth would I mind? They’re big boys.” She paused, then added, her tone conversational yet loaded, “You missed one, though. Pierre, our chauffeur, is one of my men too. He’s been exceptionally loyal, exceptionally attentive.”
Pierre’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. Sandi watched Caleb’s reflection, studying the slight tic in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed a fraction. She saw the understanding dawn in him: the driver wasn’t just staff, being dutiful as he had in the Bois de Boulogne. He was part of the ecosystem, a silent beneficiary of her descent.
“Perhaps, as a thank you for his understanding, his kindness, and his discretion,” said Sandi, looking from Maya to Imogen, “you two might want to reward him later. A small gesture.”
The suggestion hung in the air, a transaction arranged with casual elegance.
Maya nodded slowly, filing it away. “Noted.”
Sandi then started unbuttoning her coat. Her hand went to her belt. With a soft click, she undid it. She shrugged the coat open, then off her shoulders, letting it fall back against the seat. Beneath it, she was utterly naked save for sheer charcoal stockings and high heels. The interior lighting paled her skin, highlighting the curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the neat, bare triangle of her sex.
“I thought I'd show some solidarity,” said Sandi, softly
Maya breathed, “Perfect.”
“François is waiting at the apartment,” Sandi said, refastening her coat with practised ease, covering the revelation as if it were the most ordinary thing. “He’ll home in on you two immediately. Fresh canvas, and all that.” She glanced back, her expression turning contemplative. “I have a request, though. When he does, I’d like the three of us to be together. On all fours. A line-up. So he has three distinct pussies to take his time with.”
Maya’s lips parted. “And when he’s finished with us? Can Ian and Caleb fuck us in the same fashion? One after the other, while we’re still down?”
“Of course,” Sandi said, as if agreeing to a preference for wine over beer.
The limousine descended into the stark, concrete belly of François’s building and pulled up by the lifts. The underground car park was cold, echoing with the drip of water and the scent of petrol and damp. Pierre killed the engine. Sandi opened her handbag, withdrew three black silk blindfolds. She handed them out.
“If we leave our coats in the car the ride up will be part of it,” she explained, her voice echoing softly off the pillars. “A declaration of our intent... A throwing-off of the shackles of London... A statement of just what we are when freed from society's inhibiting condemnation...”
“Surely it's the same here,” quipped Maya.
“For the Parisian's, yes,” said Sandi. “But nobody of any importance knows us here...”
“Francois does,” said Maya.
“Yes, but he's one of us,” said Sandi. “Only more so... For there's an underworld here... And he's part of it...”
The three women got out, stepped into the lift, and started putting their blindfolds on, trying not to spoil their hair.
“Ian,” said Caleb, his voice rough. “I don't want to appear possessive so could you guide Sandi. I’ll guide Maya and Imogen.”
It was a command, a reassertion of a different order, placing himself as the shepherd of the new flock while ceding his former anchor to his friend.
Ian nodded, awkward. He took Sandi’s hand, and in response she stood close, on tiptoes, and offered him her mouth, which he kissed as if it was a prelude to taking all of her, or giving all of herself to whomever.
The outside world vanished. Caleb eased himself between Maya and Imogen so he could take their hands, sensing both the respect and affection they both had for him.
The elevator ride was a breathless eternity of muffled giggles and shifting feet. Caleb put an arm around each woman’s shoulder. Ian put one of his around Sandi, and she one of hers around his waist. The doors opened onto a plush, silent hallway. Caleb led them out, until a door clicked open before them. Warm, amber-lit air, smelling of sandalwood and anticipation, washed over them.
François stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the rich interior of his apartment. He was dressed in dark trousers and an open-collared shirt, his expression one of cool, appraising welcome. His eyes skipped over Sandi, still holding Ian’s hand, and settled on the two blindfolded women flanking Caleb.
“Come in,” he said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. He stepped aside, and they filed past him into the spacious, minimalist living area. The door clicked shut, followed by the definitive sound of the lock engaging.
He moved past Sandi as if she were furniture.
His attention was for the new canvases. He stopped first before Maya, her blindfold still on, her naked body braced with a subtle, knowing tension.
“Maya,” François said, a ghost of a smile touching his own mouth. “You remember dealing with me, I trust? When you worked reception for Ryan in London. I was the impatient one with the misplaced contracts.”
Maya’s laugh was a tinkling, flattering sound. “Of course I remember you, François. How could I forget? You were terribly imposing. All sharp suits and sharper instructions.”
