Chapter 43: Planning
The low thrum of the Excel Centre felt like a distant nightmare, replaced by the intimate warmth of Odette’s penthouse. Steam curled from mugs of strong coffee on the reclaimed wood table. Isabelle Dubois, Odette’s older sister, leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp and assessing as it flickered between Paul and Odette. She possessed Odette’s dark hair and feline grace, but where Odette was playful fire, Isabelle was tempered steel – direct, observant, radiating a Parisian confidence that filled the cozy space.
Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The expensive wool of his trousers rasped against his bare skin beneath. The phantom taste of Nadia Erdene’s arsehole still coated his tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the rich coffee. He’d confessed everything over the remains of Isabelle’s coq au vin – Nadia’s proposition, the toilet stall, the command performance, the discarded boxers swirling away. The humiliation felt fresh, raw, exposed under the soft lamplight.
Odette listened, her expression unreadable, sipping her coffee. When Paul finished, the silence stretched, thick with Isabelle’s unspoken questions. Finally, Odette set her mug down with a soft clink.
"Jealous?" Odette’s voice was light, almost musical. A small, satisfied smile touched her lips. "Of course she is, Paul. That’s rather the entire point, mon cher."
Paul blinked. "The point? Odette, she… she demanded…"
"She saw what you are," Odette interrupted smoothly, her green eyes locking onto his. "She saw my possession. My perfectly trained mouth. My devoted slave." She leaned forward slightly, the playful glint hardening into absolute certainty. "And she wanted it for herself. Naturally. Who wouldn’t?" She gave a delicate shrug. "So she took a taste. Good."
"But…" Paul’s protest died in his throat. The anchor of submission held, but confusion warred with the ingrained obedience. "She was cruel. She made me… she discarded my…"
Odette waved a dismissive hand, her nails catching the light. "Cruel? Jealous? Irrelevant." Her tone brooked no argument. "Your purpose, Paul Ashworth, the only purpose that truly matters now, is servicing women with your mouth. My friends, my acquaintances… even jealous rivals like Nadia. If they want it, and I permit it, you provide it. Exquisitely. Without hesitation. Without complaint." She paused, letting the absolute nature of her decree sink in. "It is not your choice to make. It never was. You exist to kneel."
Isabelle watched, her dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She said nothing, but her gaze lingered on Paul’s face, reading the conflict, the dawning acceptance beneath the flush of shame.
Odette’s smile returned, softer now, possessive. "But," she added, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that sent a familiar shiver down Paul’s spine despite everything, "only I get this." Her gaze travelled deliberately down his body, lingering pointedly on the strained fabric of his trousers where his trapped erection still pressed insistently against the wool. "Your cock belongs to me. Solely. Utterly. That privilege is mine alone. Nadia gets your tongue, your obedience… but never this." She tapped a fingernail lightly against the tablecloth, the sound sharp in the quiet room, her eyes never leaving the bulge in his lap. "That is the distinction. That is your place."
Paul swallowed. The phantom slosh in his belly, the lingering taste on his tongue, the rasp of wool on bare skin, the insistent ache of his confined cock – they coalesced into a single, overwhelming sensation: belonging. Degraded, used, exposed… but irrevocably hers. Nadia’s jealousy wasn’t an insult; it was proof of Odette’s power, proof of his value as her instrument. The confusion dissolved, replaced by a profound, unsettling calm. His shoulders relaxed minutely. "Yes, Odette," he murmured, the words thick but clear.
Isabelle cleared her throat softly. "Intense," she remarked in French, her voice dry. She looked at her sister, a complex mix of appraisal and something else – curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of understanding. "You run a tight ship, petite soeur."
Odette laughed, the sound bright and unconcerned. "He needs it, Isabelle. He thrives on it. Don't you, Paul?" It wasn't really a question.
