Chapter 37: Guess who
The clink of coffee cups on saucers was the only sound in Odette’s sun-drenched penthouse living room. Morning light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes dancing above the velvet chaise longue. Sandrine stretched languidly on it, a satisfied cat, while Isabelle refilled mugs from a sleek, glass carafe. Paul sat rigidly upright in an armchair, the rich aroma of the coffee doing little to settle the hum of anticipation – and apprehension – thrumming under his skin since last night’s dinner. The weight of "fifty different women" and Odette’s chilling vision of anonymous service pressed down on him.
Odette perched on the arm of his chair, her petite frame radiating kinetic energy. She took a delicate sip, her green eyes speculative as they roamed over him. "So, Paul," she began, her voice light, almost sing-song. "After such a... productive evening, and with the Paris plans brewing..." She paused, letting the implication hang. "Would you like a holiday?"
Isabelle snorted into her coffee, spraying droplets. Sandrine chuckled, a warm, throaty sound. "A holiday," Isabelle echoed, wiping her chin, her grin wide and knowing. "Oui! Sun, wine, croissants... and of course," she winked at Paul, "an intensive immersion programme in la culture féminine parisienne. Lots of new... vocabulary to learn."
Sandrine nodded sagely, swirling her coffee. "Your French isn't perfect, chéri. That might actually be an advantage in certain... conversational settings." Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Less understanding, more... focused attention."
Paul felt a familiar warmth spread through him, a mix of eagerness and deep-seated submission. The thought of Paris, of Odette orchestrating encounters with faceless, nameless women who saw him only as a tool for their pleasure, was terrifying and profoundly arousing. "Of course," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "I would go to Paris. And I would... perform. As required. As many as you require." He hesitated, then added, almost thoughtfully, "Though... it’s interesting. Even without names, without faces... I’m learning to differentiate. By... architecture."
Silence fell. Isabelle’s eyebrows shot up. Sandrine paused mid-sip. Odette went utterly still on the arm of his chair, her gaze sharpening like a laser.
"Architecture?" Odette breathed, her voice suddenly low and intensely focused. The playful lilt was gone, replaced by pure, predatory curiosity. "Explain."
Paul swallowed, the scrutiny intense. "Well," he began, feeling oddly clinical in the face of her intensity. "Each is unique. The shape, the... folds, the taste, the texture of the inner walls, the responsiveness... It’s like a fingerprint. For example..." He gestured vaguely towards the three women. "I could tell the three of you apart blindfolded. By... feel and taste alone."
The effect was instantaneous. Odette’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated delight. It transformed her, shedding the cool lawyer persona entirely. "Paul Ashworth!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together once, sharp as a gunshot. "That..." A brilliant, almost feral grin spread across her face. "That sounds like a challenge!" She sprang off the arm of the chair like a released coil. "Don't move! Any of you!" She darted towards her bedroom door, calling back over her shoulder, her voice ringing with excitement. "Sandrine! Isabelle! Positions! Now!"
Paul blinked. Isabelle shrugged, a slow, wicked smile spreading on her own face. "You had to give her a challenge, didn’t you?" she murmured, already standing and pulling Sandrine up from the chaise. "Come on, mon amour. Time to prove Paul’s architectural theory."
Sandrine laughed, shaking her head but moving readily. "Men and their maps. Always needing to chart the territory." She followed Isabelle towards the large, inviting bed visible through the open door of Odette’s bedroom.
Paul remained in the armchair, his heart pounding. The casual breakfast intimacy had shattered, replaced by the electric thrum of Odette's game. He could hear rustling fabric, soft murmurs from the bedroom. The scent of jasmine from the previous night seemed to intensify, mingling with the fading aroma of coffee.
Odette reappeared a moment later, holding not just a simple sleep mask, but a wide, soft, black velvet blindfold. She approached Paul, her steps light but purposeful. "Stand," she commanded, her voice warm with anticipation. He obeyed, rising to his full height. She reached up, her fingertips brushing his temples as she secured the blindfold. The world plunged into absolute, velvety darkness. The sudden deprivation heightened every other sense: the faint hum of the refrigerator, the rustle of fabric from the bedroom, the scent of jasmine and coffee and skin. Most of all, he felt Odette’s presence, an inch away, radiating focused energy.
