Chapter 89: Neuilly-sur-Seine
The silence in François’s apartment after Sandi’s declaration was profound, broken only by the distant sigh of Parisian traffic from the Boulevard Exelmans below. François watched Sandi, Caleb, and Ian with an expression of detached amusement, as if observing a particularly predictable act in a play. His attention, however, swiftly returned to his new acquisitions.
In the grand marbled bathroom, steam rose from the sunken tub. François settled into a low leather armchair, his trousers open, his cock resting in his hand. He stroked himself with a slow, idle rhythm.
“Bathe each other,” he said, his voice echoing off the tiles.
Imogen, her submissive glow now a steady flame, nodded. She poured scented oil into the water. She and Maya, stripped bare, stepped into the tub. They began slowly, with a tentative touch, washing each other’s backs, their movements synchronising under François’s gaze. The awkwardness melted as his silent observation pressed down on them. Soon, Maya was soaping Imogen’s breasts, circling the nipples until they pebbled tight. Imogen’s hands slid between Maya’s thighs, her fingers finding the blonde curls there.
“Shave her,” François instructed Imogen, tossing a razor onto the tub’s edge.
Imogen guided Maya to sit on the lip of the tub, legs spread. With meticulous care, she lathered Maya’s pussy, then drew the razor through the foam, revealing smooth, pale skin underneath. Maya’s breath hitched, her eyes closed, a faint tremor in her thighs. When she was finished, Maya returned the favour, her own hands steady as she rendered Imogen’s already shaven slit perfectly bare and slick. François watched, his stroking becoming more deliberate, the head of his cock swelling.
They dried each other with thick towels, patting and rubbing, their hands lingering. At the vanity, they did hair and makeup under his direction. “She looks like a doll,” Maya said, applying dark liner to Imogen’s eyes. “A fuck-doll.”
“That is the point,” François murmured, his fist moving with a soft, slick sound.
When they stood before him, clean and glistening, he pointed to the bed.
“Imogen. Get her ready. Use everything you have.”
Imogen sank to her knees before Maya, sitting on the edge. She started with her mouth, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along Maya’s inner thighs, nipping gently. Maya arched into it, a hand coming down to tangle in Imogen’s blonde hair. Imogen’s tongue found Maya’s clit, a slow, flat lap that made Maya jerk. Then she devoured her, her mouth sealing over Maya’s pussy, her tongue delving deep, fucking her with it. The wet, hungry sounds filled the room. Imogen’s fingers joined, two sliding easily into Maya’s tight cunt, crooking up to find the spot that made Maya cry out.
“Fuck, yes, right there, you slut,” Maya gasped, grinding down on Imogen’s face.
François watched, enraptured, his own pace increasing as Imogen brought Maya to a shuddering, loud climax with her mouth and fingers.
“Now,” François said, catching his breath, his eyes dark. “For something different...”
He produced the strap-on from a velvet case. It was a complex piece of black silicone, with a thick, ridged shaft and a pronounced bulbous head. More importantly, it had a second, shorter protruding section and a tapered plug. Maya understood. She fitted the device, sliding the plug into her own anus and the shorter section snugly into her still-throbbing vagina. She buckled the harness tight. The effect was immediate; a gasp escaped her as the internal components stimulated her with every movement. The external cock stood out, impressively rigid.
“Lube,” François commanded, handing Imogen a bottle of clear silicone gel.
Imogen knelt again. She coated her fingers generously and began working them into her own anus, preparing herself, showing Maya. Then she focused on Maya’s cock, slathering the length of it until it shone. François leaned forward.
“Listen to me, Imogen,” he said, his voice low and serious. “What happens tonight is not about connection. It is not about pleasure, though you will feel it. It is about function. You are a vessel. Your holes are going to be beautifully prepared sockets for anonymous, powerful cock. There will be twelve men. You will lose count. You will be filled, in every orifice, repeatedly. You will be used until you are raw and dripping. Do you understand what you are agreeing to?”
Imogen looked up at him, her eyes wide and utterly clear. “Yes. I want to be your vessel. I want to be used up.”
Maya, adjusting the harness, grinned. “I want them to forget their own names when they’re fucking us.”
François smiled. It was the smile Sandi had refused. “Good girls.”
He dressed them himself. The open-cup bras were strips of black lace that pushed their breasts up and out, leaving the nipples entirely exposed and begging for attention. The hold-up stockings were sheer obsidian. The stilettos were lethal, adding inches and a precarious sway to their steps. Finally, the floor-length cloaks, heavy black wool with deep hoods. He pulled the hoods up, shadowing their faces. They were now anonymous silhouettes, save for the flash of thigh where the cloak parted with each step.