“Imposing,” he repeated, savouring the word. His gaze travelled the length of her body, from her face to her stockinged feet and back again. “And yet here we are, in a rather different context. No sharp suit for me. No professional facade for you. Just you, naked in my home, offering me…”
“Everything,” Maya interrupted, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. She didn’t wait for him to act. She fumbled for his right hand and placed it firmly on her left breast, her nipple hardening instantly against his palm.
He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the peak. Then his hand slid down, over the flat of her stomach, over her shaven mound. When his fingers neared her cleft, she widened her stance, pivoting her hips to jut her pussy out towards his hand in blatant offering. He accepted. Two fingers pushed into her without hesitation, finding her soaked and hot from the train, from the anticipation.
She gasped, her head tilting back, and began to move on his fingers, a slow, hungry rocking of her hips. “Fuck,” she breathed.
“I sense,” François said, leaning close, his lips almost touching her ear, his fingers working in and out of her, “that things might be rather different the next time I visit our London office.”
“Very different,” Maya assured him, turning her face to offer him her mouth.
He kissed her, deep and probing, mirroring the motion of his fingers. She moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders.
After a minute, he withdrew his wet fingers and turned to Imogen.
“And you must be Imogen,” François said, his tone softening into something approximating tenderness. “How beautiful. That blonde hair. That seeming innocence.” He stood directly before her, a palm’s width away, forcing her to feel his presence.
She nodded, still looking down. “Yes.”
“And we haven’t met before, have we?” he asked.
Imogen shook her head.
“Does it matter?” François asked, his hand coming up to lift her chin gently. “Do you have to see and study a man, know his biography, before you let him put his cock inside you?”
Imogen lifted her head, a flicker of something defiant and hungry beneath the shyness. “It makes it more exciting,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
A genuine smile broke across François’s face. “You’ll be able to get to know me much, much better over this weekend,” he told her, his thumb stroking her lower lip. “If you want to.”
“I’d like that,” Imogen said.
François stepped back, surveying all three women—Maya, flushed and breathing heavily; Imogen, shyly radiant; Sandi, still holding Ian's hand
Without further instruction, Ian moved Sandi to the centre of the large, cream-coloured rug. She lowered herself to her hands and knees. Caleb led Maya, to her right, and helped her down onto her hand and knees. Imogen, after a slight hesitation, took the place on Sandi’s left.
They formed a line: three arches of female spine, three presentations of arse and exposed cunt, a spectrum from Maya’s experienced readiness to Imogen’s virgin-taut offering, with Sandi’s familiar, well-used centre between them. The sight was starkly, brutally erotic.
François walked behind them, followed by Caleb and Ian, who stood like sentinels. The men’s shadows fell across the women’s backs.
“Is all this English pussy mine to fuck?” François asked, his question aimed at Caleb and Ian.
“It is,” Ian said, his voice thick.
Caleb nodded, his eyes fixed on Sandi’s submissive pose, a knot of old anger and fresh desire tightening in his gut.
“It is. And in the same way a wine improves with age,” he added, the metaphor bitter on his tongue, “a woman improves with every man she has. Every fucking she gets. It deepens her. Opens her.”
“A poetic justification for corruption,” François mused. He unzipped his trousers, noting that none of the three women seemed to mind how they were being talked about.
He started with Maya. He positioned himself behind her, one hand guiding his cock to her entrance. He pushed into her with a single, smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Maya cried out, a sharp, grateful sound, and pushed back against him immediately.
He fucked her with a steady, piston-like rhythm, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. It was not love-making; it was a claiming. Her gasps and curses filled the room. “Yes! Oh god, right there! Fucking use it!” She came quickly, violently, her inner muscles spasming around him, her body shaking. He rode her through it, then pulled out, glistening wet.
Without a word, he moved to Sandi. He slid into her with the same ease, encountering a slick, familiar warmth. Sandi shuddered, a low moan escaping her. She dropped her forehead to the rug, her fingers clutching the fibres. He fucked her with a focused intensity, a re-staking of a known claim. Each deep thrust seemed to push the air from her lungs. She came silently, a series of tight, internal flutters that made François groan in appreciation. He withdrew, his cock gleaming under the low light.
He stood behind Imogen last. He ran a hand over the curve of her arse, then gently parted her cheeks.
“I’ve saved you for last, ma belle,” he murmured, his voice intimate. “Because I want to savour you. I want to spend a long, long time on you.”