"Yes, Odette," Paul repeated, meeting her gaze directly now. The shame was still there, a low hum, but it was subsumed by the deeper current of submission. He was hers. Mouth, obedience, humiliation… all tools for her pleasure, her status. His cock, straining against its confinement, was the sole symbol of his unique bond with her, a bond defined entirely by her ownership.
The rasp of wool against his bare skin beneath the suit trousers was a constant, low-grade humiliation, a tactile reminder of his encounter with Nadia. The phantom slosh in his belly and the lingering, acrid taste coating his tongue felt like badges of servitude. His cock, straining against its confinement, was the sole symbol of his unique bond with her, a bond defined entirely by her ownership. He took a shaky breath, the rich aroma of Isabelle’s coq au vin suddenly cloying. "There was... another woman. Today. Before Nadia."
Odette’s green eyes, fixed on the subtle bulge in his lap, flicked up to his face. Her expression remained cool, inquisitive. "Another?"
"Becca," Paul clarified, the name tasting strange. "From the software vendor booth.”
"Becca," Paul clarified, the name tasting strange. "From the software vendor booth." He kept his voice low, eyes fixed on the polished wood grain of the table. "Nadia made her... use me. In a storage cupboard." He paused, gathering the words. "She needed to pee. Nadia told me to... drink it." The phantom salt-water warmth sloshed heavily in his belly. "I did. Then I made her come." He swallowed, the lingering taste of Nadia’s arse now mingling with the ghost of Becca’s urine. "With my mouth."
Isabelle’s dark eyebrows shot up. She let out a low whistle, sharp in the quiet room. She picked up her phone, thumb swiping quickly. "Twenty-seven," she announced, a smirk playing on her lips as she showed the screen – a simple note app list. She added a line: 'Becca - Excel - Piss/Cum'. "Formidable, Paul. Truly."
Odette leaned forward, her green eyes gleaming with pure, delighted satisfaction. "Becca? The software saleswoman?" A delighted laugh bubbled out of her. "Magnifique! Someone I don’t even know!" She clapped her hands together softly. "That’s perfect. Utterly perfect. My clever slave, making unknown women come in storage cupboards." She beamed at him, her pleasure radiant, possessive. "Exactly what you’re for."
Paul felt a flush creep up his neck, equal parts shame and a twisted pride at her approval. The anchor of submission held fast. "Yes, Odette."
Odette glanced at her watch, a delicate silver band. "Oh, merde. My call with Paris." She pushed her chair back decisively, the legs scraping on the floor. She stood, smoothing her blouse. Her gaze swept over Paul, then landed squarely on Isabelle. "Right. I need to take this in the study." She gestured vaguely towards Paul with a tilt of her head. "Isabelle, mon trésor? Keep him occupied while I'm gone." Her tone was light, conversational, belying the command beneath. "Paul? Strip. Every stitch. Then bury that talented mouth of yours in Isabelle’s pussy. Properly. Don't stop until I come back and tell you to." She gave her sister a pointed look. "Make sure he earns his keep, Isa. Don’t be gentle."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Odette turned and walked towards the study door, her footsteps soft on the rug. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a sudden, charged silence.
Isabelle stared at Paul for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a slow, speculative smile spread across her face. She pushed her own chair back and stood. Her movements were deliberate as she walked towards the plush velvet chaise lounge in the center of the room. She didn't speak. She simply settled onto it, leaning back against the cushions, one leg draped casually over the armrest. Her dark eyes, sharp and assessing, never left Paul’s.
The command hung in the warm, coffee-scented air. Paul’s fingers trembled slightly as they went to his tie. The silk slithered loose. Each button on his crisp white shirt felt like a surrender. He kept his eyes lowered, focused on the task, the rasp of expensive fabric against bare skin a familiar, humiliating counterpoint. Jacket discarded, shirt open and shrugged off. Trousers unzipped, pushed down hips, pooled around polished shoes. He stepped out of them, standing finally in the lamplight, completely exposed. The cool air prickled his skin. His erection, trapped and straining against his suit earlier, now stood fully free, bobbing slightly. The lingering tastes – Nadia’s arse, Becca’s piss – felt amplified on his naked tongue.
