Tragedia Decadencia

@titre : Tragedia Decadencia
@auteur : Éya Materi
@stitre : in collaboration with F. de Lancelot
@genre : erotic novel
@isbn : 978-2-9567876-2-4
@note1 : French swearing is an art, and sometime it's not translatable
@note2 : nickname of Toulouse, « Pink City »
@note3 : French cheek kiss
@note4 : Latin : the die is cast
@note5 : French term used by the narrator ; dated and offensive
@note6 : jacket
@note7 : pleated over-trousers
@note8 : wide belt
@note9 : multi-tail flogger
@note10 : monthly French social help
@note11 : gypsie word meaning outside girl. Used in French slang to talk about any girl
@note12 : hillside cable car
@note13 : western city gate
@note14 : gates
@note15 : barge-houses
@note16 : fitted skirt suit
@note17 : French slang for Arab girl

Tragedia Decadencia

# Introduction

## A few words

Hello, reader.
This is funny, because it is not my name at the top of the book.
However, I did most of the writing part. I have listened to a story and turned it into a book.
In France, this book has been sold really well. Not the best seller of the year, of course, but still, the numbers were much higher than expected.
A bit thrilled by this success, I spent 3 months translating the book in English.
So I was very surprised and disappointed when my editor told me they are not interested in publishing the English translation… I still don't understand why.
However, as I still own the rights for the translation, here I am, giving it to you for free.
You can download the .epub file on your e-reader, or you can just read the text below, as you prefer.
I hope you will enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed reading it.
F. de Lancelot.
You can download the epub here : https ://fdelancelot.com/tragedia/tragedia-decadencia.epub

# Publisher's Preface

Translated from French publication
There are works of fiction, and there are true stories.
Tragedia Decadencia stands somewhere in between.
The young Éya Materi came to our publishing house with an astonishing tale to tell. Since her French was not strong enough, I asked her to rewrite her account with the help of one of our authors, F. de Lancelot.
What began as a simple biography soon transformed into a gripping novel.
Ninety-five percent of this story is true. The names, the places, the people — they all existed. The events — yes, they all happened. Or at least, ninety-five percent of them did.
And if the ending of the book seems improbable, the reader has only to look at certain faits divers reported in Paris in the spring of 2022. The resemblance is striking.
After reading this novel, those news items will no longer seem so mysterious.

# First Part — Frustrations Unbound

## Chapter I

What would sex be without religion ? Religion is the moral weight on our shoulders, the subtle guilt that makes us climax all the harder as we transgress a forbidden line. To make love in the confessional of a church, to be taken doggy style before a crucified Christ, to cry out « Oh my God ! » or « Putain de bordel de Dieu, this feels so good !<1 »>, all of that represents the forbidden fantasy. To renounce Christ is no longer punishable by anathema in society's eyes, yet the thrill of transgression remains ; a kind of acceptable transgression.
But God is love, and if Christ watches us revel in our bodies, it is with benevolence. If the forbidden makes us scream louder, then so be it.
As for me, I was not born in France. I was born and raised in Tunisia, and if God is love, Allah is submission. The word islam means submission in Arabic. From the time I was little, I was taught modesty, to veil myself, to bend to paternal authority, to submit to the will of Allah.
But where Christ instills guilt, Allah spreads terror. In Tunisia, if I had lost my virginity outside marriage, if I had wished to explore even a little of my sexuality, it would not have been Allah's gaze that terrified me, but the blows I would have received from my father. And I am not speaking here of a few slaps or minor humiliations, but of things which even in a book about BDSM would be out of place for their violence. Pain itself never frightened me — the thought of becoming crippled did.
Do not imagine for a moment that I was a good little girl with pure thoughts. From the age of 14, perhaps even earlier, my loins were tingling.
At 15, I had already watched more pornographic films than any pimply adolescent — but wasn't I myself a pimply adolescent ?
At 16, I incited one of my classmates to lick between my thighs. She was in love with me and I had an appetite for flesh. It lasted a while, without any problem arising : no one in Tunisia would have imagined that two well-behaved young girls like us could indulge in any sort of sapphism. Yet we were careful not to push our explorations too far : to lose one's virginity to a stray finger would have been a major problem. What problem ? the readership may ask : terror. Forget this Christ-born guilt and embrace that feeling of terror — the terror that they discover I am no longer a virgin, that I be banished, stoned, or stitched back up.
After a few weeks, however, I had to admit that one essential element was missing from that relationship : a good, hard cock.
I am not much of a fan of vulgarity, but sometimes there are words that no metaphor can replace and no clinical or biological synonym can capture in evocative force. Such was the case in describing the lack I felt : I needed a good, hard cock.
Aside from a few intellectuals lost in the big cities and living in contact with the Western world, Tunisian men are coarse, macho, patriarchal, without sensitivity, expecting nothing from a woman but obedience and of course submission.
That suited me well, for it was exactly what my insides desired : a virile man, treating me like the little bitch I dreamed of being. But strangely, I felt no desire for those retrograde Tunisians. What I dreamed of, I called la sublime décadence. And if in my head I thought in Arabic, this expression resonated in French in my mind : la sublime décadence.
Like all Tunisian students, I studied French at school. I studied it without joy, the language being difficult — I preferred a hundred times over the learning of English. But I loved French culture, French history, French literature, and even more, French men.
To be perfectly honest, my fantasy was to be raped by some colonial soldier declaiming Baudelaire while abusing my body. Since the protectorate of Tunisia ended in 1956, my fantasy lagged nearly seventy years behind — and I doubted those good rank-and-file soldiers knew Baudelaire by heart.
But I was a young woman open to various opportunities, and serving as a sexual object for a racist Minister of the Interior or being taken in a gangbang by idle legionnaires would not have displeased me. — I was a young woman starved for sex, and any scenario even slightly violent or degrading was enough to arouse me.
But, as I said, I dreamed of sublime décadence. I wanted a Frenchman — a white Frenchman — elegant, educated, cultivated, who would treat me both as the queen of his harem and as the lowest of slaves. I wanted to shop in the finest boutiques of rue de Rivoli and be taken doggy style with my face pressed to the ground of the Catacombs. I wanted to live in a hôtel particulier on the Place des Vosges and offer my body to the eyes of passersby in rue Pigalle. I wanted to be both bitch and princess, and in that I was sadly ordinary.
But far from being offered jewels on Place Vendôme, I was languishing in the Tunisian backcountry.
Through the Internet, however, I was opening myself to the world. I was in contact with men of varying ages with whom, in exchange for a few nude photos, I managed to barter a Netflix subscription and a handful of ebooks. Some women build careers from a few nudes. I, at least, managed to rebuild a cultural universe in my peasant backwater, and that was already not so bad.
Had my father discovered my actions, he would have stoned me in the public square — literally — yet strangely this terror inspired by sex outside marriage did not apply to my virtual wanderings. The virtual was, by definition, not entirely real, and therefore did not quite count.
Thus I spoke of sex with Frenchmen — often in English, in fact — and I revealed my nudity for a few small gifts. To be perfectly honest, I often did it for free, for the sheer pleasure of receiving compliments, for the sole glory of making a man climax to my body.
Among all these virtual suitors, however, there was one who stood apart. His name was Marc. He was sharper, more cultivated, more imaginative in his fantasies — and above all, he was older. I am speaking here of a man of 43, imagining himself corrupting the young girl with an already quite twisted mind that I was. He spoke down to me, alternated phases of keen interest with long silences. Sometimes he spoke to me of art, music, or literature, and other times of sex, domination, submission, and all that could soothe the tingling of my loins.
At first, to me he had been nothing more than an old pervert at my feet, who at my eighteenth birthday would turn into my ticket to France. But this old pervert had wit and charm, and soon it was I who was at his feet.
I awaited impatiently the passing of weeks and months until the day of my majority, in order to take the plane and meet, and submit to, my handsome Frenchman. I say my handsome Frenchman, though all I had of him was a wretched black-and-white photo where little could be discerned. But after all, that was part of the charm of the Internet : appearance relegated to the background to let intellect and personality shine.
An astute reader will point out that behind a screen, anyone halfway clever can appear intelligent and interesting. That reader would not be wrong. — As for my intellect and personality… some will say it was mainly my photos that interested the male sex, but I do not believe so. I was very mature for my age, and even without photos, many men would have been seduced by the lively mind of a young girl, believe me.
Would I, for all that, deprive myself of the pleasure of imagining those slaves to sex climaxing over a photo of my body ? No, not for anything in the world.
But such musings of a young adolescent imprisoned in the patriarchy of an Islamic country soon grow tiresome, and so it is time I arrive at the day of my eighteenth birthday. Or rather, three months after my eighteenth birthday.
We were then approaching the autumn of 2020, and the specter of another lockdown loomed above our heads. I therefore spent a stressful summer, praying each day that the borders would not close before I could take my flight. Luckily for me, that was not the case.

