Chapter 8: Astrid
The sloshing weight in Paul’s stomach was a constant, humiliating counterpoint to the clink of fine china and the low murmur of conversation at Le Jardin. The lingering taste – that acrid, salty tang – seemed permanently etched onto his tongue, resurfacing with every sip of mineral water. He stared at the delicate arrangement of seared scallops on his plate, their pearly flesh suddenly unappetizing. Across the crisp white linen, Odette looked radiant. The low lighting caught the angles of her face, her green eyes sparkling with an inner amusement only he understood. She’d changed into a simple, stunning black dress that clung to her petite frame, the picture of effortless Parisian chic. He felt monstrously out of place in his best suit, the fabric scratchy against skin that still felt sticky, phantom piss cooling on his chest.
“Not hungry, chéri?” Odette asked, her voice a velvet purr that sliced through his discomfort. She speared a scallop, holding it poised on her fork. “The sea is very fresh tonight. Unlike the taste you acquired earlier, hmm?” Her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, holding his gaze until he flushed crimson and looked down, stabbing listlessly at a piece of asparagus. She laughed softly, the sound like breaking glass. “Relax, Paul. Enjoy the meal. You earned it.” The double entendre hung in the air, thick and cloying.
He forced himself to chew, the food turning to ash. Every time her foot brushed his leg under the table, a jolt of confused arousal warred with the sick dread churning his guts. The warm fullness inside him was a constant reminder of his abasement, a physical manifestation of her ownership. He gulped water, trying to drown the taste, the memory.
After the main course, Odette excused herself for the ladies’ room. “Order me another Kir Royale, Paul. And try not to look so tortured. You’re attracting stares.” She swept away, leaving him alone with the sloshing in his belly and the echoing silence in his head. He signalled the waiter, his hand trembling slightly.
He drained his own water glass, the cool liquid doing nothing to settle the queasy churn. Needing air, or just escape, he mumbled an excuse to the hovering waiter and headed towards the gents. The stark, overly bright lights and sterile smell were a jarring contrast to the dining room. He splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection – the handsome barrister facade looking cracked, haunted. He could still smell her on his skin. He scrubbed his mouth again with the back of his hand, a futile gesture. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he straightened his tie and pushed the door open, steeling himself to return.
He saw them immediately. Odette wasn’t at their table. She was leaning against the polished mahogany bar, deep in conversation with a striking woman. Tall, powerfully built, with a cascade of blonde hair and eyes the colour of glacial ice. She wore a sharp, evening dress that screamed expensive confidence. She looked like an Valkerie: Astrid. Paul recognized her vaguely – another high-flying lawyer from a rival chamber. Odette’s posture was relaxed, animated, one hand gesturing while the other held her cocktail. Astrid was listening intently, a slow, intrigued smile playing on her lips. As Paul approached, navigating the crowded space, he caught snippets over the ambient noise.
"...completely unexpected," Odette was saying, her voice carrying a conspiratorial lilt. "...utterly debased himself. On his knees..."
Astrid’s gaze flickered towards Paul as he neared, her icy eyes sweeping him from head to toe with unnerving focus. The smile widened, turning predatory. Odette followed her friend’s look and turned, her own expression morphing into one of pure, malicious delight. "Ah, Paul! Perfect timing." She beckoned him over with a flick of her fingers. "You remember Astrid Vermeer, yes? From Chambers at Lincoln House?"
Paul forced a stiff smile, extending a hand that felt clammy. "Astrid. Yes. Good to see you." His voice sounded strained.
Astrid’s grip was firm, cool, lingering just a fraction too long. Her eyes never left his, assessing, dissecting. "Paul. Odette was just..." She paused, letting the silence hang, her gaze flicking meaningfully downwards towards the floor for a split second before returning to his face. "...recounting the highlights of her evening so far." Her accent was crisp, Dutch-inflected.
Odette giggled, a light, tinkling sound that grated on Paul’s nerves. "Oh, just sharing a few amusing anecdotes, darling. Astrid is fascinated by... dynamics." She took a slow sip of her Kir Royale, her eyes dancing with mischief over the rim of the glass. "Especially the part where you demonstrated such impeccable manners earlier."
Paul’s cheeks burned. He wanted the polished floor to swallow him whole. The sloshing in his stomach intensified, a hot wave of nausea rising. He understood instantly. Odette hadn't just shared 'anecdotes'. She'd told Astrid everything. The rug. The rugby. His tongue on her arsehole. His face buried. The piss. The swallowing. Humiliation, scalding and absolute, washed over him. Astrid knew. This powerful, intimidating woman knew he’d knelt naked and drunk Odette’s urine like a dog.
