Chapter 15: Sharing breakfast
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the bistro, catching dust motes dancing above crisp white tablecloths. The air hummed with the clatter of cutlery, the low thrum of conversations in French and English, and the rich, buttery scent of freshly baked croissants mingling with dark roast coffee. Paul watched a sliver of perfect, golden hollandaise sauce slide off his forkful of eggs Benedict.
Across the small, marble-topped table, Odette tapped rapidly on her phone screen, her green eyes flicking between the device and him. She looked effortlessly chic in a tailored cream blouse, her damp pixie hair artfully tousled.
"So," she said, her voice light, conversational, cutting through the cafe's pleasant buzz. "How many?"
Paul blinked, pulling his gaze from the hypnotic drip of sauce. "How many what?"
"Women." She took a delicate sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving his face. A playful challenge danced in them. "How many women have you ever tasted? Properly tasted. With your mouth."
Heat flooded Paul's neck, creeping up towards his ears. He glanced around, but the neighbouring tables seemed engrossed in their own worlds. The question felt obscenely loud in the genteel setting. He cleared his throat. "Twelve."
"Twelve." Odette repeated the number slowly, rolling it around her tongue like a fine wine. She placed her phone face-down on the tablecloth, leaning forward slightly, her elbows on the marble. "And now Astrid. So thirteen." A small, satisfied smile touched her lips. "We’ll double that soon enough. Consider it a project." She picked her phone up again, thumbs flying over the screen.
Paul stared at his plate. The prospect should have horrified him. Yet, beneath the shock, that traitorous flicker ignited – the same one that sparked when she’d commanded him in the dark, the same one that pulsed when her finger had breached him in the shower. The thought of kneeling for strangers, his mouth servicing women selected by her… it was terrifying. It was electrifying. He speared a piece of egg, the yolk oozing bright yellow.
"Oldest?" Odette asked without looking up. The question was casual, like asking the time.
He swallowed the delicious egg. "Forty." A brief, awkward encounter years ago at a legal conference. He remembered feeling nervous, almost reverent, of her experience.
"Forty." Odette noted it, nodding almost to herself. "Good. Good starting point." Her thumbs tapped. Tap-tap-tap. The sound was unnervingly loud to Paul. Each tap felt like a tiny hammer blow against his composure. "And… ethnicities? Don't be shy." She finally looked up, her gaze sharp, curious. "Broaden my horizons."
Paul shifted in his chair, the crisp linen napkin suddenly rough against his fingers. "Mostly… white, English" He hesitated, the memory surfacing. "There was… one Indian girl. At university." It had been intense, exploratory. He hadn’t dwelled on it then, focused on the act itself. Now, under Odette's scrutiny, it felt like a data point.
"Ah! Excellent." Odette’s smile widened, genuine pleasure lighting her face. "Variety is the spice, non?" She picked up her phone again, her focus intense. "She liked it, I assume? You are very good”
"Yes," Paul murmured. He remembered the girl’s arched back, her fingers tangling in his hair, the breathy sighs, she’d had markedly asymmetrical labia, her inner lip much longer on the right. He’d been so young, he mostly remembered the profound relief that he’d pleased her. He watched Odette’s thumbs fly. She wasn’t just texting; she was composing messages. Targeting.
She tapped decisively, a final flourish. A soft ping confirmed a sent message. She placed the phone down, screen dark, and picked up her coffee cup, swirling the dark liquid. "Mostly white," she mused aloud, her tone thoughtful, almost philosophical. "We can certainly diversify your palate. Expand your experiences." She took a slow sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim. They held a spark of pure, unadulterated mischief. "And, of course," she added, her voice dropping slightly, conversational yet loaded, "once I share your details with my friends…" She paused, letting the implication hang.
Paul’s fork clinked against his plate. He felt exposed, pinned beneath her gaze like a butterfly.
"...well," Odette continued, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her lips. "They might share it with their friends too." She tilted her head, feigning sudden, wide-eyed innocence. "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that. Silly me." She tapped her temple lightly with a perfectly manicured finger. The smirk remained, utterly unrepentant. "It could snowball a bit, couldn't it?"