## Chapter II

Officially, I was boarding for France to pursue my studies at the university of letters in Toulouse. My parents believed I would be staying in a boarding house for young girls and that my virginity would be preserved from the ardors of the Western world. In reality, pursuing my studies did not interest me at all — as if one could find any sort of profession after humanities faculty, honestly… — and since I would be hosted by Marc, my mysterious Frenchman with the dirty mind, I very much hoped to lose my virginity that very day.
When my feet touched the French soil of Toulouse airport, I felt no transcendence, no liberation. I had thought that breathing French air would open my being to new sensations, but the only thing I felt was the kind of suffocation produced by that damned mask. I liked the sensation of being hidden behind it, but it was time for me to take it off. I took a fresh breath… still no transcendence. At least I was no longer in Tunisia ; that was something.
As I advanced through the corridors of the airport, having my visa checked, collecting my suitcases, anxiety began to rise : I was finally going to meet Marc. What would he think of me ? Flirting with a girl on the Internet was one thing, but seeing her in real life… Would I disappoint him ? Would he find me too fat ? too short ? simply not to his taste ?
I was far from being a model. I was rather small and, without being fat, I had richly endowed buttocks and breasts, far from the thin male fantasies. As for my hair with its wild curls, I straightened it so much that it fell sadly on either side of my face — a rather ordinary face. Surely, on seeing me, he would lose all attraction and leave me alone in the airport, pretending not to have seen me. I was on the verge of putting my mask back on.
I was dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a tank top far too low-cut for my taste. A shawl covered my shoulders and I almost wanted to wrap it around my head as a veil. This makeshift hijab would have protected me from the gaze of the outside world. It was terrible : I was trying to be feminine with my poor four-centimeter heels, but I rather looked like a cripple leaving her wheelchair for the first time. I wanted to cry. This anxiety about displeasing soon turned into a panic attack. I approached the exit, praying that Marc would not be there, that the world around me would disappear, and that I could fall to my knees, hide my face in my hands, and cry in a corner.
Suddenly, a hand rested on my shoulder and a trembling, nasal voice was heard :
« Éya ? You look lovely. » I lifted my eyes and recognized Marc. I threw myself against him and began crying on his chest. Of course, he did not understand my reaction, but he held me against him, perhaps a little awkwardly, and tried to stroke my hair to console me. It was the first time I had such physical contact with a man, but I was too stressed to really abandon myself in his arms. I stepped back a few steps and observed the one who had obsessed me for nearly two years.
He had no charisma, no presence, even his smile was that of a simpleton. A receding hairline devoured his skull and his badly cut T-shirt clung to his paunch. He tried to give himself the posture of a male, but I was convinced that if I had asked him to follow me on all fours, he would have done it. I had been on French soil for less than half an hour and I was already certain of one thing : this tasteless man would not have my virginity. Worse still : no Frenchman would have it ; this people had nothing left of the glorious conquering colonialists, they reeked of defeat.

In the middle of the airport hall, a kind of tacit unease settled between Marc and me. I stood almost a meter away from him, staring at him half-horrified, and he, somewhat disconcerted, let long seconds pass before finding something to say :
« You are very beautiful, Éya, I am extremely happy to finally meet you.
— You are very ugly, Marc, without charm or charisma, and I am extremely disappointed by our meeting. Shave the hair from your ears and we might eventually talk. » Of course, I did not say this aloud, I merely thought it. And as I sensed he was about to propose that we go to his place, I tried to take the lead :
« It is my first time in France, will you show me around the city a bit ?
— Oh, I thought you might first want to drop your things off at my place.
— No, my suitcase is light, and since you are gallant, you can carry it. Let's rather take a walk in the city, I insisted.
— Your wishes are my commands, Éya », he replied with a docility that made my hair stand on end. But I was not going to slap a man in my very first hour on French soil ; that would have been a little excessive. I resigned myself to follow this weakling who served as my guide. How I would manage to escape this oddball, I did not yet know. Returning to Tunis was one option I considered, but the idea of going back to that filthy country was even more unpleasant than Marc's company. After all, was this not my initial wish ? To find some docile pigeon to welcome me to France and rid myself of him at the first opportunity. — I only had to wait for that opportunity.
We therefore took the tramway out of the airport, planning to get off at the Arènes station. I liked that name ; I imagined some valiant Roman gladiator dripping with the blood of the beasts he had just fought. Ah ! Why did I have with me a miserable accountant and not a mighty Roman gladiator ? My loins tingled so much that I could have slept with anyone in that tramway — anyone except Marc. I did notice, however, a strong Arab presence in the carriage. Strange, one could almost believe oneself in the middle of Tunis…
Elegance would have dictated that he take a taxi to the center. But elegance did not seem part of his aptitudes.
It was rush hour and the tram was crowded. We were pressed against each other and odors reminding me of the slums of my native country exhaled through the compartment. Marc took advantage of this closeness and grabbed my buttocks with one hand. No one could see anything since we were crushed in this cattle wagon. He brought his lips near mine to kiss me, but as I turned my head, he buried his nose in my hair and kissed my neck. The initial disgust that had inhabited me gave way to a strange excitement. There we were, in full view of everyone, entwined like an incestuous couple, he playing the father, I the abused daughter. I felt his hand slip between my buttocks to find my sex. His gesture was clumsy, but this will to take possession of me seduced me. When he tried again to kiss me, I let him. I was his sexual object and I liked it.
A man near us coughed and at once Marc returned to his role of submissive accountant. He straightened up, removed his hand from my buttocks, and timidly placed it on my hip. He did not even dare meet my gaze and tried to fill the silence by telling me various anecdotes about the city. I had just lived my first kiss, been touched for the first time by a man, and had my first voyeuristic experience — at least I experienced it as such.
In Tunisia, modesty in public goes without saying. No one would imagine behaving as we had just done. I felt a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and excitement. Had Marc proposed at that moment that we go to his place, I might have said yes. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to his phone, searching for some tourist attraction to show me.
We therefore got off at Arènes station. The place, far from Roman ruins, was a kind of square with concrete steps topped by a retro-futuristic building with Soviet overtones. What diseased mind of an architect could have conceived such a work, I do not know, but I found the place particularly oppressive and the last traces of sexual emotion disappeared from my mind. Marc stopped in the middle of this sinister square and proposed we meet a friend of his, in town. The idea of spending the afternoon with two forty-something French accountants did not excite me, but it was still better than being alone with this awkward man. I therefore accepted, and we went down into the Toulouse metro, ready at last to reach the city center.
I put my mask back on and Marc did the same. One now saw nothing of him but his half-bald skull. I was ashamed to walk at his side… but I tried to forget it to focus on discovering this new world that was France.
We sat right in front and I watched the tunnel unfold before me. For the average passerby, it was the most banal experience imaginable, but for me, poor country girl from the Maghreb, it was something rather pleasing. I almost found a certain cheer in it, a new enthusiasm that brought back my smile. Marc stood behind me, his arms around my waist, while I imagined myself driving this driverless metro with an imaginary steering wheel. Had I been a little whiter and Marc a little more handsome, we could almost have recreated a scene from Titanic.
We got off at Jean-Jaurès station. The name rang a bell, I must surely have learned it in my French classes, but I had to admit I did not care in the least who that good man was. I had just driven a metro in a French city ; I was not yet the queen of the world, but close enough.

We walked hand in hand, like two lovers, through the streets of the Ville rose<2>. I was amazed by these bricks that were more a dirty orange than anything else, and I asked a thousand questions about every building we passed. Marc was often quite incapable of answering precisely, but he had a certain talent for finding vague enough answers to give the impression he knew what he was talking about. In truth, I asked questions without listening to the answers. My mind was wandering and my eyes distracted at every new meter traveled. At the airport, facing Marc, I had been seized by a feeling of disgust toward France. I now had to reconsider that somewhat hasty judgment : this country was in fact rather cool.