He entered her slowly, an exquisite, inch-by-inch invasion. Imogen whimpered, a sound of overwhelming sensation. She was tighter than the others, less accustomed. François moved with hypnotic slowness, a deep, rolling grind that had her panting within minutes. He bent over her, whispering French obscenities and tender praise into her ear as he meticulously unravelled her. Her climax, when it came, was a quiet, trembling disintegration that left her limp and weeping softly against the rug. He followed, spilling into her with a long, shuddering sigh, his body draped over hers for a moment before he stood.
“Now,” François said, tucking himself away, his breathing slightly ragged. “The cuckolds may reclaim their property. For a time.”
Caleb and Ian needed no further invitation. Caleb moved to Maya, Ian to Sandi. It was a blur of grasping hands, animal grunts, and the wet, rhythmic sound of coupling. Caleb took Maya from behind, just as François had, his grip brutal, his thrusts punishing. She met him with equal ferocity, urging him on. Ian entered Sandi with a kind of desperate sorrow, and she surrendered to him utterly, her body accepting him while her face remained turned away, pressed into the rug.
Then they switched. Caleb pulled out of Maya and moved to Sandi. The moment was charged, silent. He looked down at his wife’s exposed body, offered now by another man. He entered her. It was different from François—angrier, more personal, a fucking laced with years of shared history and recent betrayal. Sandi, for her part, surrendered to him too, a willing vessel for his conflicted rage. For a few minutes, the physical reconnection was profound, a wordless conversation in thrusts and gasps. But when it was over, and he withdrew, the unresolved issues hung heavier in the air than the scent of sex. Talking, not fucking, would be needed.
Ian took Maya, his coupling with her more straightforward, a release of tension.
As the sex wound down, the women lay spent on the rug. François knelt beside Imogen, stroking her damp blonde hair. “Imogen,” he said softly. “Would you mind being blindfolded for the rest of the evening? It would please me greatly.”
She turned her head, her eyes searching his face. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind.”
He fetched a pair of wrap-around sunglasses with completely opaque black lenses. He helped her sit up and placed them carefully on her face, plunging her world into darkness. “You must pretend you are blind,” he instructed. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she said, a small, curious smile on her lips.
He decided to build on the fantastic sex he had had with her by taking it into the psychological realm. “It was so exciting for me,” he confided, his voice close to her ear, “that you surrendered yourself so totally without ever setting eyes on me. You had no idea what I looked like. You took my cock on faith.”
“It was exciting for me, too,” Imogen interrupted, her unseeing face turning towards the sound of his voice. “Not knowing. Just feeling.”
“Do you like having sex with older men? Like me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Because you’ve been kind. Considerate. You made my pleasure your focus. You made me feel like a princess.”
“Would you like more of that?” François asked, his hand tracing her collarbone.
“Oh yes,” she breathed. “Of course I would. What girl wouldn’t?”
“With other men?” François ventured further. “Friends of mine?”
“If you don’t mind sharing me,” Imogen said.
“It would thrill me to share you,” François said, his voice tightening with arousal. “But would you need to see them? Or could I take you to them blindfolded?”
“Will you take me to them naked and blindfolded?” Imogen asked, and the others, now watching silently, saw François’s semen leaking from both her well-used cunt and her anus.
“So no protective barrier of clothing?” François asked, taking it further.
“No barriers at all,” Imogen stated, her voice firm now, sure.
“So all of Paris can fuck you?” François whispered, captivated.
“All of France can,” Imogen said.
François was blown away. He kissed her forehead with something resembling reverence.
Later, showered and dressed in casual elegance, they were driven by Pierre to a bustling, traditional bistro in Montmartre. The red-checked tablecloths, the noise, the smell of garlic and frying steak was a jarring return to normality. Conversation flowed, aided by multiple bottles of robust red wine. Everyone laughed and joked, the earlier intensity masked by civility.
Except for Sandi and Caleb. They sat opposite each other, and between the passed bread basket and the poured wine, their eyes met. No smiles. No acknowledgment. Just a long, baleful look that spoke of a chasm too wide for casual dinner talk to bridge.
Maya, flushed with wine and sitting beside François, cut into her steak. She chewed thoughtfully, then leaned towards him. “François, this steak,” she began, her tone politely curious. “It’s delicious, but it’s so pale. Like pork. But it doesn’t taste like pork.” She speared another piece, examined it. “It’s not… horse, is it?”
François smiled, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “But of course it is. Cheval. The finest. Leaner than beef. A delicacy.”
Maya’s fork clattered onto her plate. Ian stopped chewing. Caleb looked down at his own half-eaten meal. Sandi put her knife and fork down neatly.
All five Brits, in unison, pushed their plates away. The lively chatter at the table died abruptly, leaving only the noisy hum of the bistro around them, a world away yet suddenly, uncomfortably close.