Chapter 27: Camilla
The rich, familiar scent of roasting coffee beans and toasted sourdough wrapped around Paul as he pushed open the frosted glass door of 'The Corner Grind'. The cheerful clatter of china and the low hum of mid-morning chatter were his usual soundtrack here. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and casting a warm glow on the red-and-white checked tablecloths. His usual spot – the small, slightly wobbly table tucked near the back, partially shielded by a potted fern and offering a clear view across the street to Odette’s imposing townhouse – was miraculously free.
He slid into the worn wooden chair, the faint ache in his lower back a familiar companion after last night’s… intensity. The memory of Odette’s determined expression, the shared rawness, her triumphant declaration of the magical twenty-two, and then the dizzying expansion to fifty… it all pulsed beneath the surface of his thoughts like a persistent, slightly alarming bassline. He’d barely slept, his mind spinning with anonymous mouths and scheduled appointments. Maria. Isabelle. The sheer, overwhelming scale of it.
"Morning, Paul! Usual?" Camilla’s voice, bright and cheerful, cut through his reverie. She appeared beside his table, order pad in hand, a streak of flour on her cheekbone. She was younger than him, maybe twenty-three, with messy blonde hair perpetually escaping its clip and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her smile was easy, infectious, and entirely uncomplicated. Unlike Odette’s intricate, knowing charm, Camilla radiated a straightforward, sunny energy.
"Morning, Camilla. Please. Double espresso and the eggs benedict." His voice sounded normal, thank God. Just Paul Ashworth, barrister, enjoying his Tuesday breakfast ritual. He avoided looking directly at her hands, though the fleeting, slightly sticky memory of her fingertip against his tongue weeks ago surfaced unbidden. Odette’s casual command: ‘Go on, Paul. Taste her.’ And he had. A tiny, tangy sample. Odette had seemed satisfied, amused, and hadn’t mentioned it since. Paul had tried, mostly successfully, to bury the slightly surreal awkwardness beneath layers of routine.
"Coming right up," Camilla chirped, scribbling. She glanced around. The cafe was unusually quiet – only two elderly ladies occupied a corner table, engrossed in gossip and scones. The usual lunch rush wouldn't hit for another hour. She tucked her pen behind her ear and leaned forward conspiratorially, resting her knuckles on the edge of his table. The movement brought her closer, the clean scent of soap and coffee grounds momentarily replacing the cafe’s richer aromas.
"Listen, Paul," she began, her voice dropping to a lower, more confidential register. A faint blush crept up her neck, but her eyes held a determined glint. "Odette said I could."
Paul blinked, the rhythm of his morning stuttering. "Said you could... what?" He kept his tone light, neutral.
"Use you," Camilla said plainly. She didn't look away. "She told me ages ago, actually. After that... you know... fingertip thing. Said anytime I fancied, I could just..." She hesitated, searching for the right phrase. "...make use of your mouth. For... well. You know." The blush deepened, but her gaze remained steady, almost challenging. "She said it’s your thing. That you’re brilliant at it. That you like it."
Paul felt a familiar rush – part dizzying arousal, part profound embarrassment, part the inevitable flicker of that deep-seated teenage hunger for validation. Odette had promised him, literally promised him, to fifty women. And here was the first unscheduled demand. Right here. In the quiet cafe. Across from her house. It felt terrifyingly real, suddenly.
"Did she now?" he managed, his throat tight. He glanced towards the two ladies. They hadn’t noticed. The espresso machine hissed enthusiastically behind the counter.
"Yeah," Camilla nodded, her voice regaining some of its usual brightness, though quieter. "And, well... it’s quiet right now. James is doing the baking in the back. Won't come out for ages." She gestured vaguely towards the kitchen door. "So... now seems like a good time? If you're not... busy?"
The casualness of it floored him. ‘If you're not busy?’ Like asking for an extra napkin. Her eyes held expectation, a nervous excitement. This wasn't Clarissa's terrifying dominance or Sandrine's intense intimacy. This was Camilla, the cheerful waitress, inheriting a bizarre privilege from Odette and deciding to cash it in because the cafe was quiet.
His gaze flickered again to the elderly ladies, then to the large front window. He could see the polished brass knocker on Odette’s black front door across the street. Was she watching? Expecting this? Orchestrating it even now? The thought sent another jolt through him – a complex mix of submission and a strange, possessive pride that Odette would display her ownership like this.
He swallowed. The phantom tastes of the anonymous women, of Jamie, of Holly, seemed to swirl on his tongue. Fifty. This was number... eleven? Twelve? He’d lost count already. It didn't matter. Odette would keep track. ‘Every single day... I will feel I’ve failed you.’
He looked back at Camilla. She was waiting, a hopeful, slightly anxious tilt to her head. He forced a small, tight smile. It wasn't his charming barrister smile. It felt different. Acquiescent. "Alright," he said, his voice rough. He pushed his chair back slightly, creating space.