## Chapter III

After a brief half hourwandering the streets of Toulouse, we came upon a bar whose French name escapes me. In my defense, I still spoke the language very poorly at that time, and most of my exchanges with Marc were still in English.
Be that as it may, Marc opened the door and motioned me in, a gesture meant to be gallant yet in truth rather clumsy. Everything about this man felt fake, but I did not care ; I had just set foot in a bar with steampunk décor that was downright fascinating, all copper pipes and oversized gears.
At the back of the bar I saw a man alone with his beer. He was a real rocker. Dressed all in black, unruly hair, tattoos peeking from his clothes. His gaze, lost in the void, was deep and cold. I was certain that when he was not playing guitar with his rock band he must work as a hitman for the local mafia. I had just stepped into a seedy bar and I was excited as never before.
But that was only the first surprise : the mysterious tattooed hitman turned his head toward us, his face lit up with a predatory smile, and he gave us a wave. I shot an inquisitive look at Marc, who informed me that this man dressed all in black was Samson, his friend.
I was going crazy. I had just driven the metro, and now I was about to meet a rock star.
We sat at Samson's table. Marc had ordered me a pint of pale lager. It was the first time I drank alcohol and I did not like it. But I would not for anything in the world have wanted to come off as a softie in Samson's eyes.
The readership will note how easily I recreate the world in my head : I drive metros, I meet rock-star hitmen, and the simple name of the metro station « Arènes » projects me straight into ancient Rome. Well, as for Samson, I was not entirely wrong. He was not a hitman, of course, but he had indeed been a musician in a metal band. Not a guitarist, but a drummer — which was even better.
I can be forgiven ; I had only just turned 18. But let us be honest : I was literally fascinated by Samson. For a few months he had filled in for the drummer of a fairly well-known band, Aorasie, who had ended up in a psychiatric hospital. Given music like that, it was hardly surprising the poor man wound up in the asylum. But no matter ; I was facing a star.
I was fascinated, yet in fact I took little part in the men's conversation. Truth be told, I did not understand a quarter of it ; my French was far too rudimentary. But that mattered little. I devoured Samson with my eyes. I admired his voice, calm and deep, his body language, his natural charisma, and I wondered what I was doing with Marc. If any man at that table was meant to take my virginity, it had to be Samson. Common sense would have had him dismiss Marc, tear off my clothes, bury his head in my breasts, and take me there on the bar table, heedless of the patrons, heedless of my pleasure, caring only to take possession of my virginity. The bar's speakers were playing Rape Me by Nirvana. « Rape me ! » I wanted to shout to Samson. Of course I did nothing of the sort, and as the evening drew to a close, we parted ways. My tattooed rocker had paid me little attention, and when he gave me la bise<3> to say goodbye, it was with coldness.
Since Marc lived in the center, we walked back on foot, still hand in hand.
It was late, I was exhausted, and my shoes hurt my feet, so once we reached his place, we very quickly went to bed. After a few minutes of hesitating off to his side, he came closer, took me in his arms, tried to kiss me, then to caress my body. He took off his clothes, then mine. Did my kid's pajamas not please him ? I felt no desire for him, but what could I do ? I let him touch me, kiss my breasts, my belly, my thighs, between my legs… This man repulsed me, but thank God the light was off, and my fertile imagination projected Samson's image in my mind.
At one point, he entered me. It was painful, but bearable. He moved over me and soon stopped, apparently satisfied. At least it was brief. He disposed of the condom and took me in his arms, overwrought with passion. I tried to remain stone-faced. If I let my emotions swamp me, God knows what might have followed. Revulsion ? Disgust ? Tears ?
I lay there for hours, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Marc's flaccid body against me. Had I known a first sexual experience could be so miserable, I would have given my virginity to some classmate when I was fourteen. At least it would have been done, and it would have stopped obsessing me. If my imagination was so fertile, it was probably because reality was far too disappointing.

## Chapter IV

Feminists who think that happiness requires a dazzling career, a debauched sex life, and activities that highlight their masculine side are mistaken. All that brings only frustration and prescriptions for antidepressants. Making a woman happy is in reality something much simpler : one must behave like a man with her, give her attention, and of course a few orgasms. Fancy cars, big houses, overpriced jewelry, romantic evenings — none of that will ever equal the presence of a male, his attention, and a few well-placed thrusts.
With Marc, I had attention, a thousand times too much attention. It became unbearable. And I am not speaking here of a relationship of three or four years starting to sink, I am speaking of our very first week. As a lover I had a pet who didn't know what to do with a woman's body. I had thought I was meeting a pervert fantasizing about younger girls ; in reality, I faced only a man so lacking in confidence in his abilities that he avoided seasoned women. It wasn't the purity of my virginity that interested him, it was my lack of experience.
If our first time had been disastrous, the times after weren't much better. But since I now knew what to expect, I could anticipate it, and from unpleasant the sex became vaguely bearable.
As I said : a male, attention, orgasms. In place of orgasms, I had « vaguely bearable », and instead of a male, I had a mop. Only the attention remained. But it was much, much too much attention.
I despised this man. — Alas, I was not cruel enough to make him suffer.
For almost two years, I had been obsessed with Marc. Marc, the handsome Frenchman, Marc the intellectual, Marc the man of experience, Marc the white man, the too-old man, the non-Muslim man — in short, the very embodiment of the forbidden. In his arms I should have screamed so loud that the walls trembled, but the only sounds I made were groans of discomfort.
What could I complain about ? I wanted to be treated like a sex object, he treated me like a sex object from the very first night. I wanted to be treated like a princess, he treated me every day like a princess. All I had to do was demand something — a dress, a dish, a book, anything — and I obtained it. If I had been more experienced and more Machiavellian, I could have stripped this poor man bare.
Marc had few friends, and so in one week we went down three times to the nicely decorated bar, each time to meet Samson there.
They spoke as men, in French, without much concern for me. And it annoyed me. I had caught Samson's eyes on my breasts more than once, and when I stood up from the table I felt his gaze on my backside. He wanted me, I was sure of it, but he ignored me superbly. No, it wasn't just annoying, it was more than that — it was perfectly unbearable.
I needed a plan, I needed to do something that would make him react, something that would make him want me.
On the third evening, I decided to dress in a neckline so plunging and tight that it wasn't a pair of breasts I had anymore, but two big juicy watermelons ready to burst.
I spent an eternity in the bathroom putting on makeup. French girls have a gift for knowing how to make themselves up with restraint, elegance, art, and subtlety — I did not have that gift. My cheeks were too pink, my eyes too black, my foundation too smooth. Between my face and my breasts, the message I was sending was perfectly clear : « Samson, take me on this table, now ! »
That evening Marc was especially receptive to my charms — he kissed me and caressed me like never before — but Samson kept his cold and distant air. He must have seen so many other girls before me, more beautiful, with more assurance and know-how. He must have laughed at me.
After two pints of beer, Marc stood up to go to the restroom, leaving me alone with Samson. He stared at me — I had the feeling it was the first time he looked higher than my chest — and after a few intense seconds he remarked :
« You are quite an attractive girl.
— Thank you… » I replied timidly. He had taken the trouble to translate his sentence into English so that I understood it. I wanted to stand up, sit on his lap, and kiss him. Right then, without any further preamble. Of course, I didn't. But I was fighting with myself, against my fear of rejection, against propriety, against my desire that was devouring my insides — I was fighting against everything it was possible to fight.
As Marc returned, Samson got up to go to the restroom in his turn. Without thinking, I did the same and followed him.
I waited outside the door until he came out, but instead of letting him pass, I shoved that mountain of muscles back inside the restroom and shut the door behind us. He looked at me, startled. Clearly, he wasn't used to being shoved. I took advantage of this moment of hesitation to kiss him. It was a greedy and clumsy kiss, that of a young girl consumed by desire and, for the first time in her life, acting, taking the initiative, letting her inner madness spill out.
Samson put his hands on my hips and played along. So this was what a real kiss felt like… a masculine presence, an exchange at once carnal and mystical, the body trembling, the mind racing so much that it stopped functioning — forgetting oneself, forgetting the world, forgetting, simply.
To kiss him, I was on tiptoe. When my heels touched the ground again and our lips parted, he brusquely, without delicacy, made me kneel. I felt the damp and cold tile of the filthy restroom floor, and my brain refused to imagine what odorous liquid now soaked into my knees.
I looked up at him from below as he unbuckled his belt. I was afraid. It was strange, because I wanted to be there, I had provoked this situation, but being thus on my knees, at the mercy of a male, I was afraid.
He pulled out a sex that seemed as big as an arm. Of course, that was an exaggeration, and if Allah had granted Samson a very respectable member, we were still within human proportions. This still-soft cock was at the level of my eyes, and I wasn't sure I understood what to do with it — I had been a virgin only a week earlier.
Samson placed one hand on my neck and with the other guided the organ toward my mouth, punctuating the gesture with a « Allez, suce ! »
So I encircled his virility with my lips, and it turned into a glorious mast — hard and rigid like wood. With one hand I stroked the shaft, and with the tip of my lips I sucked Samson's glans clumsily. Very quickly he grew annoyed, pulled his sex from my mouth, and slapped me violently :
« Putain, where did you learn to suck, little bitch ! » He then took my face in both hands and shoved his cock so deep into my throat that I thought I would choke. He used me then as a masturbatory object. With his strong hands he moved my head back and forth, and with his pelvis he thrust so that his cock slammed against the back of my throat. I kept my mouth wide open and felt a mix of saliva and seminal fluid stream down my chin. The floor was sticky, my face was just as sticky, my hair was fouled with the seepage from my mouth — I felt dirty, objectified — I was on the verge of a mental orgasm.
Samson let out a low, almost inaudible groan, and I felt pour into my mouth what I guessed was a discharge of semen. I did not wish to swallow this offering, but he held my head so firmly and his cock so deeply thrust that I had no real choice. I swallowed the wrong way and began to cough. I managed to free myself from Samson's grip and found myself on all fours, my hands in the dampness of the tiles, spitting and struggling to catch my breath.
Meanwhile, my lover of a minute pulled up his pants, washed his hands in the sink, and left the restroom, abandoning me to my fate as a little bitch wallowing in the muck.