He walked the few steps to the chaise, the thick rug soft under his bare feet. Isabelle watched him approach, her gaze travelling over his naked form with frank appraisal, lingering on his hard cock before returning to his face. She didn't move, didn't adjust her position. She simply waited, the hint of a challenge in her eyes.
Paul knelt on the rug beside the chaise. The velvet pile was deep and yielding. He hesitated only for a heartbeat, the enormity of the act settling over him – servicing Odette’s sister, commanded by his fiancée. Then the ingrained submission took over. He leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on Isabelle’s thighs. Her skin was smooth, warm. He inhaled, catching her scent – different from Odette’s, muskier, earthier, mixed faintly with expensive perfume and the lingering aroma of dinner. He lowered his head, his lips parting. His tongue touched the soft cotton of her knickers, tracing the damp warmth beneath. He heard her breath hitch, a soft intake of air. He pressed his face firmly into her, nuzzling, seeking the heat and the core of her scent.
Paul pressed his face firmly into her, nuzzling the soft cotton, seeking the heat and the core of her scent. His tongue traced the damp outline beneath the fabric, feeling the warmth radiate. Isabelle shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she remained otherwise still, observing him with that unnerving calm.
He pulled the waistband of her knickers aside with his thumb, exposing the neat, dark triangle of curls. The scent intensified, musky and rich. He leaned in again, his tongue finding slick flesh, tracing upwards deliberately.
"Not like that," Isabelle murmured, her voice cutting through his concentration. He froze.
She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her simple black cotton knickers. With a swift, efficient wiggle of her hips, she slid them down her slender, pale legs. She lifted one foot, then the other, freeing herself completely and letting the fabric drop onto the deep velvet chaise beside her thigh. She didn't retrieve them. Instead, she deliberately spread her legs wider, settling back against the cushions. The soft lamplight glowed on the smooth skin of her inner thighs.
"Right," she stated, her tone practical, almost bored. She reached for the remote on the chaise's arm. "Simply bury your face between my legs. Properly. Keep it buried." She pointed the remote towards the sleek television mounted on the wall. The screen flickered to life, the blue glow illuminating her focused profile. The sound of French news anchors discussing European markets filled the room. "I need to catch up on France 24," she added, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Get on with it."
Paul stared for a second at the intimate view she presented – the dark curls, the glistening folds now fully exposed. The contrast between her clinical detachment and his near-desperate arousal was jarring. He felt the familiar, shameful throb in his cock, the phantom taste of Nadia’s arse and Becca’s piss still coating his tongue, mixing with the new reality before him. Odette’s command echoed: Bury that talented mouth... Don't stop.
He leaned forward, pushing his face into the warm, soft flesh of Isabelle’s spread thighs. His nose pressed against her pubic bone. He opened his mouth wide, covering her completely, his tongue flattening against her. He inhaled deeply, the primal, earthy scent filling his nostrils, overwhelming the lingering ghosts of the conference centre. His hands instinctively gripped her hips, anchoring himself.
Isabelle made a small, noncommittal sound, a soft hum deep in her throat, but her attention remained fixed on the television. Her legs rested heavily against the sides of his head, trapping him. He began to move his tongue slowly, methodically, licking broad strokes. He felt the texture, the slickness, the heat. He focused on the mechanics, the service expected. He pressed deeper, his tongue seeking entry, lapping rhythmically at her entrance.
Her breathing hitched slightly, a subtle change, but she didn’t arch or moan. She shifted her hips minutely for better contact, her eyes never leaving the news report. "Consistent pressure," she instructed flatly, absently, as if commenting on the stock market. "Don’t get fancy. Just… maintain." She adjusted the volume slightly higher.
