Chapter 64: Romance isn’t dead
The salt-metallic taste of his own spend was still a faint ghost on his tongue when she spoke again, her voice slicing through the wet, rhythmic sounds of his cleaning. She had finished her second, shuddering climax against his mouth, and now lay still, one hand resting possessively on the back of his head. Her breathing was steadying.
Her breathing was steadying. She kept his face pressed firmly against her, not allowing him to surface. "Just stay there," she murmured, her voice a throaty caress in the quiet room. "Your face is exactly where it belongs."
Paul obeyed, his cheek resting on the soaked, swollen lips of her pussy. The smells were intense and layered—her raw, musky scent, the fading tang of his own release, the clean sweat of her thighs. He breathed it in through his nose, his world reduced to this dark, pungent warmth. His own rapid heartbeat thumped against the inside of her leg.
Her fingers, gentle now, stroked through his hair. "You were a good boy, cleaning all that up," she said idly. "But you've been a very, very busy boy while Mummy was in Brussels, haven't you? A regular little public utility."
He made a soft, assenting sound, the vibration humming against her flesh.
"Thirteen cunts," she mused, her tone one of clinical admiration. "My ambitious whore. But two of them were special, Paul. Two of them were my tests."
Her hand stilled in his hair. The air in the room seemed to thicken. Paul remained motionless, his lungs pulling in air filtered through her.
"Hayley came to see you," Odette stated, her voice losing its dreamy quality and gaining a sharp, analytical edge. "You remember Hayley. Long legs, hair like polished mahogany, the tits that could launch a thousand grudging, jealous sighs."
He remembered. Hayley was a force of nature, a stunning, cruel siren whose beauty was a weapon she wielded with gleeful precision. His memory conjured the feel of her stockings against his ears as he'd eaten her out on her expensive leather sofa.
"You ate her pussy for an hour," Odette continued, narrating the event she knew from the video. "Made her come so hard she kicked a vase off the sideboard. But then she wanted more. She wanted you to fuck her."
Paul felt a slight tension enter Odette's thighs. He didn't move.
"She got out the silk ties from her robe. She tied your wrists to the headboard of your own bed, Paul. She climbed on top of you, that perfect body sliding against your cock. And you said no."
Odette's voice hitched, laced with a sudden, profound emotion. "You were hard as a railroad spike, filmed from above, and you turned your head away. You told her you weren't allowed. That I hadn't given permission."
She let out a trembling breath. "So she raped you. She forced herself down on you, rode you like you were a toy, and you just... took it. You lay there, tied up, and let her use your cock because she decided to take it. She filmed the whole thing, your face, your refusal, your eventual... compliance. She sent it to me."
A warm droplet landed on Paul's temple. He realized Odette was crying.
"I watched it in my hotel room," she whispered, her voice cracking with pride. "I saw the most beautiful woman I have ever known, a perfect ten, get told 'no' by my man. I saw her have to become a rapist to get what she wanted from what is mine."
She leaned over him, her tears falling freely onto his hair and shoulder. "I cried, Paul. I wept with joy. You passed. You glorious, faithful creature."
Her vulva was a soft, wet pillow beneath his cheek. He felt cradled by her, claimed by her odours as they slowly dried on his skin.
"And then little Martha," Odette said, her voice regaining some composure, warmed by the memory."The virgin. Eighteen, sweet, curious, trembling. She asked so nicely, didn't she? Just to know what it felt like."
Paul remembered the girl's nervous hands, the smell of her cheap floral perfume over the sharper scent of her arousal.
"You ate her until she squealed. But when she asked for your cock, you said no again. She called me; the phone to her ear so I could give you both permission." Odette laughed, a soft, guttural sound of pure victory. "You made a young girl's first fuck a conference call with your owner. It was fucking poetic."
Her hand tightened in his hair, not painfully, but with immense possession. "Every other woman who asked, you serviced. Every single one. The menstruating ones, the strangers, the ones who charged you. Your mouth was theirs. But your cock... your cock you saved for the most extreme breaches. For the rape. For the ritual. You understood the assignment completely."
She shifted slightly, her thighs squeezing his head in a gentle, possessive vice. "You have made me the happiest woman who has ever owned a man, Paul Ashworth. You belong to me in a way that is written in your fucking DNA."
She fell silent then, letting the magnitude of her satisfaction wash over them both. The only sound was their breathing. His face, nestled in the damp heat of her, was her proof, her trophy. The dried secretions on his skin were the ink of her deed of ownership.
After a long while, she spoke again, her voice finally calm, absolute.
"No one will ever have what I have," she said simply. "Now, be good and don't move. I want to fall asleep just like this."
The word hung in the air like a benediction. Paul lay still, his face pressed into her warmth, his breath slow and even against her skin. The tears he had felt fall from her eyes had dried on his temple, and now the silence between them was heavy with shared understanding.
They dozed like that, her thighs loosely clamped around his head, his face buried in the soft, wet heat of her. The minutes blurred into an hour, the morning sun arcing higher across the velvet drapes. When Odette finally stirred, it was with a gentle flex of her legs, a subtle signal that the moment had passed.
"Wake up, mon amour," she murmured, her voice soft and sleepy. "We have a day to spend together."
Paul surfaced slowly, his face slick with her, his lips swollen. He blinked up at her, his eyes hazy with the peculiar peace that always followed these ceremonies. She smiled down at him, that wicked, tender smile that made his heart clench.