Camilla's smile widened, relief and anticipation mingling. "Brilliant!" she breathed. She glanced quickly towards the kitchen door, then towards the ladies. "Just... stay there. Lean back a bit."
Paul did as he was told, shifting his weight, leaning back against the wooden chair back. His heart hammered against his ribs. The scent of coffee and toast felt suddenly incongruous. Camilla efficiently moved the small vase containing a single, slightly wilted daisy to the edge of the table, then quickly grabbed the red-checked cloth from the adjacent, empty table. She moved with surprising speed and efficiency, draping the cloth loosely across Paul’s lap and lower body, down to his knees. From the front, to anyone glancing over, it might just look like he was protecting his trousers from crumbs, or had dropped a napkin.
Paul understood. Camilla wasn't stupid. She knew her cafe. She knew the sightlines. The checkered cloth formed a small, tented space.
"Okay," she whispered, her breath warm near his ear as she crouched down beside his chair. She was hidden from view by the table, the fern, and the draped cloth. Her hands went to the fastening of her black work trousers. Paul heard the soft rasp of a zipper. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. The sounds of the cafe – the murmur of conversation, the distant clang from the kitchen, the hiss of the espresso machine – seemed to recede, replaced by the pounding of his own blood in his ears and Camilla’s quick, efficient movements. He felt the air shift as she positioned herself, one knee on the tiled floor beside his feet.
He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to. He felt the warm, intimate pressure against his face, the familiar contours beneath the thin cotton of her underwear as she guided herself firmly against his mouth. The scent was immediate and distinct – warm skin, the faintest trace of soap, and something uniquely her. Sharper than Sandrine, different from Odette’s jasmine-layered musk. Clean yet intensely personal.
He didn't wait for instruction. His tongue found the damp heat beneath the cotton, pressing flat. He heard Camilla’s sharp intake of breath above him. He worked, the action ingrained, instinctive: broad strokes, focused pressure, the rhythmic lapping motion that he knew elicited results. The thin barrier of her underwear grew wetter under his ministrations, the flavour intensifying, blooming on his tongue – tangy, earthy, real. He concentrated, shutting out everything but the sensation, the taste, the feel of her shifting minutely against him, the muffled sounds she tried to stifle – little gasps that seemed louder than the cafe noise in his isolated world under the cloth.
It felt strangely… transactional. Purposeful. Camilla wasn't lounging back, demanding worship. She was perched awkwardly, half-dressed, in a cafe kitchen crouch, taking what Odette had offered her in a stolen moment of quiet. There was urgency in her stillness, in the way she pressed herself against him. She wasn't lingering; she was getting the job done. Efficiently. Paul focused on the task, his own arousal a distant, secondary thrum beneath the practiced movements of his tongue and lips. He felt her thighs tense against his cheeks. Her breathing hitched, became shorter, sharper. A tremor ran through her, followed by a low, choked-off moan that vibrated against his mouth, barely audible over the ambient cafe sounds but unmistakable to him.
He pressed harder, faster, chasing the rhythm of her tension. Her hand suddenly gripped his hair, not painfully, but firmly, holding him exactly where she needed him. Her hips gave a final, decisive little grind against his face. He felt the subtle flutter, the clenching pulse against his tongue. She held perfectly still for a few seconds, breathing hard, her grip in his hair loosening. Then, just as efficiently as she’d begun, she withdrew.
Paul stayed still, breathing heavily himself, the red-and-white cloth still covering him, saturated now with the scent of her. He kept his eyes closed, listening to her hurried movements. The rustle of fabric, the quiet snick of the zipper. He felt the cloth shift as she quickly smoothed it down.
"Right," she whispered, her voice breathless but remarkably composed. "Thanks, Paul. Seriously brilliant." A pause. He could almost hear her checking the room. "James is still banging about in the back. Coffee’s nearly ready." She patted his knee through the cloth, a brisk, friendly gesture. "Back in a mo with your order."
The weight lifted from the cloth. He heard her footsteps move away, firm and purposeful on the tiled floor, heading towards the counter. Paul slowly opened his eyes. The world under the checkered cloth was dim and smelled intensely of sex and coffee. He carefully lifted the edge, peering out. No one was looking his way. Camilla was already at the espresso machine, her back to him, calmly wiping down the steam wand as if nothing had happened. Her ponytail bounced slightly with her movements. One of the elderly ladies let out a peal of laughter.
Paul slowly pulled the damp cloth off his lap and draped it casually over the back of the chair opposite him. He picked up his water glass with a hand that trembled only slightly and took a long, cold drink, trying to rinse the lingering, tangy flavour. He felt exposed and strangely hollow, yet undeniably… utilised. Another number ticked off Odette’s list. Another anonymous mouthful in the ledger.