Pierre drove in silence. The journey from the 16th to Neuilly-sur-Seine was short, through quiet, tree-lined avenues where immense homes hid behind high walls. The house was a modern fortress of glass and steel, lit from within like a lantern. Once out of the car, in the cold evening air, Francois passed Maya a black silk scarf and told her to blindfold Imogen with it.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of expensive cigars and aged whisky. Twelve men stood in a spacious, minimalist lounge. They were of varying ages, all dressed in impeccably tailored casual wear. Their eyes, sharp and assessing, tracked François’s entrance, with a girl either side, and a guiding hand on Imogen's back. He was greeted with silent nods, a handshake from a man with silver hair. Francois
Without ceremony, François turned to Maya. “Set the tone.”
Maya pushed back her hood. Her face, now revealed, was a mask of defiant allure. She led Imogen to the centre of the room. With a dramatic flourish, she untied Imogen’s cloak and let it fall. Imogen stood, blindfolded, in nothing but her bra, stockings, and heels. A collective breath was drawn. Maya turned Imogen, displaying her to the room.
“Gentlemen,” Maya’s voice cut through the quiet. “Our offering. She is clean. She is prepared. And she is hungry.”
She guided Imogen’s hands to rest on the back of a low leather sofa, bending her over. Imogen’s shaven pussy was exposed, glistening faintly with lube, her arsehole a tight, pink pucker. Maya spread her cheeks wide.
“Examine her. See the quality of the goods.”
The first man, the silver-haired one, stepped forward. He didn’t speak. He ran a thumb over Imogen’s slick labia, then pushed two fingers deep into her cunt. Imogen moaned, pushing back against his hand. Another man came close, his fingers probing at her anus, testing its give. They fondled her breasts, pinching her nipples hard, making her cry out. Hands were everywhere, impersonal and demanding, stretching her holes, coating their fingers in her readiness.
“She’s dripping,” a man with a French accent observed clinically.
“Now,” Maya said, stepping back. She retrieved a bottle of lube and poured a generous amount over the strap-on cock, then over her own fingers, which she worked into Imogen’s arse. “I will demonstrate her capacity.”
Maya positioned the bulbous head of the strap-on at Imogen’s soaked entrance. She gripped Imogen’s hips and shoved forward in one deep, penetrating thrust. Imogen screamed with pleasure, a sound of pure, shocking fullness. Maya fucked her with hard, piston-like strokes, the slapping of silicone against flesh echoing in the room. The men watched, glasses paused halfway to lips, their arousal palpable.
Maya reached around, her fingers finding Imogen’s clit, rubbing furiously. “Come on this fake cock, you whore,” Maya snarled in her ear. “Come for these men so they know what you’re worth.”
Imogen’s orgasm was violent, her body clenching around the invading shaft, a guttural sob tearing from her throat.
Before the tremors subsided, Maya withdrew. She re-lubricated the cock, now slick with Imogen’s juices, and pressed it against Imogen’s other hole. This required more pressure. Imogen whimpered as the thick head began to stretch her anus. Maya pushed, relentless, until it popped past the ring of muscle and sank deep. Imogen’s cry was sharper, pained and ecstatic.
“You take it, you dirty bitch,” Maya grunted, fucking her ass with the same brutal rhythm. She pinched and twisted Imogen’s nipples. Another climax, this one more wrenching, more submissive, seized Imogen. She shook, her legs barely supporting her.
Maya pulled out. She turned Imogen around, forcing her to her knees. Imogen, blind and pliant, opened her mouth obediently. Maya fucked her mouth with the strap-on, deep-throating her until she gagged, coating the silicone in saliva.
Then Maya stood back, breathing hard, the strap-on still protruding from her harness, glistening with the evidence from all three of Imogen’s holes. She looked at the circle of men, her chin raised.
“She’s ready. And so,” she said, unclipping her own cloak, and letting the strap-on fall to the floor, “am I.”
The men needed no further invitation. The silver-haired man unzipped his trousers. He guided his erect cock to Imogen’s waiting mouth. Another man, younger, moved behind her, positioning himself at her cunt.
They took her in unison.
Imogen was filled, utterly and completely, a muffled scream around the cock in her mouth as the other two pushed into her from behind, stretching her beyond belief. They established a ragged, jarring rhythm, using her body as a shared toy. Across the room, Maya was already on her knees before two other men, taking one cock in her mouth while guiding another into her pussy, her head bobbing eagerly.
The party dissolved into a raw, explicit symphony of grunts, slaps, and wet, rhythmic sloshing. Imogen was passed from one trio to the next, her holes penetrated again and again, until her moans became thin, ragged things and her skin glistened with sweat and other fluids. Maya matched her, hole for hole, her competitive spirit driving her to take more, to suck harder, to fuck back with more ferocity, bringing her to climax even as a stranger pounded into her from behind.
François stood by the fireplace, sipping a cognac, watching his creations perform their intended function perfectly. They had agreed to serve. They were, finally, exactly what he wanted.