"Fascinating indeed," Astrid murmured, her voice low, intimate. She stepped slightly closer to Paul, invading his personal space. She smelled of expensive citrus and cold stone. "Such... devotion is rare. And the detail, Odette." She turned her glacial gaze back to her friend. "You described the taste so vividly. Salty, wasn't it? Musky? With that... vegetal undertone after asparagus?" Her eyes slid back to Paul. "Did you find notes of the Sauvignon Blanc Odette a I shared at lunch? Or was it overpowered by... other notes?"
Paul couldn't speak. His throat was clenched shut. He stared at the intricate pattern on the bar top, the world narrowing to the pounding in his ears and the two women’s predatory attention. Odette was practically vibrating with glee.
"I think it was mostly me, darling," Odette purred, reaching out and running a fingertip down Paul's tensed forearm. He flinched. "Pure, unadulterated Odette. Straight from the source. Paul was very thorough. Aren't you, Paul? You swallowed every drop like a good boy. Even licked me clean afterwards." She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, whispering just loudly enough for Astrid to hear. "Tell Astrid, Paul. Tell her how much you loved it. How you'd do it again. Right now, if I asked."
Astrid watched him, unblinking, a faint, cruel smile etched on her lips. She took a slow sip of her own drink, her eyes never leaving his face, waiting.
Paul opened his mouth.
Paul opened his mouth. Denial choked him, useless and pathetic. He met Odette’s merciless green gaze, saw Astrid’s icy curiosity, and knew evasion was death. The piss still sloshed sickeningly in his belly, proof of his debasement. He swallowed the acrid aftertaste, forcing the words out raw. "I loved it." His voice was low, rough, stripped bare.
Odette’s laugh was pure delight, sharp as broken glass. "There, you see?" she purred to Astrid, triumphant. "Told you. My devoted little cunt-slut." She took a slow sip of Kir Royale, her eyes never leaving Paul’s burning face. "He told me, Astrid. Swore he’d eat pussy under any circumstances. Any. Circumstances." She emphasized the last words, letting them hang in the air thick with perfume and cigar smoke. "We’re simply… testing the parameters of his claim."
Astrid’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched impossibly high. Her glacial eyes swept over Paul again, reassessing. "He said that? And yet… the piss?" She gestured vaguely towards Paul’s midsection, a flicker of genuine shock breaking her cool composure. "You actually drank it? Voluntarily?" Her Dutch accent clipped the words.
Paul flinched. The warm, sloshing weight felt heavier. He wanted to vanish. "Yes," he admitted, the word scraping his throat. He couldn't look at her. "I did." He took a shaky breath, a sliver of defiance sparking, desperate. "But I didn't say any pussy, Odette." He lifted his gaze, meeting her startled eyes. "I said yours. Specifically."
Silence crashed down. Odette’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then something hotter, more possessive. Astrid watched the exchange, her head tilted, a slow, calculating smile spreading across her lips. She drained her martini, the olive rattling, and set the glass down with a decisive click. The ambient restaurant noise faded to a hum.
Astrid stepped closer to Paul, invading his space. Her expensive citrus scent warred with Odette’s jasmine. Her voice dropped, low and dangerous, meant only for their trio. "But Paul, you see I have a pussy too," she murmured, her icy eyes locking onto his. "If I were to tell you to get on your knees right now, beside this bar, pull down my panties, and eat my pussy… what would happen then?"
Paul’s breath stopped. The sloshing in his gut surged, a sick tide. The crowded restaurant pressed in, a blur of faces and noise. His gaze snapped to Odette, wide, pleading, silently screaming Is this the test?
Odette held his look. Her green eyes were unreadable for one endless, suffocating second. Then, slowly, deliberately, she inclined her head. A single, silent nod. Permission. Command. The ultimate parameter of his claim laid bare. Her lips curved, not in triumph now, but in dark, anticipatory pleasure, watching him drown.
Her lips curved, not in triumph now, but in dark, anticipatory pleasure, watching him drown. Astrid’s glacial eyes held him pinned, waiting. The sloshing warmth in Paul’s gut churned, a visceral reminder of his utter subjection, as the crowded bar’s noise faded into a distant hum. He looked from Odette’s predatory smile to Astrid’s challenging stare, his own breath shallow and tight in his chest.
"Right now?" Paul croaked, the sound barely audible over the jazz piano. The sheer impossibility of it crashed against the undeniable command in Odette’s silent nod. His dignity, already tattered, felt like ash in his mouth. Astrid didn’t flinch, didn't look away; she simply shifted her weight slightly, a silent confirmation of her demand.