When I rejoined the two men at their table, I felt like the whole room was staring at me. Probably no one had paid attention to who had gone in or out of the restroom, but I couldn't help but think that, despite my quick wash at the sink, everyone could still see the stain marking me. I felt like a foul aura of sex radiated from me. I was ready to swear before Allah that I would wear the veil for the rest of my days if only I could disappear from people's eyes. But I had no veil on me, and people were too busy with their drinks and conversations to watch whether I would vanish.
I sat at the table, head down, not daring to look at anyone. I had come to France to be a little slut, and I had become the queen of whores.
Marc took my chin in his hand to force me to raise my head and meet his eyes. By this simple gesture, he disgusted me, and all my shame turned into hatred for him. As my gaze hardened, he asked me :
« Everything all right, Éya ? You seem upset.
— Everything's just fine, thank you. I just sucked Samson off in the bathroom, his cock is twice the size of yours. » I had said that only to wound him, but it was nothing more than the sad truth. He looked at me, dumbfounded, unwilling to believe what was obvious : what else would we have done, locked together in the restroom ? The ability this man had to lie to himself was impressive. He removed his hand from my chin, as if repulsed by the bitch I was, and turned his gaze to Samson, who wore a small satisfied smile :
« Is it true what she says, Samson ?
— Man, we've known each other for almost ten years. You know very well that if I get the chance to fuck a pretty girl, I take it, whether she's a nun, the Prime Minister's daughter, my best friend's wife, or a prostitute with syphilis. And don't pull that shocked face, I'm sure it turns you on that I fucked your girlfriend. You've been gorging on porn since you were a teenager, and every time we cross paths with a girl, you push me to go talk to her because you know you won't dare yourself — you live through me. So yeah, good for you, you found yourself a nice chick and you managed to screw her, but honestly, we both know that's not what really gets you off. What would really excite you would be watching me take her doggy-style right in front of you, while you jerk off like a teenager in the corner of the room. » I was left speechless by this answer. How could he talk to his friend like that ? Marc seemed even more unsettled than me, as if Samson had just revealed a truth he refused to admit. And I, poor eighteen-year-old girl barely deflowered, found myself caught between the two. But Samson's idea was not, to be honest, displeasing… Him taking me doggy-style under the frustrated gaze of this miserable Marc. That was sex, that was debauchery… That was France as I dreamed it. That was sublime décadence…

That evening at the bar naturally led to a long conversation with Marc. Apparently, it wasn't done to blow the friends of the man you're in a relationship with. Oh really ? Too bad.
If only Marc had gotten angry, if he had hit me in rage, spat on me, dragged me across the floor by my hair, if he had let his masculinity out, maybe I would have had some respect for him. I might have hated him, I might even have left him after such an outburst of violence, but at least I would have had a little respect for that runt.
Instead, Marc wanted to talk, to express his emotions. He explained to me that I had disappointed him, that he felt betrayed by Samson, and other banalities of the sort. < Yes, brother, your chick sucked your buddy in the shitter five meters away from you, of course it's not fun.>
While he talked — while he whined — I couldn't get Samson out of my mind, taking me doggy-style. Just the sensation of his hands forcing my head to suck him was already powerful. But feeling him grip my hips firmly and pound me like a bull in rut… I almost forgot Marc's presence. He went on talking, but I no longer listened — I wanted a man, not a crybaby.
Annoyed, my mind snapped. Things couldn't go on like this. I had seized the reins of my destiny by leaving Tunisia, I had to take my life in hand in France too. My French was still rudimentary, but in a week I had already progressed a lot, and so it was quite easy for me to formulate my desires properly :
« Marc. Get on your knees and lick my shoes.
— What are you talking about, Éya ? You just cheated on me with my best friend, I'm not in the mood for that.
— I cheated on you with your only friend, and it turned you on, weld elgahba. So stop crying, get on your knees and lick my feet. » I remembered Samson making me kneel before him without saying a single word. I was far from having his charisma…
That said, faced with my severe gaze, my fists firmly on my hips, and the inflexibility of my look, Marc gave in and crawled on all fours before me. He kissed lightly the tips of my boots covered with a fine layer of urban dust. « Lick ! » I screamed, exasperated. I was this close to smashing his nose with the point of my shoe. I didn't know such rage slept in me… but I liked it. I felt powerful, I felt woman. I almost felt that, in this way, our relationship might have worked. That was of course utterly false, but for a moment, I believed it.
My little Marc obeyed. He licked dutifully my black boots that an hour earlier had trodden the piss-stained floor of the bar restroom. This man truly had no honor, he might as well have been English…
In fact, Marc was indeed English. Both his parents were Londoners, but their son, having been born and raised in France, liked to think of himself as French. Seeing him thus on all fours, half choking while swallowing the dust of my boots, confirmed for me that British blood ran in his veins.

## Chapter V

After that night, our relationship changed completely. I turned this well-meaning but overattentive boy into a perfect submissive. Deep down he already was, but he refused to admit it. I merely had to reveal his true nature. As for me, my true nature was not that of a dominatrix. Of course I felt a certain elation in making this servile dog crawl, but nothing truly sexual. Thus, narrating the continuation of my story with Marc would be of little interest. The readership will have guessed : the one who truly awakened my primal, bestial instincts, the one who exalted my most unbridled sexual impulses, was of course Samson.
The key moment, the turning point when little Éya passed from Marc's servile hands to Samson's implacable yoke, came one November evening.
Samson, defying the lockdown then in force at the end of 2020, had come to our place to help Marc solve some plumbing problem — and though I had lived in that apartment nearly three months, I had no idea what this plumbing problem was… Apparently it was in the bathroom, but I did not care then and I care no more today.
As some seal was missing to repair what needed repair, Marc had to leave to buy one, leaving me alone with Samson. It was amusing to know that hardware stores counted as essential businesses. Before leaving, he added a touch of humor :
« Don't go sleeping together while I'm gone, eh ? » The trembling tone of his voice revealed it was not really humor at all. Poor boy.
Hardly had the door slammed shut when Samson rose. He looked me up and down, then down and up again, and allowed himself to comment :
« You're not badly built. I'm used to girls a bit leaner, but you're not badly built. I suppose Marc isn't much the type to know how to make a girl come, is he ?
— Uh, I don't know…
— Yeah, just as I thought. We'll fix that. » And he came up to kiss me without waiting for any answer or gesture of consent. I had neither the reflex nor the will to push him away. In fact I was surprised such a man found me desirable. As he had just said, he was used to girls with model figures. I was far from that.
But evidently his previous conquests did not have breasts like mine. He lingered on them like some old Japanese pervert. Very quickly he stripped off my clothes and began touching me, kissing me all over. I did not really understand what was happening. We were in Marc's apartment, Marc, Samson's best friend, who had literally asked us three minutes earlier not to sleep together.
Yet to feel those virile, expert hands on me gave me an immense desire to do just that. Why hadn't it been Samson who waited for me at the airport ? Why hadn't it been Samson who offered to host me ? Why hadn't it been Samson who took my virginity ?
Desire gave me courage, and without asking, I tried to remove Samson's T-shirt. But between his giant's stature and his broad shoulders, my attempt was clumsy, and he undressed himself. I laid my hands on his chest and traced the lines of his muscles with my fingers.
He had many occult tattoos across his body whose symbolism I did not know, but the mystical aura of that bare torso was more than enough for me.
Suddenly he pushed me, sending me flying onto the sofa. He loosened his belt and came toward me. With clumsy hands I lowered his trousers and freed his cock, already nearly erect. Not wishing to disappoint him, I devoured it more than reason, with no restraint or delicacy. He grabbed me by the hair and insulted me in French words I did not understand. What could be more exciting than being insulted in French ?
I felt his hands roaming over my upper body. He stroked my back, kneaded my breasts, caressed my face.
For my part, I was seized by frenzy. I felt carnivorous. I sucked him vigorously. With one hand I attended to his testicles, with the other I worked his shaft as if my life depended on it. I lacked experience but made up for it with a will to please. I pushed him deep, deep into my throat. I ignored the cramps threatening my arms, drooled like a slug, licked, sucked, moved with a greedy mouth, ignoring fatigue and pain — I nearly forgot to breathe.
At last, after minutes that seemed both seconds and hours, Samson pushed me away violently. In a few gestures he removed his shoes and trousers and knelt before the sofa already soiled by my saliva. He plunged his face between my legs and devoured my pussy like an alligator swallowing a gazelle. It was violent, passionate, yet strangely controlled. When his fingers entered me, I was already open and wet like an oyster at high tide.
After a first clitoral orgasm, his face came back up to mine and he kissed me full on the mouth. Tasting my own juices was an oddly exciting experience. But soon the kisses gave way to bestiality. He flipped me easily onto my belly, seized me by the waist and lifted me onto all fours. There he penetrated me violently. I was so aroused I felt nothing but immense pleasure. I felt this animal taking possession of my body. I felt his powerful hands on my hips, his cock hard as rock driving deep into me, his pelvis slamming me, his rhythm accelerating without end.
Very quickly, my fine stallion came inside me and I collapsed on the sofa, a little stunned.
Samson dressed quickly while I headed to the shower, but since my two Sunday handymen had dismantled the plumbing, I could do nothing…
I took a towel instead and wiped off as best I could the love's liquor that stained me.
As I dressed again, I thought back on what I had just lived. In a few minutes I had felt more pleasure and excitement with Samson than in two months with Marc. What was I doing here, with that pathetic man, that bargain-bin accountant who fancied himself a man ?
The words left my mouth before I was even aware of them :
« Samson, tonight I'm going home with you, all right ? » Just then we heard Marc climbing the stairs. Samson looked at me but did not reply. When Marc opened the door, he smiled broadly at him, as if nothing had happened, and inspected the seal he had bought. Samson was the male ; he alone could know whether the seal was right or not.
They spent another good half-hour wrestling with the plumbing, then Samson gathered his things to leave. He saluted us, laid a hand on the door, opened it and stepped across the threshold. I took a deep breath and called out to him :
« Wait for me, I'm coming. Just let me pack my suitcase.
— I'll wait downstairs, » he answered, and he went out. Marc looked at me, dumbstruck.

