Chapter 56: Camilla takes advantage.
They left the house separately, two professional strangers sharing a secret. Paul spent the day in court, his suit feeling like a costume over skin that still smelled faintly of Eleanor’s gardenia soap and Martha’s young, sharp scent. No one touched him. No one spoke to him with anything but legal deference. The world of oak panels and somber gowns was a clean, antiseptic lie.
That evening, in the quiet of his bedroom, couldn’t help but relive the visit of Martha and Eleanor. He texted Odette.
Morning service completed. Both guests. He typed, feeling the absurdity like a stone in his gut. Martha was… eager to learn. Eleanor had a specific fantasy. It was accommodated.
The reply came swiftly. Good boy. I knew you’d be perfect for Martha’s first proper taste of power. Eleanor texted me herself. Said you were a ‘perfect host.’ Sleep well. Just so you know… your tally is at 29.
He woke refreshed. The physical memory of use was a pleasant, distant ache. He attended to his briefs, drank his coffee, answered emails. But by lunchtime, a peculiar hollowness began to gnaw at him. It wasn’t hunger for food. It was a specific, cellular yearning. The taste-map of his tongue felt barren. It had been more than twenty hours hours since he had tasted pussy. Without Odette to serve every morning and evening his activities seemed to have gone into an arrhythmic feast and famine, but she would be home this evening and normality would return.
So later, when his phone rang and Odette’s name flashed, hope, sharp and immediate, leapt in his chest. She was home.
“Darling,” her voice was rich, slightly distorted by a poor connection. “Hellish news. The client is being impossibly Byzantine. I’m stuck in Zurich for another day, possibly two.”
The hope curdled. “I see.”
“Don’t sound so glum. It’s just business. Hold the fort.” A pause. “Listen. I haven’t been able to plan anything. That first night I knew Hayley was coming, obviously you’d already spoken to Holly, Astrid said she’d make use of you at some point and Eleanor asked if she could borrow a key.”
“It’s only been a day,” he said, but the anxiety was there, she seemed worried.
“I promised. A pussy a day keeps your sanity away.” She laughed, a low, smoky sound. “But now I will have to owe you a favour. Find one. Could you eat Holly again?”
“I… if she’s still on her period I don’t think I can do a third day of that.” Paul felt nauseous at the thought.
“You might have to. You can’t be squeamish Mon Cherie. Go and find her and see.”
But Holly wasn’t in her office, the building’s security guard told him she’d gone to the remote data-centre for the day.
He sat in his quiet study, the city buzzing outside. He couldn’t call Eleanor or Martha, Nadia, Hayley- he didn’t have the numbers of so many of the women who’d used him. Astrid wasn’t returning his messages. The other women in his orbit were colleagues, clients; impossible. Then he remembered the café. Camilla. The pretty, plump Portuguese waitress with the knowing eyes. She had used him before, weeks ago, after overhearing a whispered exchange between him and Odette. She’d cornered him by the bins out back, hiked up her uniform skirt, and fed him her salty, tangy cunt with a workmanlike briskness.
It would serve.
He left the office, the craving now a directing force. He walked the few blocks to Camilla’s Café. The lunch rush was over, the pastel-blue interior quiet, smelling of lemon polish and stale coffee. Camilla was behind the counter, refilling sugar bowls. She looked up, saw him, and a slow, smile spread across her pretty face.
“Senhor Barrister,” she said, her accent softening the title. “You are late for lunch.”
“I need to speak to you,” he said, his voice lower than intended. “In private.”
Her dark eyes glinted with comprehension. She glanced around the empty café, then nodded towards the beaded curtain leading to the back. “Stock room. Five minutes.”
He waited, the anticipation now a tight wire in his gut. The bell on the door jingled as the last customer left. Camilla flipped the sign to ‘Fechado’ and slid the bolt. She turned, leaned against the counter, and crossed her arms under her full breasts.
“You look… tense,” she said. “Odette away, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a need.” It wasn’t a question.
“We have an agreement. I have to lick someone to orgasm everyday. Normally that’s Odette but...” He ended with a shrug,
Camilla snorted, a surprisingly coarse sound. “You lawyers and your contracts for everything, even for sucking pussy.” She pushed off the counter and walked towards the back, her hips swaying. “Listen. I think that if I’m going to let you eat here then you have to pay for it.”
