When my fiancé first sent me to spend time with George, having given me a free pass to enjoy the body of a man I coveted, I thought it was a trick. It was not my suggestion but my partner’s, though he’d obviously noticed me eyeing up George. At first, I thought maybe the French way of life had rubbed off on Alex, but then I got suspicious. Was I not enough? Did I still have much to learn? Was George to be my teacher? These were my thoughts at the time.
George is a work acquaintance of my fiancé, as I understand it. He’s older than me, considerably, and also older than my fiancé. I’ve never quite understood their friendship, if it is indeed that. For all I know, they could be lovers too. Who the heck knows? I’m pretty sure they’re not, but the mind goes into overdrive around people like George who’s entirely impossible to pin down. I’ve even wondered… is George actually some kind of escort? Perhaps he and my partner aren’t friendly at all. At work parties, George is always there, but is that because someone has paid him to be? He never seems to truly mingle, just stands there on the periphery… broody as fuck.
Is George someone most men send their wives and girlfriends to? For training?
No! It can’t be. No training has ever taken place between myself and George. From either side. We’ve never needed training. Together, we’re electric. That scares me. I’ve wondered if I was originally sent to George for something like sexual training, but then, we discovered by accident a connection.
It terrifies me how much I’ve grown to adore him, in just six months of us occasionally fucking.
Not just adore him.
I’ve fallen in love with him.
I’ve no idea what to do.
It’s that mysteriousness he has. I know nothing about his work—or life, come to think of it. He could be married for all I know. My fiancé is a banker and I’ve always assumed George is in the same field or something like that—but we never discuss real life.
With George, it is always physical. Yet I am certain any affection I held for my fiancé before George has disappeared, replaced by some feeling I now have for my mystery man. My enigmatic and vindictive lover, whom I know very little about—aside from our blazing connection, of course.
I arrive at our meeting place in the quiet Parisian suburb of Saint-Cloud, recognising he’s already inside. The lights are on, there’s some music playing… but more than that, I just have a feeling. I let myself indoors and take my time in the hallway removing my coat, shoes, bag.
The way he is always here at our rendezvous first always sets me on edge. This place is just some flat my fiancé rents for me, nothing glam, nothing like our place overlooking the Seine in Central Paris. I’m often in Saint-Cloud working late at the American School where I TEFL, mostly night classes for adults. Often, I’ll catch a drink with colleagues or students after class, and sometimes, it’s nice to have a place to crash nearby so I don’t have to board a train or bus at silly o’clock. Though in truth, the only reason I’ve visited this flat in the past six months is George. My home in the city is much more comfortable.
“I’m here,” he shouts, from the kitchen.
As if I didn’t know. “Won’t be a mo.”
I’m delaying this and he knows it.
We both know it.
I’m always the one to text George a time and yet, he invariably arrives here before me. Always in a suit. Tidy. Clean. Smelling great. I can already smell his musky cologne from several metres away.
I’ve never had the chance to go around the place and check for cameras or any other spying equipment. Sometimes it occurs to me that my fiancé is a voyeur. I don’t know. Maybe it’s George who has my fiancé over a barrel. Maybe it’s me who’s the fool and I’m being played by them both.
More than once, I’ve wanted to ask George if he might meet me at a hotel in the city one night. Maybe he could stay the whole night then, so we might sleep together, fuck some more… hold one another. We could eat together, bathe together. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was being watched or assessed. Maybe he’d see me for what I really am, then fall in love with me, too.
Though I’m pretty sure George doesn’t love anyone. It’s not in his nature. Not who he is.
Sometimes, I even fantasise about him taking me back to his place. A typical Frenchman, he’d have books and paintings stacked up everywhere. It would be chaotic. His fridge would emit a foul stench whenever opened, some cheese or other, and there’d be coffee granules scattered across sideboards, stacks of overfilled ashtrays piled up everywhere and too many empty wine bottles with candles stuck in them.
I stand in the doorway and watch him pouring wine into two tall glasses.
“Hey stranger.”
He turns and glances, grimaces, then recommences pouring.
“Hello, Elena,” he says gruffly. “How was your day?”
He knows I speak French perfectly well, but he insists on us always speaking English. My fiancé is an Englishman, and doesn’t know much French, so maybe he needs to be able to understand what his fiancée and her lover are saying through the microphones hidden around this place.
“It was fine. I had a good day, George. How about you?”
“Ah, you know…”
He seems completely indifferent about his day.
After we’ve both taken our first sip, I try to put my arms around him and kiss his mouth, but he pulls away and does that thing of pretending he has to wipe some wine away or something.
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“What’s wrong?” I ask, shaking, petrified.
He’s shaking a little, too and it’s disconcerting.
“We can’t anymore, Elena. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t you even look at me?”
He turns his back to me, his glass meeting the sideboard. He hunches over, his back muscles bulging as he splays his arms, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter like he’d fall over otherwise.
“You know why, Elena,” he grunts.
“I don’t know why.”
“You do. We both do.”
Shit. It hits me, full and squarely, right in the centre of my chest.