## Chapter VI

At that very moment, I stood at a crossroads in my new life : if I really packed my suitcase to follow Samson, my relationship with Marc was over. But I had to admit that mattered little to me. If I left him there, alone in his shabby apartment, abandoning him to join his best friend, it would be unforgivable. Even he, the Englishman who left his girlfriend alone with a professional screw, even he had enough honor not to take me back if I left. Or not. But at that moment, I was convinced he would not.
On the other hand, I had no guarantee that Samson would actually wait for me downstairs. To him I had never been anything but a mere sexual object, a girl with no respect for herself, who was unfaithful. I was anything but trustworthy ; why would he have waited for me ? And if he was not down there by his car ready to take me with him, I would find myself alone and out on the street in a country foreign to me. To leave like that without looking back was anything but trivial.
My suitcase finished, I remained a long while with my hand on the door handle. Crossing its threshold was like crossing the Rubicon : no going back.
Marc's muffled whimpers decided me : I turned the handle, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door behind me. Alea jacta est, as they say.
I went down the stairs slowly, to delay as long as possible the moment I would discover that Samson had already left. It was completely stupid, since if he was still downstairs I needed to hurry before he lost patience and went away. But no, I simpered, I zigzagged, I dawdled.
After descending three floors, step by step, I finally reached the sidewalk. Samson was there. — He was there. I stood dumb, speechless, motionless. This man who could have any girl had stayed for me, the awkward little Tunisian.
Without a word, he took the suitcase from my hands and set off. I followed him, silent, to his car. Marc did not have that, a car.
I thought he would load my bags into the trunk in silence, make me get into the vehicle and take me to his secret lair without a word, but no. He set the suitcase on the ground, leaned against the bodywork, looked at me for a moment, then said :
« Are you sure about this ? Are you certain you want to abandon that good Marc who's ready to cut his balls off for you ? With me, it will not be the same tune. I have a very high level of demand toward the women who enter my life. You've got a nice ass, a fine pair of breasts, long hair, and a little Arab mug that's not unpleasant, but that won't be enough to satisfy me. I'll need everything else. Obedience, self-denial, submission, servitude, femininity, softness, impeccable appearance. You will no longer exist for yourself, but for me. You came to France to discover freedom. You'd had enough of those poor Muslims so eaten up by their religion that they lose all common sense, but by following me your freedoms will be even more restricted. Are you really ready for that ? There is still time for you to turn back and run that poor Marc ragged. I'll always be there to wreck your ass from time to time. »
I stayed silent before this speech. My French was far too rudimentary and I had understood nothing of what he was saying. Abandon Marc to listen to music ; let me know I had an unpleasant mug, but nice breasts to compensate ; no more religion and get my ass wrecked. That was about all I thought I had understood. Not knowing what to say, to be safe, I answered : « Yes. »
He invited me into his car and we drove for a short twenty minutes. Samson was what one might call a man of few words. If there was nothing to say, he said nothing. The notions of « awkward silence » or « making small talk » were perfectly foreign to him. But since I was a little intimidated by this man who had taken me doggy style barely an hour earlier, that silence, filled only by the engine's growl, suited me perfectly. It let me think.
I had left Tunisia because that country could offer me no future. There, my only option would have been to find a decent husband, use my two big udders to feed my numerous offspring, and accept that doing the cleaning and cooking for my family could be the pinnacle of fulfillment.
But what I wanted was to see the world, to see cocks parade by — ideally white men's cocks — to revel in my body, to climax, yes, to climax and make others climax. Yet all I managed to do was flee one man's yoke to put myself under another's. I would have liked to be independent, to be rich and need no one, except a virile member to make me come. To make me come, for God's sake !
That little episode of Samson taking me doggy style was not enough. I wanted more. In the span of an hour I had become ravenous for sex, a nymphomaniac in the making. I was inches from slipping my hand between my legs and touching myself ; inches from leaning over the driver and drawing out his fluids, sucking him like the little bitch I was ; inches from forcing him to pull over and climbing on him, pressing my big breasts into his face to feel his beard irritate my skin, to feel his breath on me, to feel his sex in me, to feel alive, to feel like a woman.
The car slowed to enter an underground garage. That snapped me completely out of my thoughts. I could not stand this frustration any longer. As soon as I reached a semblance of arousal, I was yanked from my dreams back to a frustrating reality.
After Samson parked, I got out of the car, walked around it, and as he shut his door I looked him straight in the eyes and said in Arabic : « Yumaris aljins maei ! »
The most fitting translation would be : « Fuck it ! Wreck me on the hood, you motherfucking bastard ! » A more literal translation would be « Have sex with me ! » Samson needed no translation. Perhaps it was my tone or my look, I do not know, but undeniably he understood. His gaze changed in an instant, and his face, under the diaphanous light of the underground parking, appeared horrific to me. I was facing a monster, a sex demon ready to tear me in two with his penis. Finally… it was happening. Finally.
With one hand he seized me by the throat, squeezing just enough to make me feel powerless. He slammed me back onto the hood of the car and, in an aggressive voice, insulted me in French. I recognized the words petite salope, but the rest was only a long chain of French sounds that excited me to the highest degree. He slid his knee between my legs and forced his way to my little pussy already streaming. He bore down on me with all his weight. I was dealing with a man, a real one, a male. He kissed me as a puma would seize prey. Then he tore my clothes — my pretty clothes — to free my chest and devoured my breasts like a starving man. I think he hurt me a little, but pain was a very blurry sensation at that instant. He slid one hand over my panties and stimulated me without gentleness. He was not there to fuss with details. Very quickly he pulled those panties aside and buried two fingers in my intimacy. Startled, I pushed him away with my hands. He slapped me, grabbed me by the wrists, and went back to rummaging between my legs. Two fingers, then three ; again two ; then one slap, two slaps, three slaps. In any other circumstance I would have taken that as a terrible affront, but here I wanted to shout : « Go on, hit me harder ! Show me you are a man ! » But I needed shout nothing at all ; he knew how to be a man. He squeezed my breasts, reveled in them, kissed me again, and his hand went back down to penetrate me. There were fingers to no end. Suddenly he turned me over and pressed my face flat to the hood of the car. His fingers were so slick with my wetness that when he entered my ass, his middle finger slid in by itself. He began a slow in-and-out, giving me new sensations, quite different from vaginal penetration, but not necessarily unpleasant. I felt him ready to insert a second finger, but the garage's sliding door activated. Someone was arriving…
Samson let out a frustrated « Putain ! », pulled out his finger, and yanked me up by the hair to make me stand. He went to the trunk to retrieve my suitcase while I tried as best I could to tuck my swinging breasts back into my torn clothes. He closed the trunk, took me by the arm, and pulled me toward the stairs. The building looked recent ; there was surely an elevator, but Samson must have wanted to avoid running into people.
He made me climb four floors like that, dragging me by the arm while I, clumsy, nearly twisted my ankle more than once : I decidedly did not know how to walk in heels.