“Wait, what?” Said Paul confused.
“You want to taste my cona, I’ll let you but you have to pay one hundred pounds.”
“hang on, that’s…”
“No,” she interrupted firmly, “My cona is not for sale to anyone. But you are desperate, no? So you rich sexy man, you get on your knees, you make me cum, you get nothing in return and you pay me for the privilege. I’d like that.” She was clearly amused.
The stock room was small, crowded with sacks of coffee beans and crates of porcelain. The air was thick with the smell of ground coffee and clean linen. Camilla didn’t bother with preamble. She turned to face him, her back against a stack of boxes, and began unbuttoning her tight jeans.
“You look hungry, barrister,” she said, the smirk back on her lips. “Better eat up.”
She pushed the denim down her thighs, taking her simple cotton panties with them. She was plump, as he remembered, a soft swell of belly, a thatch of dark, coarse curls. She didn’t shave. The scent of her, musky and honest, immediately cut through the coffee smell. She hoisted one foot onto a low crate, opening herself to him.
“No time for foreplay. I’m not your princess. Lick.”
Paul dropped to his knees on the hard linoleum. The position was instantly familiar, a relief. He put his hands on her sturdy thighs, feeling the warmth of her skin through her stockings. He leaned in.
Her cunt was beautiful in its straightforwardness. Pink, wet lips, already glistening with her arousal. He pressed his mouth to her.
The first taste was a shock—sharp, salty, profoundly organic. It was the opposite of Eleanor’s complex game or Martha’s aggressive inexperience. This was a working woman’s cunt, unclean and unapologetic. He moaned into her, the craving in him roaring to the surface.
“That’s it,” Camilla sighed, her hand going to the back of his head. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not gently. She guided him, showing him the rhythm she wanted. “Right there. Use your tongue flat. Yes.”
He obeyed, licking broad, hungry strokes from her opening to her clit. She was already swollen, her bud a hard little pearl under his tongue. He focused there, circling, sucking.
“Fuck, you are good at this,” she grunted, her hips beginning to roll against his face. “No wonder she keeps you. Just a mouth on legs.”
The vulgarity ignited him. He pushed his tongue inside her, fucking her with it as far as it would go. She was tight, hot, and her inner muscles clenched around the intrusion.
“Deeper,” she demanded, grinding down onto him. “Get in there, you fucking cunt-licker. Eat me out properly.”
He drove his face in, his nose buried in her coarse curls. He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t want to. He was drowning in her, and it was salvation. His own cock was painfully hard, trapped in his trousers, but that was irrelevant. This was the act, the sacrament.
Her breath became ragged pants. The crates behind her creaked with her movement. “Yes… yes… right there, you… Make me come.”
Her words were a command. He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his tongue a relentless piston. He sucked her clit into his mouth and vibrated his tongue against it.
Camilla cried out, a sharp, Portuguese curse that echoed in the small room. Her thighs clamped like a vice around his head, and her cunt pulsed, releasing a gush of hot, bitter fluid straight down his throat. He swallowed greedily, drinking her down as her orgasm shook her. She rode his face through it, milking the sensation with rough, ungraceful shudders.
When she finally released his head, he drew back, gasping, his chin and lips slick with her. She looked down at him, her face flushed, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip. She was still panting.
“Foda-se,” she breathed, a slow smile spreading. “You really needed that, didn’t you?”
Paul, still on his knees, could only nod. The gnawing emptiness was gone, filled with her particular, pungent essence.
Camilla pulled up her jeans, buttoning them with efficient motions. She looked at her watch. “Delivery is here in five. You should go out the back alley.”
She offered him no towel, no kindness. It was a transaction, complete. Paul got to his feet, his knees cracking. He felt used, settled, the pact maintained.
“Thank you,” he said, the words automatic.
Camilla waved a dismissive hand, already turning to straighten her uniform. “Don’t thank me. Just pay your bill on the way out. And leave a big tip. My service is excellent, no?”
She winked, and the ordinary world snapped back into place. Paul walked through the beaded curtain, back into the sun-drenched café, the taste of her a secret on his tongue, the ticking clock of his need reset for another day.