The room’s energy ebbed from frantic hunger to a sated, humming warmth. The men, now dressed again or in various states of casual undress, replenished their drinks with hands that had, minutes before, been gripping thighs or squeezing breasts.
Imogen and Maya lay on a deep, cream-coloured rug, a tangle of slick limbs and stockings ripped at the thighs. Their bodies were maps of the evening: bitten nipples, faint red marks on their arses from sharp slaps, their cunts and arses glistening and swollen from relentless use. A man with a kind face and silvering temples brought them warm, damp cloths. He cleaned them with a surprising tenderness, wiping the mixed fluids from their inner thighs and stomachs.
“Come here, darlings,” said the silver-haired man who had been the first to touch Imogen. He sat in a wide armchair, patting his knee. Another man, younger with dark eyes, did the same on a matching ottoman.
Still trembling from the aftershocks, Imogen and Maya crawled over and settled onto their laps. They were nude but for the ruined stockings. The men did not take them again. Instead, they wrapped strong arms around the girls’ waists and simply held them, their other hands beginning to move in slow, appreciative caresses.
It was an intimacy that felt more disarming than the fucking had. Calloused palms smoothed over the planes of their backs, fingertips tracing the delicate bumps of their spines. Hands cupped their breasts not to maul, but to feel their weight, thumbs brushing over the sensitive, overstimulated nipples with a gentleness that made both girls sigh and melt further into the embrace.
“You were spectacular,” the silver-haired man murmured into Imogen’s hair, his voice a low rumble in his chest against her back. “Absolutely breathtaking creatures.”
“The way you respond,” the younger man said, his hand stroking Maya’s flat stomach, drifting down to rest, warm and possessive, over her tender mound. “It’s total. Consuming. A man could lose himself in it.”
The other ten men, along with François, formed a loose circle around them. They nodded, their expressions ones of genuine, satiated admiration. “The beauty is one thing,” said a portly man with a German accent, sipping his whisky. “The allure is obvious. But the passion, the sheer capacity you have… it is a rare gift.”
“You take everything given,” another added. “And you give everything back. It’s a complete transaction. A profound response.”
Imogen blushed, the heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning her head against her holder’s shoulder. Maya, usually so brash, dipped her chin, a shy smile touching her lips. “We just… we wanted to be good.”
“You were perfect,” François stated from his place by the mantel, his tone one of pure satisfaction.
“But such creatures are not born, they are made,” mused the silver-haired man, his hand now stroking Imogen’s thigh. “How does a girl evolve into such a wondrous thing? What was the catalyst?”
Maya and Imogen exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. It was Imogen who spoke, her voice still hoarse. “We had an example. A… a standard to aspire to.”
“Oh?”
“Sandi,” Maya said, the name hanging in the smoky air. “Our friend. Well, she’s not really our friend. She’s… more.”
“She’s what we want to be when we grow up,” Imogen said with a soft, exhausted laugh.
The men seemed intrigued. The younger man’s hand stilled on Maya’s stomach. “Explain.”
“Caleb, her husband,” Maya continued, her eyes distant, remembering the stories, the palpable tension in François’s apartment. “He didn’t just marry her. He… cultivated her. For nearly twenty years. He drew that sexuality out of her, nurtured it, let it breathe and grow until it wasn’t just a part of her. It became her. Now, at thirty-seven, she’s something… magnificent.”
A sceptical grunt came from the German. “Surely she can’t compare to the freshness, the energy of you two. Youth has its own power.”
Maya shook her head, a sudden, fierce conviction in her eyes. “No. You don’t understand. We’re twenty-two. We’re immature girls, playing at being fuck-toys. Sandi is a woman. A girl changes into a woman over those fifteen years. What we did tonight? That’s just… gymnastics. Hunger. Sandi… when she fucks, it’s a whole… history. A depth. The power of her response, the totality of it… what a man experiences when he’s with her…”
Imogen picked up the thread, turning to look at the circle of men. “We have a long, long way to go. We might never bear the slightest resemblance to her. What she gives, and what she makes a man feel, is on another plane.”
A heavy silence followed, charged with a new kind of curiosity. The silver-haired man looked past the girls, directly at François. “Do you know this Sandi?”
All eyes turned to him. François swirled his cognac, a slow, proud smile spreading across his face. “She’s living in my apartment on Boulevard Exelmans.”
A ripple of interest went through the group. “Are you keeping her to yourself, François?” the younger man asked, his fingers idly circling Maya’s navel.
François took a deliberate sip.“No. Not keeping her. Just… waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the chance to take her on to the next stage,” he said, smiling at Imogen and Maya, nestling in the men’s laps.
The portly German leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Is there any way we could help you with that?”
“She sounds perfect for our full programme,” said another.
François let the question hang, savouring the weight of their collective desire. He finished his drink and set the glass down with a soft, definitive click. “I will ask her.”