"Ready, champion?" she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. Without waiting for an answer, she took his hand. Her grip was firm, guiding. He stumbled slightly on the plush carpet as she led him forward, the geography of the apartment suddenly alien. He heard the soft shush of a door being pushed wider.
The air changed. It was warmer here, softer. The scent of jasmine was stronger, underlaid now with the subtle, intimate musk of aroused women. He could hear breathing – three distinct rhythms: Odette’s quick, excited rhythm beside him, one deeper and steady, one slightly faster, almost anticipatory. The rustling stopped. Silence settled, thick and expectant.
"Kneel," Odette instructed, her voice low but clear in the darkness. Paul lowered himself carefully onto the plush carpet beside the bed, the pile soft beneath his knees. The darkness was absolute, disorienting. He could feel the bed frame near his shoulder, sense the mass of bodies above him. The intimate scent was overwhelming now, a complex bouquet he couldn’t yet parse.
A hand touched the top of his head, guiding him gently forward. Not Odette’s; this touch was different. He felt smooth skin against his cheek, the curve of a hip. He was being positioned. His nose brushed soft curls, then warm, yielding flesh. The scent intensified exponentially – musky, deep, familiar yet... different. He inhaled deeply. Rich earth. Dark honey. Sandrine. It had to be. His mouth watered instinctively.
He leaned in without prompting, his tongue finding the familiar landscape – the prominent hood, the full, responsive clit beneath. He swirled, tasting, confirming. Yes, the specific salty-sweet tang, the texture of her inner folds as he probed gently. He pulled back slightly, turning his head away, a silent signal that he knew.
A different hand, firmer, guided his head sideways and slightly lower. New skin met his cheek. This scent was sharper, cleaner. Jasmine soap, underlying musk, a hint of something herbal. Isabelle. His tongue encountered her distinct anatomy – the longer, floppier inner labia he remembered vividly. He traced the soft folds, lapped gently at the source of the scent, confirming the taste – brighter, tangier than Sandrine’s. He pulled back again.
The third hand on his head now was unmistakable. Odette’s fingers tangled possessively in his hair, not guiding, but placing. She pushed his face forward and up, onto a third cunt. The scent was instantly, uniquely hers. Jasmine dominant, but with a sharper, almost electric note beneath it. Clean, potent, commanding. His tongue met the contours he knew better than his own: the neat, compact folds, the instantly responsive bead of her clit that hardened almost painfully fast under his first exploratory lick. The taste was bright, almost metallic with arousal, uniquely Odette’s vibrant signature. He lingered, savouring the confirmation, the rightness of it.
He pulled back finally, kneeling upright in the darkness, waiting.
"Well?" Odette’s voice cut through the silence, laced with amused impatience. "Architect? Show us your blueprints."
Paul took a breath in the scented darkness, the unique tastes still vivid on his tongue. "First was Sandrine," he stated clearly. "Rich taste, prominent hood." He paused. "Second, Isabelle. Floppier folds, sharper tang." He turned his blindfolded face slightly towards where he sensed her presence. "And finally," he said, turning back towards the bed, towards the source of the jasmine and electricity, "Odette. Perfectly formed. Immediate response. Unmistakable."
A beat of silence. Then Odette’s laugh rang out – bright, sharp, utterly delighted. "Magnifique!" she declared. "Full marks, Professor Ashworth!" She ruffled his hair.
Odette’s delighted laughter echoed in the bedroom, her fingers still tangled possessively in Paul’s hair. "Magnifique! Full marks, Professor Ashworth!" Sandrine chuckled warmly from the bed, the mattress springs creaking softly as she shifted. "Quite the connoisseur of cunt, our Paul. Should we charge admission for the tour?" Isabelle snorted, her voice thick with amusement. "Next stop, Parisian pussy cartography. He’ll need a bigger atlas."
Paul remained kneeling on the plush carpet, the blindfold trapping him in velvety darkness. The unique tastes – Sandrine’s dark honey, Isabelle’s herbal tang, Odette’s electric jasmine – still coated his tongue. He felt the soft brush of skin against his cheek as one of them leaned close. "Admit it," Isabelle’s voice murmured near his ear, playful yet pointed. "You enjoyed the floppy bits best." Warm breath ghosted over his skin before withdrawing. The faint scent of her arousal lingered, sharp and clean.