Samson opened his door, giving me a view of his apartment's interior. The décor surprised me. It was a mix of new and old, of classy and rock 'n' roll : gray walls, dark wood furniture, painters' canvases and concert posters, chandeliers everywhere, and a bathroom tiled entirely in black. It was bold, atypical, yet surprisingly tasteful. In any case it was far removed from the Turkish sofas and rugs of my family home. — This was France : classicism mixed with modernity. At least, that was the idea of France I liked to have.
When he brought me into his bedroom, I was unsettled. There was a large canopy bed whose curtains were a deep black. The sheets were black as well. It gave the impression of a kind of war drapery for a prince of darkness. The posts of the bed were very thick, made of metal, and I could make out rings and carabiners fixed to the frame. It was in fact a structure meant to tie up or suspend some young lady come to lose herself in this lair — some young lady like me…
Facing the bed stood a large wardrobe whose doors served as mirrors across their entire surface. I could not help saying to myself inwardly : < Please, Samson, take me doggy style in front of this mirror >. The readership will not doubt that that moment would come very soon.
Leaning against one wall was a long, long dresser with many drawers. These, I would discover later, were filled with women's clothes as indecent as could be, along with sex toys.
Hanging on the wall was a whole collection of crops, floggers, and various other implements of torture.
On the dresser stood a collection of dildos, arranged by size. The first were small and cute ; the last were perfectly inhuman. I could not help thinking : < Samson, I have a big ass but a small hole, be merciful >. I smiled at my own foolishness and even let out a little snort.
Samson slid open the wardrobe door. Behind it was a single mattress on a bed base, itself resting on the floor. He grabbed sheets and a towel from a high shelf and tossed them to me : « Here, make your bed and go wash. »
I obeyed without protest. I had imagined we would spend the night together, side by side, but apparently Samson was already prepared for this kind of situation : a bed in a closet… What sort of person had I followed blindly that night ? I must have been a little mad… But that, the readership had most certainly already guessed. Only I did not know I was mad… and even then, I had some inkling of it.
Out of the shower, I settled into my closet-bed. There was a big, comfortable pillow, so I could prop myself up to sit. I even found an outlet to plug in my phone. Not knowing quite how to dress to please my host, I had put on a very light red slip, without telling him it was a gift from Marc. Checking my phone, all alone in the dark, in my closet, I found twenty-three missed calls from Marc. Twenty-three. What a yapping little lapdog… I had done well to leave. That said, I felt a little guilty for having abandoned the man who had taken me in.
I did not, however, have the courage to call him. I left him a simple message :

Hi, I'm fine. I'm at Samson's. Sorry for leaving like that. I'm not coming back.

Obviously he called me at once. I did not pick up. He wrote me about fifteen messages, flooded my voicemail, so much so that to have peace I had no choice but to block him on my phone.
To change my mind, I watched a few stupid videos that made me laugh.
About two hours later, Samson came back into the bedroom and settled into his bed. He was completely naked. I stared, open-mouthed. He patted the mattress with one hand and, with a nod, invited me to join him — which I did. He stopped me at the edge of the bed :
« No clothes for sleeping, young lady. » So I let my slip glide down my body. I tried to be sensual, without much success. No matter ; I was going to share Samson's bed.
Since he was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, I nestled against him, my head on his chest.
He placed a kiss on the top of my head, then, with a pressure on my shoulders, made me understand it was time for me to get to work. I slid down toward the foot of the bed and placed a few kisses on his still-dormant sex. I kissed his belly, lingered at his navel, caressed his legs, and handled his balls with delicacy. My face moved lower and I began licking his sex, which slowly awakened. I planted my tongue where his phallus begins under his testicles and drew it up slowly along his shaft, which hardened a little more with every lap. The first time I had taken him in my mouth, he had slapped me I was so clumsy. I was certainly not yet an expert, but since then I had studied the subject abundantly : anatomical studies, porn viewings, online tutorials, and hands-on practice with Marc.
A seasoned amateur, I therefore raised the tension slowly. Samson's sex was now hard as reinforced concrete and wet like a nymphomaniac's pussy — wet like my own pussy. It was so exciting to hear him moan with pleasure and frustration. He would have liked me to gulp his asparagus at once, but it was that waiting that heightened his desire. The teasing tongue, the caressing hands, the insistent kisses, the viscous spit… I think it was the first time Samson got spat on his dick, so surprised did he seem by the act. Surprised, but not displeased. Pushed to the limit, he finally took my head in both hands and drove himself into my throat. The engine was running, the piston was pumping in the cylinder at full speed. I was wild ; I sucked him like a madwoman. He had emptied himself in me a few hours earlier, but I was still just as thirsty for sex.
Very quickly he pulled me to him and made me straddle him, the classic cowgirl position. My hands were on his chest and my hair fell in streams on either side of my face. His hard sex sought deep inside me and I bounced on the mattress while Samson caressed my hips and squeezed my breasts. He forced me to keep a frenetic pace, and soon my thighs cramped. But only his pleasure mattered, only Samson's climax mattered. And here it came : he pinched my hips so hard I thought he would tear my skin away. He let out a cavernous groan punctuated by a crude insult and I felt his masculine warmth pour into me. He drew me down to him as he expelled the last drops of his offering.
He kept me against his chest a long while. I felt his chest rise beneath me, I heard his heartbeat, I felt his hands on my buttocks and along my back, stroking me slowly, very slowly, delicately… I was on a little cloud. So this is what a satisfying sex session felt like…
I nestled into the hollow of his shoulder and kept my eyes closed. I could have stayed like that for an eternity.
But eternity was cut short. Samson, whom I thought asleep, threw me a : « Come on, off you go. Back to the basket. » And he pushed me aside. These were words I did not yet understand. You pull a trigger with a rifle, and a basket is for the market. Since I did not react, he clarified :
« Come on, back to your bed ! You're not going to drain my air till dawn. » A vast dismay fell over me… So I was nothing but an object of pleasure, and once he was done, he had only to put me back in the closet…
So I slipped out of the bed and lay down again on my mattress, my basket, as Samson called it… I closed the door to put as much distance as possible between me and that heartless being, then I tried to find sleep — without success.
Half in tears, I grabbed my phone, unblocked Marc, and wrote to him :

Are you sleeping ?

$ No, and you ? $

No, I'm thinking of you.

$ I'm thinking of you too, Éya. Why did you leave ? $

I miss you. Will you come get me at Samson's ?

$ There are no more metros at this hour, Éya. But I can come get you first thing tomorrow if you want. I would so love to hold you in my arms again, I miss you too much. $

Forget it. Good night.

$ 5 missed calls $

I had thought being strong and independent was an ideal to reach. I was wrong. It was an absolute necessity for survival ; one could count on no one but oneself.

# Part Two — Orgasms and Obsessions

## Chapter VII

Having keptmy eyes wide open for much of the night, I only fell into Morpheus's arms at daybreak. I was jolted awake by noises in the bedroom : scraping and thumps against the walls. Was there a burglar in the apartment ?
A woman's voice rose. First a little humming of a vaguely familiar tune. Terrified at the thought of being discovered in this closet, I pulled the covers over my head, imagining I could vanish from the world that way.
Soon the humming turned into song. It was a powerful, cavernous song, and at the same time almost a whisper. Both gentleness and vocal presence. It was mesmerizing.

The woman's accent was rather good, though slightly guttural. She certainly was not English, but she pronounced the language far better than I did. If that was her wish for tea, I for my part was suddenly seized by a furious craving for coffee. The fear of being discovered gave way to curiosity. I let the covers slide down below my nose and opened my eyes. I noticed a ray of light piercing through the closet door : a slit had been cut in it.
Gently I wriggled out from the sheets and rose to my knees. I set my eyes to that slit and watched a surprising scene.

A Black woman, gorgeous, completely naked, showing buttocks of surreal roundness set on two astonishingly slender long legs, with a mane of long, thick hair caressing her gleaming back — a Black woman, then — was cleaning Samson's bedroom. She sang nonchalantly with her négresse<5> voice, deep and low. She was immense, perhaps one meter eighty. As if that were not enough, she stood on stiletto heels so high they would have made me dizzy. Those sensual stilts did not hinder her in the least. She moved with a gazelle's grace and dusted, made the bed, all while singing.

I was fascinated by this wholly unexpected spectacle. My hands were pressed to the closet door, my eye glued to the slit, forgetting completely that I myself was just as naked as the captivating creature doing the cleaning.
Soon she moved out of my field of vision. I still heard her melodious voice in the distance and imagined her cleaning the rest of the apartment. I still did not dare leave my hutch.
After what felt like an eternity, she stopped singing, and Samson's voice appeared. He exchanged a few words with that creature escaped from the savanna and at last she left the apartment. Everything was so strange and unexpected at Samson's that discovering a naked woman doing the morning cleaning was certainly curious, but not so destabilizing after all.
I came out of the closet and ventured, naked as a worm, into the hallway. My host heard me groping along the walls and stepped out of what was his office :
« Éya, so you're awake. Pity, you missed Léonie, my housekeeper. It would have been a chance to introduce you. But don't worry, you'll see her ; she comes three times a week.
— I heard her, yes, I said, without mentioning the slit in the door.
— She's a student in I don't quite remember what. Something medical, maybe nursing… anyway, no matter. She's a good girl, but God is she silly… and talkative. I doubt she'll finish her studies. But as long as she cleans properly, that suits me. And for her, it's a student job that doesn't interfere with classes. You wouldn't think so, but it isn't easy to find a housekeeper who's both pretty and competent. » < And who agrees to work naked >, I thought, not daring to say it aloud. I felt absolutely no legitimacy to throw a jealous fit, yet I was indeed jealous. In Tunisia there is a kind of tacit, institutionalized racism that would have made it extremely degrading for me to compare myself to a mere Black housekeeper. Now that I've absorbed French culture, I find such thoughts perfectly revolting, but at that instant, freshly arrived from Tunisia, I felt shame not at having racist thoughts, but at being jealous of a nigger.
Still, I had to admit it was not unpleasant to live in an apartment with a housekeeper — naked though she might be. And after all, she was only a good girl doing the cleaning. She was in no way a rival. Not a rival at all… that hussy.