The bistro’s pleasant clatter seemed to recede. The smell of coffee turned acrid in his nostrils. Snowball. The word echoed, conjuring images: an avalanche, an unstoppable wave. Not twelve, not thirteen, not even doubled. Dozens? More? Women he didn't know, connected only by Odette’s network, all knowing exactly what he ‘was for’. All potentially possessing his photo, his name. The sheer scale of it, the casual way she’d unleashed it, stole his breath. His carefully constructed professional persona – the respected barrister – felt like a paper mask dissolving in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Odette watched the colour drain from his face, the subtle tightening around his eyes. She leaned back in her wrought-iron chair, the picture of elegant nonchalance. She lifted her coffee cup again, the steam curling gently upwards. "More coffee, Paul?" she asked lightly, her green eyes holding his, bright with undisguised amusement. "You look like you need it." Her thumb hovered near her phone’s screen, a silent promise of more messages waiting to be sent. The butter knife beside his plate gleamed, suddenly sharp, irrelevant. His future unfurled before him, a terrifying, exhilarating blur of unknown mouths and commanding eyes, orchestrated entirely by the woman stirring her coffee with a small, satisfied smile.
Paul’s knuckles whitened around his fork handle. The rich yolk on his plate seemed suddenly obscene. "Odette," he began, voice tight, "this... snowballing. It feels...public."
She set her cup down with a precise clink on the saucer. "Public? Mon chéri, non." Her laugh was light, bell-like, cutting through the cafe’s pleasant hum. "It’s very private. Exclusive, even. My friends, their friends... discerning women." Her green eyes sparkled. "Though…" She tilted her head, tapping a manicured nail against her phone case. "...knowing where to find you… that might be tricky. Logistics!" She feigned thoughtful concern. "Perhaps a little tracker? On your phone? So they know your lunch spots. Your gym schedule." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Very practical."
Paul’s blood ran cold. A tracker? His movements monitored? Broadcast to an unseen network of women waiting to summon him for… service? The air in the bistro thickened, the scent of coffee turning acrid. His professional life, his carefully constructed privacy, obliterated. He felt his face drain of colour. "Odette, no. Please. That’s…" Words failed him. It was complete annihilation.
She watched his reaction, her smile never faltering. She saw the genuine panic, the flash of something close to despair beneath his submission. Then, she waved a dismissive hand, the gesture airy. "Oh, relax. Where’s your English sense of humour. It was just a thought. Perhaps a step too far? For now." She picked up a flaky corner of her croissant, examining it. "Too… overt." She popped the pastry piece into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
Paul slumped almost imperceptibly, relief washing over him like a wave. Too far. She recognized it. The tracker was off the table. He took a shaky breath, reaching for his water glass. The ice cubes rattled.
"But," Odette continued, leaning forward again, her voice dropping to an intimate murmur that still carried over the cafe sounds. Her eyes held a new, dangerous glint – pure excitement. "It gave me a much better idea." She paused, letting the anticipation build, watching him tense anew. "Imagine," she breathed, "a room. Dim. You, kneeling. A blindfold. Thick silk, perhaps." She traced a finger lightly over the tablecloth. "Utter darkness."
Paul froze, the water glass halfway to his lips. The clatter of cutlery around them faded. Blindfolded. Kneeling. Utter darkness.
"Then," she whispered, her voice thrilling with the prospect, "just… touch. One after another." She leaned closer still, her scent – bergamot and expensive coffee – filling his senses, mingling with the phantom taste of last night’s degradation. "They come to you. Use you. Exactly as they wish. As I arrange." Her grin was predatory. "Your mouth, working in the dark. Serving. But you… you have no idea who." She savored the word. "None. Zero."
The implication slammed into him. No faces. No names. Just faceless demands in the dark. Her friends, their friends, strangers. A chain reaction initiated by her tap on a phone screen. His sexual history wouldn't just expand; it would become an unknowable void. "You'd take…" he stammered, horrified, "...even knowing who? You’d take that away?"
"Absolutely!" Odette declared, leaning back, her delight palpable. "Think of it, Paul. Total surrender. Not just your body, but your knowledge too. Obliterated." She took another sip of coffee, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement over the rim. "You’d like that uncertainty, wouldn’t you? That delicious, terrifying not-knowing?" She watched the conflict play across his face – revulsion warring with the undeniable, shameful throb of arousal the image provoked. "It’s elegant, non?”
The clatter of silverware against porcelain sharpened suddenly. Paul’s knuckles were bone-white gripping his fork. Sunlight, previously warm, now felt harsh, exposing him utterly on the chrome-and-marble stage of the bistro. Odette’s words – blindfold, kneeling, utter darkness – echoed, morphing into chilling possibility.
"Total surrender," she’d said. "Obliterated." The elegant cruelty of it stole his breath. Every woman Odette knew, every friend of a friend she’d shared his name and photo with… they could have already used him in that imagined dark room. He’d never know. The Indian girl from university flashed in his mind, then dissolved into faceless anonymity.
Any woman walking past their table right now, sipping espresso, could be looking at him remembering the taste of her climax flooding his mouth. The barista steaming milk. The elegant older woman reading Le Monde. Any of them. His carefully cataloged history – twelve, thirteen with Astrid, the forty-year-old, the solitary Indian encounter – meant nothing. It would dissolve into unknowable, countless mouths in the dark.