Odette leaned her hip casually against a tall barstool, the sleek black fabric of her dress whispering. "The bar is dark enough here," she murmured, her voice a low thrum Paul felt in his bones. She subtly adjusted her stance, opening her legs a fraction wider, creating a shadowed space behind herself and the barstool. "Plenty of cover. Get under the edge of the bar, Paul. Make yourself useful." She gestured vaguely towards Astrid’s sculpted legs with her cocktail glass. "Attend to Astrid. Show her how devoted you are."
Paul’s knees hit the polished wood floor with a soft thud that vibrated up his thighs. The air under the bar was suddenly close, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, and a gathering intimate musk, a scent now imprinted on his soul. Astrid’s legs came into view, expensive fabric being lifted, brushing near his face. He saw her hand move, up under the rising hemline.
"Don't dawdle," Astrid’s voice, cool and precise, filtered down. He saw the dark lace of her panties being hooked by her thumbs and pulled aside, exposing her entirely. Her cunt was neatly trimmed, the outer lips flushed a deep pink, already glistening faintly under the dim bar light filtering through the fabric around him.
He didn’t hesitate. Odette’s presence above him, her skirt a dark screen shielding him, was a cage and a command. He leaned forward, pressing his face into Astrid’s cunt. Her scent was different from Odette’s – sharper, cleaner, like cold mountain air and expensive soap, but underpinned by the same primal, damp musk. He licked a broad stripe upwards, from her perineum to her clit.
Astrid gasped, a sharp, surprised intake of breath. Her thighs tensed slightly against his ears. "Oh," she breathed. "He is direct." Her hand landed on Odette’s hip, gripping for balance.
Paul focused, shutting out the muffled roar of the bar, the sloshing in his belly now secondary to the immediate task. He flattened his tongue against her slick folds, lapping firmly, tasting her tangy arousal. He found her clit, a hard little nub beneath its hood, and began circling it with the flat of his tongue, firm and steady, the way he knew could build pressure relentlessly. One hand braced on Astrid’s thigh, the other snaked under Odette, finding the bare skin of her calf, needing to ground himself.
"Jesus," Astrid muttered, her voice tighter now. "He knows… ah!... exactly what he’s doing." Her hips gave an involuntary little jerk, grinding her cunt harder against Paul’s mouth. He responded by sucking her clit directly between his lips, applying rhythmic pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue over the sensitive peak. He felt her body stiffen, heard her breath catch and hold.
He slid two fingers inside her, finding her wet and hot and clenching tightly. He crooked them upwards, rubbing firmly against that textured spot inside her as he continued sucking and flicking her clit. Astrid’s legs clamped hard around his head, trapping him against her. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained, muffled by the bar’s ambient noise but vibrating through Paul’s skull pressed against her pelvis. Her cunt pulsed rhythmically around his fingers, drenching his chin as she shuddered through her orgasm.
Paul kept licking, gentler now, lapping at her sensitive flesh as her tremors subsided, drinking in her release. He felt utterly used, a tool efficiently deployed. Astrid’s grip on Odette’s hip relaxed, her legs loosening their vice-like hold. Paul slowed, then stopped, resting his forehead against her damp thigh, breathing heavily in the confined, musky space. He tasted Astrid on his lips, a new layer of degradation.
He heard Astrid’s shaky exhale above him. "Fuck," she breathed, a note of genuine surprise in her voice."Alright. That was… excellent." Her hand withdrew from Odette’s hip.
Odette’s hand descended, patting the top of his head possessively through the fabric of her skirt. "Good boy," she purred, the praise laced with absolute ownership. "Very thorough." She shifted, allowing more light into the space. "Come out now, Paul."
Paul crawled backwards awkwardly on his knees, emerging from behind Odette’s skirt into the relative brightness of the bar corner. His face was slick, his lips swollen, the taste of another woman thick in his mouth. He stayed kneeling, looking up at the two women. Odette looked supremely pleased, radiating power. Astrid was quickly adjusting her dress, a faint flush high on her cheekbones, her composure regained but her eyes bright with a predatory gleam as she looked down at him.
Odette took a slow sip of her Kir Royale, her gaze fixed on Astrid. "Satisfied?" she asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Astrid smoothed her suit jacket, her icy eyes meeting Odette’s. "Intrigued," she corrected, her voice regaining its crisp edge. "He’s got talent. And stamina." Her gaze dropped to Paul, kneeling at their feet, trembling slightly. "Unexpected depth for an English barrister."
Odette laughed, a low, rich sound. "Oh, he has hidden depths, alright." She placed a hand on Paul's shoulder, her touch a brand. "You should feel free to use him," she said to Astrid, her tone casual, conversational, as if discussing lending a book, “ For relief… after a particularly gruelling cross-examination? Or just because?" She squeezed Paul’s shoulder, the pressure demanding his silence. “Thankyou. I certainly will.” Astrid replied.