From the very first day, Samson imposed his rules. From the moment I woke, I had to jump in the shower. I was absolutely forbidden to let the least hair grow below my navel — or above it, for that matter. I therefore had to hunt daily for any sign of hair. One might imagine this very constraining, but it was in truth rather fun to inspect myself like that for Samson's sole pleasure.
At my disposal were several big-name perfumes I was to use. In the second closet, next to the one I slept in, there was a wardrobe full of women's clothes. Most were too small for me. Samson evidently preferred girls with neither breasts nor hips nor buttocks. A shopping session or two would be necessary.
I was not allowed to move about except in high heels. Given my modest height and Samson's Goliath stature, that was no bad thing. I was, however, quite unable to walk in pumps. Luckily for me, there were one or two pairs of ankle boots that suited me rather well. There were also thigh-high boots, magnificent thigh-highs that would have fit me to perfection, but I did not dare put them on : too much honor for a poor girl like me. I had neither elegance nor the stature to carry such finery.
Usually I started my day with a simple shower, then I went to the kitchen, perfectly naked, where I had a coffee. Samson was very proud of his whole-bean coffee, which he got from a Colombian « friend ». Samson's life was made of beautiful women. Beautiful Colombians sending him coffee, beautiful Africans doing the cleaning and ironing his laundry, even the waitress at our usual bar was a superb Israeli with eyes as blue as the Jordan. And there was me, Éya, the graceless little Tunisian. I absolutely had to learn to walk in heels, to have poise, to do my makeup like a Frenchwoman. I had to become the best lover he had ever had ; I needed a hypnotic pussy, a cozy nest to which he would have no choice but to return no matter outside temptations. One might ask why fight for such a womanizer. But the question should be put this way : is an exclusive relationship with a Marc really preferable to a shared relationship with a man like Samson ? — Every woman knows the answer, but none will voice it aloud.
So my morning began with a shower and Colombian coffee — incomparable coffee, I had to admit, never mind that it came from some Latina tramp. I then went back to the bathroom to give myself a little cachet : brushing teeth, hair removal, makeup, dressing, and final inspection in the mirror. It was an extraordinary feeling to know oneself at one's most beautiful at every instant of the day. The home tracksuit, the comfy sweater, Sunday pajamas — none of that existed for me anymore. At every minute of the day I was Éya the sex symbol.
By late morning, my presence was required in the kitchen. Samson paid great attention to food and each meal was carefully planned, both in taste and nutrition. He had an athlete's body and meant to keep it. I had a slack body, but he intended to fix that. In a few months I too could be a gazelle with perfectly round buttocks. All that would be left would be to put a shopping bag over my Tunisian mug and I would be the most beautiful girl in the world.
The readership will have noticed in me a tendency to self-deprecation. Growing up in a family where you are made to understand you are too fat and not white enough does not help one love oneself. Strangely, Samson, with his pitiless intransigence, helped me accept myself. He corrected the slightest flaw in me : hairstyle, makeup, accent, vocabulary, posture, sexual skills, everything. I knew that when he had nothing to reproach me for, I was perfect — or at least as close as possible to perfection. Moreover, he had the elegance to voice it regularly : « You are simply stunning » ; « What an elegant turn of phrase » ; « You are radiant » ; « Those heels give you the air of a Mesopotamian goddess » ; « You are so fuckable I want to wreck you right now, in front of everyone ». I loved when he whispered filthy things in my ear in public. And if by misfortune he was not discreet enough and his words reached a third party's ear, so much the better.
When he was disposed to give me attention, Samson was delightful. He made me feel beautiful and important, made me feel womanly and desirable. But Samson was rarely disposed to give me attention. He was a very busy man. Three times a week he went to the gym. In the evenings he had either boxing lessons or iaidō, which in the end left us only two evenings a week to spend together.
That word, iaidō, has a particularly pleasing sound. Unpronounceable for me, but pleasant to hear. I suspected it was some kind of Japanese martial art, but it remained vague to me. One day I had the misfortune to ask him what that sport, that iaidō, was. He explained that it was the art of drawing a sword. Drawing with elegance, or with efficiency, depending on the school. He, a lover of aesthetics, practiced an iaidō that emphasized form more than martial effectiveness. Which did not prevent that with his sword he could have lopped off heads in a single stroke. But what I have laid out in a few lines took him an hour to tell. A woman who knows how to keep quiet is appreciated, but men too should sometimes show such virtue.
Besides his mornings and evenings, Samson devoted most afternoons to his business. He received clients, some very rich, others utterly marginal. He received men, he received women. A great mystery draped these dealings. As a Tunisian I was used to hashish trafficking, but it was not that — I would have recognized the smell immediately. When I questioned him about his business, unlike with iaidō, he refused to give me the least explanation.
I knew he was very comfortable with computers, so perhaps he simply sold programming or web-creation services. But all of it was shrouded in far too much mystery to be mere IT contracting. Was he a hacker ? Unlikely.
The first time I saw Samson, I imagined him a hitman. And with his razor-sharp sword, he would have been perfect in the role. But it was manifestly not that either in his affairs. The mystery remained intact.
When he was not seeing clients, Samson gave me his time. It could be training — Samson saw me as his submissive and I saw myself as his little bitch — French lessons, sex in its simplest, rawest form — the rawest… and the roughest — discussions on varied topics, or sometimes simply cuddling. To stay in his arms, against him while he read a book, was already a kind of fulfillment.
In the evening, invariably, we ate soup. Well, in summer it was more salads or gazpacho, but that changed little : since I was small, I had learned to hate soups and salads.
I imagine that when Samson made them, they took on another flavor — the French touch, as Americans would say. I had no say in any case.

## Chapter VIII

The first time I entered Samson's bedroom, I was struck by the collection of sadomasochistic objects laid out in full view. Crops, whips, dildos, handcuffs, a bed with carabiners, and carpet on the floor for doing all sorts of things on one's knees. This room was a den of debauchery. But Samson had used none of it on me. I had several theories about that.
The first : sleeping with a busty young Tunisian was novel enough for him not to need extra accessories. Sleeping with me, his best friend's ex, the slut who was almost still a virgin, was already high-level debauchery. Well, the little country-bred virgin as paragon of debauchery was not very credible as a hypothesis, granted.
The second theory was that he saw me as a young oriental princess who could not decently be defiled with impunity. But given how he treated me in bed… I dropped that postulate quickly.
The third theory was that he despised me. He let me sleep in his closet because it cost him nothing, he screwed me without much concern for my pleasure or desires, but to him I was only a disposable tissue. Sooner or later he would get rid of me. That was the most plausible theory, but the hardest to accept. And yet sometimes he was tender with me, a kiss on the forehead, a hand on the hip, an attentive look, a flow of small attentions throughout the day that made me think I was a bit more than a mere object.
The fourth theory was that in his eyes I was a beginner. A freshly ex-virgin just discovering sex. Thanks to him I was becoming an outstanding cocksucker, thanks to him I learned to discover my body and take pleasure in it, thanks to him I was finally becoming sexual. He waited until the third week of our relationship to penetrate my ass with his cock. Without ever caring whether I liked it or not. But things were moving slowly, surely, and each new day promised new pleasures. That, indeed, was the theory I liked best : the innocent girl Samson took pleasure in initiating.