Odette’s hand lifted from his head, leaving a cool patch. "He enjoys excellence, Isabelle," she declared, her voice regaining its usual crisp command. "And he proved his point beautifully. Anonymous encounters in Paris won’t faze our champion surveyor." Fabric rustled – someone dressing. Paul heard the soft slide of silk against skin. "Right," Sandrine sighed, a contented sound. "Time to rejoin the world of clothes and coffee. Shame, really. This was educational."
The carpet fibers pressed into Paul’s knees. He focused on the symphony of small sounds: the zip of a fly, the click of a buckle, Isabelle humming softly. The intimate warmth of the moment was dissipating, replaced by the mundane rhythm of a weekday morning. He inhaled, trying to hold onto the fading scents, the phantom tastes. Paris loomed, a landscape of unknown terrains awaiting his tongue. The blindfold felt suddenly stifling.
Isabelle suddenly clapped her hands. The sharp sound made Paul flinch in the darkness. And murmured something in intense and idiomatic French that Paul couldn’t understand. Her tone was urgent, clipped. Odette tapped her watch, the sound crisp and metallic. "This was fun," she said, her voice suddenly brisk, devoid of its earlier playful warmth, "but we’ve all got to get to work."
The intimacy of moments before evaporated. Paul heard the rustle of clothes, the decisive click of heels on hardwood as they all moved towards the living room, leaving the blindfolded Paul kneeling alone beside the bed, the lingering scents of their arousal the only evidence of the game. He pulled off the velvet blindfold, blinking in the sudden light, the scene already dismantled – Isabelle fastening her jeans, Sandrine smoothing her dress, Odette checking her phone with lawyerly focus.
"Shower's free, Paul," Odette stated without looking up, already mentally shifting to briefs and contracts. The challenge, the triumph, the taste of her still on his tongue – it was dismissed like yesterday’s news. He showered quickly in the pristine bathroom, the hot water sluicing away the physical traces but not the strange blend of accomplishment and renewed insignificance. Dressing in his spare suit felt like armouring up for a different battlefield. The scent of coffee was fading, replaced by the sterile tang of Odette’s expensive perfume as she gathered her briefcase. Isabelle and Sandrine chatted easily about museum exhibits, the raw intimacy of their shared anatomy with Paul mere minutes ago seemingly forgotten. Paul grabbed his own briefcase, the weight a familiar anchor.
They left Odette’s bohemian haven together, spilling out into the cool London morning. Isabelle and Sandrine peeled off towards the Tube, waving airily. Odette flagged a sleek black cab. "Chambers," she instructed the driver crisply, then turned to Paul, her green eyes assessing. "You'll manage your diary? I need you sharp for the Henderson merger prep this afternoon." Paul nodded, assuring her he was on top of it. She slid into the cab, offering a perfunctory, distracted smile before the door shut, sealing her away. The cab pulled into traffic, leaving Paul standing on the pavement, the erotic intensity of breakfast already feeling like a disorienting, distant dream. He walked to his own offices, the rhythm of the City streets gradually imposing its mundane order.
Back in the controlled chaos of his chambers – leather-bound volumes, hushed voices, the faint smell of polished wood and dust – Paul tried to focus. The Henderson merger documents blurred before his eyes. The memory of Odette’s distinct taste, the feel of Sandrine’s folds, Isabelle’s floppy labia, kept intruding. The sheer dissonance was jarring. He’d knelt naked, blindfolded, identifying them by their cunts, yet here he was, drafting complex indemnity clauses. His phone buzzed discreetly on the oak desk, a stark vibration cutting through legal jargon. He glanced down. The screen showed a message from Sandrine.
> Sandrine: Meet me at L’Escargot for lunch, 1330hrs.
Simple. Direct. No explanation. Paul stared at the words. Lunch. With Sandrine. Isabelle’s girlfriend. The woman whose unique architecture he’d mapped with his tongue just hours ago. Without Odette. The oddness of it washed over him, sharp and clear. He had a girlfriend – Odette, whose dominance defined his existence. Yet he felt absolutely zero hesitation, no guilt, only a familiar thrum of anticipation.
He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that Odette wouldn’t just approve; she’d be thrilled. This was progress. Anonymity in training. A new notch, however unseen, towards the fifty. Sandrine wasn’t anonymous, but meeting her like this, alone, felt like stepping onto the path Odette had laid out. He pictured Odette’s sharp, approving smile if she knew. That image, more than Sandrine’s text, solidified his resolve. He typed a single word.