Ages? Ethnicities? Exact numbers? Gone. Only Odette would hold that ledger, a secret keeper of his deepest degradation. The questions she’d just asked moments ago became horrifyingly obsolete. His insides clenched violently – heart, stomach, soul – a physical spasm of terror. Yet, beneath the icy dread, a treacherous, molten thrill surged, pooling low in his belly. The utter loss of control, the anonymity… it was perversely perfect.
He felt stripped bare, more exposed than when she’d pinned his face between her thighs. Odette watched him, her green eyes sharp, missing nothing. The slight tremor in his hand holding the fork. The rapid pulse visible at his throat. The conflicted heat rising in his cheeks. She saw the terror. She saw the profound, shameful thrill igniting beneath it. Her knowing smirk deepened, satisfied, predatory.
"See?" she murmured, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice a low purr cutting through the cafe’s cheerful din. Her fingertip traced the rim of her coffee cup. "Logistical nightmare solved. Elegance achieved." She picked up her phone again, tapping the screen awake. "No tracker required. Just… availability. Discretion." Her thumbs hovered over the glass. "Shall I start arranging? A trial run, perhaps? Next weekend?"
Paul stared at her phone screen, a dark mirror reflecting the cafe’s light. It felt like an abyss opening. His mouth was dry, tasting faintly of stale yolk and the phantom bitterness of his own release from the night before. The scent of expensive coffee suddenly choked him. He managed a jerky nod, the movement almost imperceptible. Words were impossible.
Odette’s smile bloomed, radiant and utterly chilling. "Excellent." Her thumbs began to dance across the screen, rapid, decisive taps echoing the frantic pounding of his own heart. She didn’t look up. "Finish your eggs, Paul. You’ll need your strength." She paused, glancing at him, her eyes gleaming with dark promise. "And maybe order a double espresso."
Odette’s thumbs flew across her phone screen, the soft taps punctuating the cafe’s cheerful clatter. His mind spiraled: blindfolds, anonymous mouths, the obliteration of knowing. He’d feel like he may as well have eaten every one of Odette’s expanding network.
"Camilla!" Odette’s voice, bright and commanding, cut through his dread. She waved two fingers toward a waitress weaving between tables with a coffee carafe. The young woman—olive-skinned, dark-eyed, hair in a messy bun escaping its clip—turned instantly. A flicker of recognition lit her face as she approached, her apron stained with espresso grounds.
Paul’s stomach tightened. Camilla’s gaze slid to him, lingering a beat too long. Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Paul," she said smoothly, before Odette could speak. Her voice held amusement, familiarity. The fact she already knew his name was enough to worry Paul. "Double espresso please.” Paul requested.
"Perfect, chérie," Odette purred, leaning back. "Paul needs fortifying." She shot him a look brimming with mischief. "Busy week ahead, non?" Camilla nodded, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she scribbled the order. She moved off, hips swaying, disappearing behind the chrome espresso machine.
Paul gripped the edge of the marble table, knuckles white. Sunlight glinted off polished cutlery. The bistro’s warmth suddenly felt oppressive, thick with the scent of burnt sugar and anticipation. Odette sipped her coffee, serene. "Relax," she murmured. "Camilla’s discreet. And très efficient." Her green eyes tracked the waitress’s return.
Camilla approached, balancing the tiny porcelain cup on a saucer. She set it before Paul, steam curling like a question mark. Then, with startling casualness, she hooked a thumb into the waistband of her black trousers and cotton knickers. Her hand slipped down, hidden by the tablecloth. Odette watched, rapt, enjoying the setup.
Paul froze. Camilla’s hand reappeared. Her index finger glistened, coated in a viscous, translucent smear of her own discharge—pearly, intimate, smelling faintly of musk and salt. She held it out, hovering inches from Paul’s lips. A dare. A command. Odette’s laugh, low and conspiratorial, tangled with Camilla’s giggle.
Shame scorched Paul’s cheeks. Yet his mouth parted obediently, drawn by the compulsion Odette had forged. His tongue darted out, flattening against Camilla’s fingertip. The taste burst—warm, organic, unmistakably her—sweet-salt with an earthy undertone. He licked firmly, cleaning the pad of her finger entirely. Camilla’s breath hitched, her amusement shifting to surprise at his thoroughness.
Odette’s laughter deepened, rich with approval. "Good boy," she murmured as Camilla withdrew her finger. Camilla winked, wiping her hand surreptitiously on her apron. "Enjoy the espresso, Paul." She vanished into the bustling cafe, leaving the scent of sex and coffee hanging between them.