“Has he said something?”
“Non!” he shouts, losing his cool for a second. “No. This is… me… you… us. It can’t go on.”
“Why did he want me to do this? Did he do this before? With that tart he was engaged to before me. Had you done this before? For him? Tell me!”
I’m getting brave. Up to now, I’ve never dared ask… but the man virtually just admitted he feels the exact same way I do.
He turns around, picks the glass up and takes back a big, long draw on that red wine there. Then he grimaces, again. Stares at me. Licks his lips. Tries not to look at my breasts, but does so anyway, and even has to jiggle his leg in response.
He looks haunted as he confesses, “I asked him. At that party. Where we first saw one another.”
“I remember.” George had looked so broody that night, so French, so boxy in his grey suit, so large and imposing and male.
“I asked him if it was serious between you two.” He shrugs.
I throw my hands up. “Frenchman!”
“He said he’d asked you to marry him, but only because he knew he’d never find anyone better.”
That stings and George knows it. He abandons his wine again and comes flying at me. I wrap my arms twice around his head and cry freely as he kisses me deeply, his stubble rough, his scent all-consuming, his kiss fiery and desperate.
I love you.
We wrap our arms tight around one another.
It’s the truth.
We’re in love.
“I thought I might borrow you for a while,ma petite but now I find I want you all the time.”
“I love you.”
He yanks himself backwards, shocked by my admission. “Non.”
“Why not?”
“No, cherie. We cannot. Your fiancé is a powerful man.”
“I don’t care. He can go fuck himself. I haven’t fooled myself he doesn’t fuck around when he knows we’re together. After the first time I fucked you, he never said it, but he insinuated he’d entertain himself the nights I’m here with you.”
George winces, angered. “He knows I love you. He’ll use it against me.”
“I don’t understand, George, please! I can’t go on pretending… you’re all I want. Let me show you.”
“The bedroom, then,” he mutters, “do that thing I like. I’ll need something stronger.”
He fetches a bottle from the liquor cabinet and a glass, following as I lead the way. Just the look in his greedy eyes has me soaking my knickers. I thought I was alone in this, but now I know I’m not—I feel like maybe I can finally be myself.
I start my striptease in the bedroom, carefully removing items of clothing as he sits opposite the bed, observing.
Did I break this hulk of a man?
He looks broken. Untethered, but also shackled, because of the feelings which he now cannot deny.
To know I might have affected this beautiful man… makes me even more hot for him.
He’s drinking heavily. It’s been a bad day for him. What happened in his job?
Or was it the thought of having to face me, seeing as though I requested his presence by text early this morning, giving him the whole day to stew on how he was going to behave tonight?
The thing is about George, it’s almost criminal not to fuck him.
For an older guy, he’s always rock hard and has the thickest, most delicious root. He tastes great. And he loves to lick pussy. Until I come and come and come.
However, he loves to watch me dance and play with myself, too. It’s one of our things. I always dance until I can’t stand it any longer and need him to see how much I want him—tonight being no different.
I stand up and bend over so he can see everything as I remove my knickers. He needs the proof, too—squirming in his seat, getting hot under the collar, agitated and impatient. I toss my knickers at him and he gets that proof—bringing my knickers to his nostrils.
I undress down to my stockings and suspenders and finger myself on the bed as I stare at the bulge in his tight trousers. I’m swollen and wet. I open myself up so he can see how much. My nipples are so tight, they’re stinging. His bottom lip is wet, his tongue keeps sliding out of his mouth to stop himself drooling, but I can see the necessity and need in his eyes—no matter how hard he tries to act cold and aloof.
He takes another drink and I lie back, stroking my breast at the same time as feeling inside myself for the way he’s got me engorged and wet.
This is the part where we never talk. It’s all in the eyes. He wants me but enjoys the delay, the anticipation. I enjoy that he’s fool enough to try and prevent what is inevitable. I also tease him, tasting myself… when I know my taste is all he wants right now.
George always greets me with his tongue whenever we fuck. It’s how it always is. He licks me until I’m bucking my hips and pushing his head away with my hands at the same time. Sometimes there’s a toy he’ll use, too before his cock has even penetrated me. Which reminds me…
I take out my toy and jump when it first touches my sensitive clit, buzzing a million nerve endings that are desperate to be set free. Somehow though, I’ve got to control myself. George owns my orgasms. I want him to have them.
I almost come several times, watching how he’s licking his lips, swirling his liquor around that glass.
I bite down on my lip, hold my breath and deny myself pleasure, starting to sweat because I’m holding in so much heat and tension, barely controlled.
When he notices me succumb a little, crunching around the toy as it accidentally grazes someplace inside me that is unbearably aroused, he grunts and pretends to be displeased—but I can tell he’s enjoying how hard I’m working to not come, and also, how it’s just impossible not to because of how much I want him.
I leave the bed and sit on the floor, his prey, his submissive, my stockinged foot reaching out and finally easing the burden between his legs, his breath hitching when we first make contact.
