That night in her studio. Clay everywhere. Her body covered in mud, her skin flushed with desire. The way she’d begged me, pleaded with me, submitted to me completely.
“Fuck me, please. Fuck me hard, Mark.”
The memory sent a shiver down my spine. Finally—finally—I felt myself fully aroused.
I kept my eyes closed, kept thinking about Amelia. The way I’d smeared clay across her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. The cold stickiness of it, the filthy beauty of her covered in earth.
I thrust harder, trying to recreate that intensity with Simone.
I thought about pinning Amelia’s arms above her head, the way she’d arched beneath me. I tried to do the same with Simone, but she jerked her hands away.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Sorry, I thought—”
“Just continue.”
I thought about Amelia’s full lips, the way I’d parted them with my muddy fingers, the way she’d sucked them clean. That look in her eyes—pure devotion, pure submission, pure desire.
“Yes, sir. Sir, please. Sir please, fuck me, please.”
The memory drove me harder. I thrust into Simone with increasing intensity, desperately chasing the feeling I’d had with Amelia in that studio.
Simone’s squeaking reached a crescendo, and she let out a loud, screeching moan that was somehow both irritating and slightly arousing. She shouted something in French and her body slightly loosened. She came with a loud sound, which along with the image of Amelia’s beautiful submissive body as we made love in her clay studio, was just enough for me to come. I finished with a soft groan and we both slowly released our grasps around each other.
“Fini,” she announced breathlessly. “That was so good.”
But I wasn’t completely satisfied. The rhythm with Simone was just… not what I had expected.
Simone rolled away and reached for her cigarette case on the nightstand. The click of her lighter cut me off. Smoke filled the room immediately.
I lay there, staring at her thin bare back as she took long drags from her cigarette. With Amelia, we could go for hours. Round after round, her submissiveness feeding my dominance in an endless cycle of mutual pleasure.
This felt like a transaction that had just concluded. I started coughing again.
The taxi wound through Paris streets, the Eiffel Tower growing smaller in the distance.
I slouched in the back seat, my mind churning.
Why couldn’t I get aroused by Simone the way I thought I would? Why did I have to imagine my wife’s face just to fuck another woman?
The sexual compatibility Amelia and I had, the way we understood each other’s bodies, each other’s desires, maybe that was actually pretty rare.
Maybe I’d be more open about my fantasies with the next woman. Find someone who was into the same things.
But even as I thought it, doubt crept in.
Would anyone come close to what I already had with Amelia?
The taxi pulled up to our building. I paid the driver and trudged upstairs, exhaustion hitting me like a wave. The jet lag, the disappointing sex, the smoke I could still taste in the back of my throat—all of it weighing me down.
I opened the apartment door to deadly silence.
The living room was dark. I moved quietly through to the bedroom, and there she was—Amelia’s comforting, familiar silhouette under the covers.
Relief washed over me, so intense it almost brought tears to my eyes.
I sat on the edge of the bed, just watching her sleep. Her strawberry blonde hair spread across the pillow, her breathing deep and even. She’d kicked off most of the covers—she always got too hot at night—andI could see the curve of her hip, the softness of her body that I’d been missing all evening.