> Paul: Ok.
At precisely 13:25, Paul left the hushed gravity of his chambers. The late autumn air outside was brisk, carrying the familiar London smells of diesel fumes and damp pavement. He walked the few blocks towards Soho, the rhythm of his polished Oxfords on the pavement steady. He contemplated the surreal normalcy of it. Heading to meet another woman, a woman he’d pleasured that very morning alongside her partner and his girlfriend, for lunch. And they both knew, unspoken, that ‘lunch’ likely involved more than coq au vin. The sheer casualness of the expectation – his expectation, Sandrine’s – was the strangest part. His life had cleaved into two irreconcilable halves, yet both felt utterly real. He navigated the bustling Soho streets, past crowds oblivious to his internal landscape, focused solely on the discreet brass sign of L’Escargot just ahead. Odette’s imagined smile propelled him forward. He pushed open the heavy, dark green door.
The heavy door of L'Escargot swung shut behind Paul, muffling the clatter of Soho. Warmth, rich aromas of garlic butter, seared meat, and yeast enveloped him. He scanned the bustling bistro – dark wood, brass fittings, the low hum of lunchtime chatter. Then he saw her. Sandrine sat in a corner booth, impossibly elegant against the crimson leather. She raised a hand in a languid wave, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
"Paul," she greeted as he slid in opposite her, her voice low and warm. Her dark eyes appraised him, sharp with unspoken promise. "Punctual. Good. Order quickly. We have plans." A waiter materialised. Sandrine ordered moules frites and a glass of Picpoul with effortless authority. Paul asked for the same, his voice slightly tight. This wasn’t lunch. It was a prelude.
The moules arrived swiftly, steaming in their briny broth. They ate with minimal conversation, the tension thickening like the sauce. Sandrine ate with focused efficiency, her gaze occasionally flicking up to hold his, a silent communication passing between them. Halfway through, she dabbed her lips meticulously with a napkin. "Delicious, non?" she murmured. Then, from her sleek leather handbag beside her on the seat, she retrieved a familiar object: Odette’s wide, soft, black velvet blindfold.
"Surprise," Sandrine said, her smile widening, predatory now. She slid the blindfold across the table towards him. It landed silently on the crisp white linen. "Take this. Go to the ladies' toilets now. There’s a single stall at the end, larger. Put it on inside. Lock the door. Wait. You’ll hear a knock." Her instructions were crisp, leaving no room for question."Go. Before we draw stares. I’ll settle the bill."
Paul’s pulse hammered in his throat. The scent of garlic and mussels suddenly felt cloying. He palmed the blindfold, its softness deceptive. Without a word, he stood, leaving his half-finished meal, and walked towards the back of the restaurant, the blindfold a secret weight in his trouser pocket. He pushed open the door marked Dames. The interior was surprisingly spacious and clean, tiled in white, smelling faintly of citrus cleaner and expensive perfume. He found the larger stall at the end, locked the flimsy bolt, and leaned back against the cool partition wall. The familiar, absolute darkness enveloped him as he secured the blindfold. His world shrank to the hum of the extractor fan, the muffled sounds of the restaurant, the frantic thud of his own heart.
He waited. Seconds stretched. The citrus scent faded, replaced by the sterile tang of the cubicle. His breathing sounded loud in the enclosed space. Then, a sharp, precise triple tap on the door. Not hesitant. Authoritative. He fumbled with the lock, his fingers suddenly clumsy.
The door pushed open smoothly. He sensed immediate presence. Two figures entered the cramped space, the door clicking shut behind them. Perfume bloomed – Sandrine’s warm, spicy amber, instantly recognizable. And beneath it, something new: crisp, clean, almost antiseptic. Like starched linen and cold water. He heard the subtle rustle of clothing. A knee brushed against his trouser leg.
"Ready for your surprise, Paul?" Sandrine’s voice was a warm murmur near his ear.
Then the other voice. It cut through the small space, clear as a struck bell.
"Well then. Let's see what all the fuss is about." The tone was clipped, functional, devoid of warmth or hesitation. The vowels were precise, the consonants sharp, the rhythm economical. It reminded him instantly of a Territorial Army officer conducting an inspection, or perhaps an Olympic sportswoman. Controlled, functional.