Paul obeyed. He kept his mouth sealed over her, his tongue working steadily, persistently, flattening and probing in broad, wet strokes. It wasn’t about skill or bringing her pleasure; the command was simply to be there, to have his face pressed into female genitals. To serve his function. The taste was different from Odette’s or Becca’s – less floral, more elemental. The scent enveloped him. He felt the slight tremors in her thighs, involuntary responses to the stimulation, but her focus remained resolutely on the screen, her posture relaxed, almost indifferent.
Paul kept up the rhythm, tongue moving in broad, wet sweeps against Isabelle’s exposed heat. The French news anchor droned on about bond yields, a sharp contrast to the thick scent of her arousal filling his nostrils and the slickness coating his lips and chin. He felt the minute flutter of her inner muscles against his probing tongue, the faintest tremor in her thigh pressed against his temple. She shifted again, a subtle adjustment for comfort against the velvet chaise, her gaze never leaving the screen.
Suddenly, her hand descended, fingers tangling roughly in his hair. "No, Paul." Her voice cut through the drone of the television, flat and commanding. "Stop licking. Now." She pulled his head back slightly, forcing his mouth away from her glistening skin. "I need to focus on the news."
He froze, lips parted, strands of her dark curls clinging damply to his cheekbone. He started to draw back fully, pushing up from his kneeling position on the thick rug. He needed air, a moment to process the abrupt halt.
Instantly, Isabelle’s grip tightened, yanking him forward with surprising strength. "Not away," she snapped, her eyes still fixed on the financial charts displayed on the screen. She shoved his face firmly back between her spread thighs. "Lodge your nose right here. Deep in my entrance." She guided his head with ruthless precision, grinding his face hard against her labia. "Stay perfectly still."
He gasped, the breath knocked out of him. His nose was buried deep in the soft, yielding folds of her, the tip pressed firmly against her opening. His upper face, from the bridge of his nose upwards to his forehead, was squashed against her long labia. His lips, slightly open, breathed mere millimetres from the wrinkled pucker of her arsehole. He could taste her tangy musk directly, mixed with the lingering ghosts of Nadia’s arse and Becca’s piss still faint on his tongue. Her thighs clamped firmly against the sides of his head, locking him in place. He became a fixture, an extension of her own body, breathing shallowly against her skin. The news continued, discussing inflation forecasts. Paul waited. Trapped. Immobile. At one with her body.
Fifteen minutes crawled by. The drone of the financial analysis was the only sound besides Paul’s muffled breathing against Isabelle’s skin and the soft rustle as she occasionally shifted her weight on the chaise. He felt her muscles tense minutely beneath his immobilized face. Then, a deliberate movement. She relaxed her grip slightly on his hair.
"Paul," she said, her tone conversational, almost thoughtful, her gaze still ostensibly on the television. "I've never had a tongue up my arsehole." She paused, letting the statement hang in the air thick with the scent of her. "Never fancied it." Another pause. She shifted her hips, subtly repositioning the target mere millimetres from his open mouth. "Given that you’ve already tongued an arsehole once today," she continued, her voice dry, matter-of-fact, "…maybe you should just get on with it?"
Paul flinched internally. The memory of Nadia’s tight, musky entrance flooded back, the taste still a phantom echo. He did not relish rimming arseholes. It was invasive, deeply intimate, utterly degrading. The instinctive recoil was immediate. He hesitated, his breath hitching against her skin.
But then, unbidden, a cascade of images flickered through his mind: Nadia’s demanding glare in the sterile Excel toilet, the yielding resistance under his tongue. Becca’s startled gasp above him, the warm gush filling his mouth. Odette’s possessive smile proclaiming his purpose. How many different rectums had he tasted now? How many women had he serviced in this most base, intimate way? The number was climbing, a bizarre résumé of submission. Instead of disgust, a strange, hot surge of submissive joy bloomed in his chest. He was used to this. This was his function. His value. He pressed his face forward, his tongue extending deliberately, seeking the tight, wrinkled knot presented so casually. He felt the familiar texture, the yielding resistance. Isabelle sighed softly above him, a sound of pure, uncomplicated expectation. His tongue pressed harder, circling, probing, pushing insistently past the tight ring.