I tell him with my eyes how I feel, what it is I want, and how there’s only one way this is going to go…
With us ending up together.
I fuck myself with my vibrator, deciding he needs to see me like this. To know that I can pleasure myself without him. I have all I need right here. I’m spread open, a constant invitation, but he watches—the pupil having become the teacher. I tease him again and again, tasting the thing he craves more than anything—that first taste. I fuck myself silly, almost to the point of multiple orgasms, when I see a change in his demeanour.
With one sharp lift of his chin, he lets me know what he wants.
I climb up onto his lap and nerves get the better of me as he holds me between his spread legs, his body cradling mine. I can’t help but tremble at his touch.
“Je t’aime,”he whispers as he’s nuzzling my nape.
I grab his hair and pant when he licks my erect nipple. I need him to take me to the edge and beyond, because I trust him with my body and need to feel that he trusts I know what I want.
He slides his fingers into my mouth and I prepare them, wetting them with my tongue. I urge his hand between my legs and sigh, finally getting what I really want—his touch.
He pumps his fingers in and out of my wetness, sending me crazy. The touch of a man! Oh god. So strong and unforgiving.
For the first time, George is showing me he doesn’t just enjoy my pleasure, he requires it, lives for it and is precious about it.
I add my hand on top of his, encouraging him deeper, more, don’t stop. He gives me the sweet taste of my arousal and I feel his erection throb against my thigh even more as he watches me taste what he desires most of all.
Then he digs his fingers back inside me, greedy and depraved and thick, opening me up as he hits the spot and sends me spinning out of control. Sometimes there’s no orgasm deeper than the one he gives me with his hand because he’s all about me, giving me the firm caress I desperately want. Unyielding and rough. His masculinity teasing at my feminine tenderness until I can no longer bear it and need to respond to all the ways in which he can touch me like this, intimately, unforgivingly, manipulating all of me.
He fucks me harder, faster and I push his hand in deeper, aiding him as I arch and cry out, pummelling around his fingers, drenching and coating them—all the tension in the centre of me finally released, until I’m floating on a cloud, pulsing.
We share a look. He seems shocked. Delighted. More amorous for my orgasms than ever.
I love how sexy I feel when I’m with him. The very first time we were together, he showed me myself in a new light. I never needed him to be able to love myself, but I’ve seen what he sees and now I like it even more. How my body can be the vehicle for us getting closer, and closer.
I would usually be ravenous for his cock after my first orgasm, but today, all I want is this feeling. We cuddle up and I sense he needs time as much as I do. To reflect and find his strength again.
I pull his lips to mine and kiss him tenderly. “Love you.”
He rests his face on my shoulder, catching his breath, tugging me tighter and closer. I wrap my arms around him and drown in the peace and contentment between us.
“I’m his fixer,” he says eventually, and my stomach turns to ice. “I offered to do a job for free in exchange for you, but he said I could have you for nothing. Something about you both needing one last affair before marriage.”
A long time ago, my fiancé Alex told me he has a fixer and explained what it is that his fixer does. I never put the two together, though. His fixer apparently blackmails, tortures… manipulates, coerces, sorts stuff out, gets the job done. I wouldn’t like to think murder is involved, but perhaps it is.
Alex owns his own concern and doesn’t like competition. He’s ruthless. I once believed I could change him. I was wrong. I think I knew when he loaned me to George that I was never going to marry him. It was clear to me then I’d got involved with a monster and would likely not escape.
“He’ll use that against you if we go off together,” I murmur.
“He’ll give me up to his enemies. I’d be dead in twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, god.”
George holds me tighter and trembles against me. My big, strong, ruthless brute is scared. His fear terrifies me. It means Alex is even more evil than I thought.
My brain goes into overdrive, thinking… thinking…
“I’m ashamed I was ever in love with him, but when I first got here, I was lonely. I was struggling to settle in. He was a Brit abroad like me, he seemed familiar. Like home. He had money. I didn’t have anything. I was sharing with six other girls… and I… I didn’t know better.”
“Sshh,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I’ll find something to hang around his neck, and we’ll get out of here. If you still want me?”
I turn and look at him, finding his doubt incredible. “How could I not want you? Though I hope you will give it up and never go back.”
“I swear,” he says, “on my life.”
I start opening the buttons on his shirt and kissing his neck. He immediately gets rock hard in his trousers.
“We’re going to make love. All night. Then, tomorrow, I’ll go back to him, pretend everything is okay.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice weak.
I nibble his ear as he’s undoing his belt, pulling down his zip and freeing himself. I turn to face him, straddling his body, then slide down on his perfect, full, fat cock.
Panting, I whisper, “My aunt died a couple of months ago. Alex doesn’t know. She left me a house. It’s safe. He has no idea I came into money. No idea I intend to leave. We can go there. I won’t pack a big bag. We’ll just leave.”
“Okay,” he murmurs, as I begin to grind. “Just so long as this never stops, Elena.”
“Never,” I groan. “Never.”
Ends
Read all about the wonderful author: Sarah Michelle Lynch
Enticing drama!