"Shower," she said simply. "Then breakfast. I'm starving."
The shower was a shared affair, warm water sluicing over them as Odette soaped his back with lazy, possessive strokes. She washed him thoroughly, her small hands working over his chest, his arms, his hips, as if re-claiming territory. He stood passive beneath her touch, grateful for the cleanliness, the ritual of being scrubbed pink.
They dressed in comfortable clothes. Odette chose a loose linen dress in pale blue, sandals, a straw hat. Paul pulled on chinos and a white shirt, the fabric soft against his still-sensitized skin. She looked him over with approval, adjusting his collar with a proprietary touch.
"Perfect," she declared. "You clean up beautifully."
Breakfast was at a small patisserie she loved near the British Museum, a hidden gem of flaky croissants and dark coffee. She fed him a piece of her pain au chocolat, laughing at the chocolate that smeared across his lip. He wiped it away with his thumb, and she caught his wrist, kissing the tip of it.
"It's a good day," she said, her green eyes bright. "A normal day. Just us."
The museum was a cathedral of cool marble and hushed whispers. They wandered through the galleries, Odette's hand threaded through his arm, her head tilted as she studied the ancient artefacts with genuine curiosity. She stopped before a case of Roman glass, the pieces catching the light in shades of amber and blue.
"Imagine owning something so old," she murmured. "So fragile. And still beautiful."
"Like you," Paul said, without thinking.
She turned to him, a pleased smile curving her lips. "Flatterer."
"I mean it."
She squeezed his arm. "I know."
The picnic came later, in Regent's Park. They spread a blanket under a great plane tree, the sun dappling through its leaves. Odette had packed a wicker basket with cold chicken, cheeses, a baguette, and a bottle of chilled Sancerre. She lay on her side, propping herself on an elbow, watching him eat with undisguised contentment.
"This is nice," she said. "Just us. No interruptions. No tests."
Paul took a sip of wine, the crisp, mineral taste coating his tongue. "It is."
"Almost makes you forget last night."
He paused. The Tanners' Arms was a distant, lurid memory now, a smear of neon and shameful need. "Almost."
She reached out, her fingers tracing the back of his hand. "You don't have to think about it. Not today. Today you're just my handsome man in a park."
Later, they walked along the canal, the late afternoon light turning the water gold. Swans drifted past, and children on bicycles wove between the walkers. Odette bought an ice cream from a van, vanilla with strawberry sauce, and made Paul hold it while she licked at the melting edges. Her tongue was pink and quick, and he watched her with a helpless fascination.
"Dinner at Arpège," she announced as they returned to the flat to change. "My favourite French place. Michelin starred. I've booked the corner table."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Fancy."
"You deserve it," she said simply. "After everything. You've earned a beautiful meal with a beautiful woman."
He kissed her temple, a gesture of gratitude that made her laugh with surprise.
Arpège was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight, the murmur of polite conversation a soothing hum. The menu was a symphony of delicate French cuisine, and Odette ordered for them both, a procession of courses that arrived like small works of art. They talked about everything and nothing, her stories of Paris, his cases, the absurdity of legal jargon. Wine flowed, and Paul felt the tension of the past weeks slowly unwinding from his shoulders.
It was during dessert, a molten chocolate fondant that Odette insisted he photograph, that the waitress approached their table.
She was young, mid-twenties, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and sharp, intelligent eyes. She held a small tray against her hip, her posture professional, but there was something careful in her expression.
"Monsieur Ashworth?" she asked, her accent lightly French.
Paul looked up. "Yes?"
"I apologise for interrupting." She glanced briefly at Odette, then back to him. "I believe I've seen a video of you. The one that Nadia showed me."
The words landed like a stone in still water. Paul felt his face go still, his hand pausing on the stem of his wine glass. Odette, however, leaned forward with a look of bright interest.
"Did you now?" she asked, her voice warm with encouragement.
The waitress nodded, flushing slightly. "She said you would go down on any woman who asks. I wanted to see if it was true."
Paul's mouth opened, but no sound came. Odette answered for him, her voice smooth as silk.
"It is entirely true," she said. "Paul is a very generous lover. But not tonight, I'm afraid. We're having a private evening."
The waitress's eyes flickered with something between disappointment and hope. "Of course. I understand."
Odette tilted her head, considering. "But you work here, don't you? What are your hours this week?"
"I'm here Tuesday through Saturday. Evenings."
"Perfect," Odette said, as if she had just concluded a minor piece of business. "Then we shall arrange something. Paul will come to you. He will lick whatever part of you you'd like him to. Isn't that right, Paul?"
He swallowed. The waitress was watching him, her lips slightly parted, a strange, heady mix of embarrassment and excitement in her eyes. "Yes," he said, his voice gravelly. "That's right."
A slow smile spread across the waitress's face. "I work late on Friday. My break is at nine."
"We will be there," Odette said. "Won't we, Paul?"
He met her green eyes, seeing the delight sparking there, the pleasure of arranging yet another thread in the web of his service. "We will."
The waitress nodded, a small, private smile curving her lips. "Thank you," she said, then turned and walked away, her hips swaying just slightly more than before.
Odette watched her go, then picked up her spoon and took another bite of her fondant. "There," she said simply. "It's good to keep your skills sharp. A Friday evening engagement. Very civilized." She licked the dark chocolate from her spoon, her eyes on his. "Eat your dessert, Paul. You'll need your strength."