His tongue pressed harder, circling, probing, pushing insistently past the tight ring. He felt the familiar resistance of tight muscles, the unique texture of crimped skin yielding to persistent pressure. Inside, the soft, slimy tissues offered a warm, intimate embrace. The earthy, woody taste bloomed on his tongue, a primal signature distinct from Nadia’s earlier musk, yet just as deeply humbling.
Isabelle gasped, a sharp, high-pitched mew of surprise escaping her lips. She hadn't expected it to feel so nice. Her body tensed briefly, then relaxed deeper into the velvet chaise. "Oh," she breathed, the sound startled, almost girlish, cutting through the drone of the financial news. "Alright.Stop. Stop for a second, Paul." She tugged lightly at his hair.
He withdrew his tongue instantly, leaving the tight ring slick. He stayed kneeling, his face an inch from her exposed flesh, breathing in the complex scent of her arousal mixed with his own saliva and the lingering ghosts of the day’s earlier services. Isabelle panted, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her gaze, no longer fixed on the TV, darted frantically around the bohemian room. It landed on the low wooden table nearby, cluttered with books and a simple ceramic bowl overflowing with glossy red apples. Her eyes ignited, aflame with sudden, kinky creativity.
"Bring me an apple, Paul," she commanded, her voice thick with urgency. "Now." She pointed a trembling finger towards the fruit bowl. "That one. The big, shiny one."
Paul pushed himself up, knees aching, the thick rug rough on his bare skin. He felt utterly exposed walking nude across the room, the phantom slosh of Becca’s offering in his belly a low thrum, the rasp of his trousers against bare legs a ghost sensation. He selected the largest apple, cool and heavy in his palm, its smooth skin gleaming under the soft lamplight. He returned, kneeling beside the chaise once more, offering the fruit. Isabelle snatched it from him, her fingers brushing his with electric intent.
Without a word, she lifted her hips slightly. Paul watched, transfixed, as she positioned the cool, round apple against her glistening vulva. With a determined, almost clinical push, she forced it inside her pussy. Paul was astonished to see the large fruit vanish entirely, swallowed by her slick warmth. Isabelle gasped, her eyes wide, a flush spreading down her neck. She adjusted her position, settling back heavily. The effect was immediate and startling: the internal volume of the apple pushed relentlessly from within, dramatically distending her anus, stretching the dark, wrinkled ring of her sphincter taut. It protruded outwards, almost inverted, a tight, glistening bullseye.
"Again," Isabelle panted, her voice strained with the pressure and mounting excitement. She spread her legs impossibly wider, presenting the stretched, strained opening. "Lick it. There. Right there." Her hand moved to her clit, fingers beginning a rapid, desperate circle.
Paul leaned forward, the scent of her skin and the apple’s faint sweetness mingling strangely with the lingering woody taste of her anus. His tongue flicked out, tracing the incredibly tight, distended ring. The texture was intense – impossibly smooth under tension, yet retaining a hint of its natural crimp at the very edges. He focused his tongue, flicking rapidly against the sensitive, stretched skin, feeling the hard curve of the apple just beneath. Isabelle moaned, a deep, guttural sound that built rapidly. Her fingers worked furiously on her clit. "Yes! Like that! Flick it! Harder!" Her hips began to buck erratically against his face. Her cries escalated, sharp, wordless gasps punctuating the frantic rhythm of her fingers. She arched violently off the chaise, her back forming a taut curve, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as climax ripped through her. Her inner muscles spasmed wildly, pulsing against the apple deep inside and clenching rhythmically around the stretched ring Paul’s tongue was still diligently flicking. Her thighs clamped like a vice around his head as she convulsed, riding the intense waves, her cries echoing in the cozy room long after the financial news had ended. Paul kept licking, tasting salt and her essence and the impossible tautness, until her shudders finally subsided into trembling exhaustion against the velvet. The faint sound of the study door handle turning sliced through the heavy silence.