It had been almost a month that I lived with him when one of those moments occurred that redefine a relationship.
In the morning, Léonie changed the bed linen and left the room in a near-perfect state. The sheets were perfectly taut, without a single crease. The windowpanes were perfectly transparent and not a grain of dust remained in the room.
I had long since stopped hiding in the closet when Léonie was present, and I could not have anyway, since that day she also changed my sheets, smoothing them with the same care as Samson's bed.
All that fuss piqued my curiosity, but Samson was not the talkative type. I did not have to torment my mind for long, though, since he told me, unprompted, that today was a special day :
« Since you've been living here, you've been a good girl. You're docile, obedient, you make efforts to improve, I am satisfied with you. Today, you must stay in your closet all afternoon, without making a sound, no matter what happens. If you fail, I will be very, very angry. If you succeed, you will be rewarded. Do you grasp what I'm telling you ?
— I am punished and must stay in the closet ?
— No. You stay in closet. You no noise. Understood ?
— I must stay in the closet and not make noise.
— That's it. You're a good girl. » And he placed a kiss on my forehead.
We used the rest of the morning to get him ready. I fixed his hair, oiled his beard, applied deodorant and cologne. I also helped him into an elegant two-piece suit that contrasted with his tattoos and usual rock-star look.
Once ready, we stayed in the kitchen chatting about this and that, until the doorbell rang. He looked at me gravely :
« Toilet, then closet. Now ! » I obeyed without discussion.
Once my closet-bed door was closed, I plugged my phone into its charger and set it to silent. All that remained was to sit and wait…
I heard the front door open and a voice that sounded feminine seep through. Samson, with his stentorian voice, greeted her :
« Hi, Kirsten, how are you ? It's been a while ! Yeah, yeah, I'm fine too. And Denmark, were you happy to see your family again ? Yes, no surprise. Nothing really new for me, but whatever. That doesn't matter, you're still my favorite… »
Their conversation went on for some time. I understood only Samson's words. That Kirsten's voice was too faint for me to make out, and she had a strange accent that didn't help me understand her. I didn't know who this girl was, but one thing was certain : I hated her. And what kind of name was that ? Kirsten… And that weird accent… From the conversation I gathered she was Danish and drew the following conclusion : I despised and hated Danish women. She was surely just a student who came to continue her studies in France and whom Samson would hire to do cleaning or cooking, but I didn't care. < Let her drop dead, that Dane ! >
Suddenly the words stopped, and soon the bedroom door opened. Panic seized me. What were they doing here ? Without making a sound, I rose to my knees and slid my eyes to the slit. Samson was kissing a towering girl perched on equally towering heels. She was almost as tall as he was ! Skinny beanpole ! But a sublime beanpole… She had long, almost platinum-blonde hair falling in soft waves down her back. She wore a very elegant suit, and her skirt revealed legs chiseled from alabaster. Her skin seemed so soft…
Samson slid the Dane's jacket down over her shoulders and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. It was as if the satin had been woven from chalk, so creamy were its gleaming highlights. I had never seen Samson so gentle… He kissed her with passion, but without devouring her, with a kind of respectful restraint. And that blouse he took an eternity to unbutton… Had it been me, he would have torn it off…
At last, Kirsten's shoulders were bare. She looked willowy, with a tall, slender silhouette. Her skirt slid down her legs and revealed grasshopper thighs, thin and muscled, with discreet buttocks one still felt like biting. Her underwear gave her incredible cachet. She was an aristocrat of sex. To think I had believed Samson desired me… Next to this Nordic goddess, I was nothing. It was depressing.
Samson stepped away from her, opened a drawer in a dresser and took out ropes. He ran them slowly through his hands to chase out kinks and folds. How frustrating to see him take his time like that ! I had forgotten my jealousy of Kirsten ; there was now room only for a mounting excitement.
Samson's powerful hands took the Dane's wrist and deftly roped that fragile, diaphanous limb. Her skin was so fine that even through the slit in the door I could make out her veins. She was the kind of girl who could sleep on nine mattresses stacked high. Slip a single pea beneath and by morning she'd come out covered in bruises, so delicate did her skin seem.
My handsome Samson let his suit jacket fall, rolled up his sleeves, and set to the second wrist. He unclasped the bra and slid it out from the ropes. He then turned the young woman so she was back to him and passed the ropes through the carabiners attached to the canopy. He finished his work by sliding her panties down those grasshopper legs. Kirsten was naked now, still perched on her inhuman heels, standing, shins against the bedframe, arms bound and pointing in a cross toward the ceiling. I snorted inwardly to see that even with her arms raised her breasts were ridiculously small. At eleven I already had more chest than she did…
Samson caressed the feminine body thus offered to him. He placed kisses on the young woman's shoulders, nape, and back. She quivered with pleasure and frustration. She gripped the ropes that restrained her.
Samson went to the wall where the instruments of torture were displayed and chose a riding crop. With it he lightly warmed Kirsten's buttocks and the backs of her thighs. She remained marble-still. Not the slightest flinch, not the slightest sound. Me, just seeing that instrument approach, I would have whimpered in terror…
Samson kept teasing her. He cropped her legs, her buttocks, her back ; sometimes he circled his victim and went for the breasts, the belly, but Kirsten gave nothing : no recoil, no squeak, barely a blink.
Exasperated by this impassivity, I moved away from the slit and sat back down. I no longer wanted to watch.
And anyway, I hated her, her princess skin, her platinum hair, her bourgeois little suit. Was she not ashamed to offer herself like that to a tattooed man, a disreputable thug like Samson ? I was on the verge of tears.
A crack, punctuated by a moan, pulled me from my brooding. Forgetting all discretion, I sprang to my knees and fixed my gaze to the slit : Samson had changed tools. He now held a heavy flogger with fine leather tails. The smug look in Kirsten's eyes now held a hint of worry. < Well then, my little Dane, not so cocky now, huh ? > I thought to myself.
The impact of the tails on Kirsten's buttocks was massive. You could feel the weight of the stroke and of the tool radiate through the victim's flesh. Was she a victim ?
The force of the blows intensified. There we go, that little bitch was finally starting to cry out. < Come on, Samson, make her suffer. > And as if he had heard my thought, Samson obliged. He strung together powerful, deep, insistent strikes, and tears began to well from Kirsten's perfectly made-up eyes. < I hope your makeup is waterproof, sweetheart >, I thought, with not a shred of compassion for that defenseless girl.
Out of jealousy, I took pleasure in seeing her suffer. But more than that, a kind of primitive, animal sexual excitement took hold of me. I was like those Romans at the circus games. I could have pounded the walls of my closet and screamed : « Go on ! Samson, harder ! Make her scream, make her cry, she loves it, that whore ! » And indeed, beneath the makeup that was starting to run, beneath the cries and grimaces of pain, you could feel she took infinite pleasure. Eyes still glued to the slit, I began to touch myself. And soon, Kirsten's moans were joined by mine. I was aware of nothing else. Did they hear me ? I don't think so, but God ! I had never come so fast in my life.

Once his torturer's work was done, Samson tossed the flogger to the floor and looked over his suppliciant. She had had her fill. He grabbed a tube of moisturizer and with broad hands massaged the battered areas. Then he murmured a few words in her ear and untied her wrists. Kirsten let herself fall forward onto the bed. She was drained of all energy.
Samson took off his shirt, folded it meticulously, and laid it on the back of a chair. He did the same with his trousers, took off his socks, slid his boxer down his legs to the floor, grabbed another tube — which I recognized as lube — and used it to grease his erect cock. He knelt over Kirsten's body and, without the slightest delicacy or preparation, he stabbed her onion. I stifled a cry of horror. He had rammed his cock into her ass to the hilt, with extreme violence, without warning. He must have torn her in two !
Kirsten let out a cry, pain mixed with surprise, but she did not struggle. She let herself be sodomized as if it were perfectly normal to be taken almost dry by a cock of that size. And Samson did not hold back his thrusts. He pounded her, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back so hard he could have broken her neck. I could not read the emotions on Kirsten's face. Was it terror ? pleasure ? Impossible to tell.
Samson finished his business fairly quickly. He collapsed onto Kirsten and lay on her, not caring whether he was crushing her or not. He caressed her porcelain body, ran his hand through her hair, placed kisses in the hollow of her neck, and finally rolled onto his side to lie on his back. The Dane snuggled against him, eyes closed, a smile on her lips.
I felt, I, the young foreigner locked in a closet, as if I were in a madhouse… It was no longer about curiosity, jealousy, or arousal ; it was only about mental health. I thought myself a little mad… I had found my masters.

I had been shut in for several hours. I had my phone to keep me busy a bit, and I could not help, from time to time, sneaking a look through the slit to watch them sleep against each other. It was a kind of unhealthy voyeurism. Together they formed a magnificent tableau, lovers after love, beautiful and at peace, eyes closed and a slight smile on their lips. I admired them and at the same time I hated them. I hated Samson for cheating on me there, like that, under my gaze, as if I were nothing but a slightly cumbersome object to stash in the closet so guests wouldn't see it. And I hated Kirsten for stealing my lover, for her long legs, for her hair woven of golden threads, for her angelic face, for knowing how to satisfy Samson better than I did…
But in fact, it did not matter. My main problem at that instant was an urgent need to pee. I could have played the ill-bred little puppy and peed on the mattress, but I didn't feel like marinating in my urine… I could have cracked the closet door quietly, without waking them, and done what I needed, but the idea of being discovered paralyzed me. There remained of course the grand-gesture option : make a scene, let this Kirsten know that this man was off the market and throw her out, but it was a bit late for that… and Samson would never have forgiven me.
I waited another long half-hour, holding it as best I could, fidgeting on my cot. Finally Kirsten woke and stretched with a discreet moan. I threw myself at the door slit and watched. She checked her phone mechanically, slipped delicately from the bed without waking her lover, and began to dress. I saw Samson open one eye, then close it again, preferring to pretend to sleep. Why ? Perhaps he did not in fact like his Dane that much…
In any case, after dressing and placing a kiss on Samson's forehead, she quickly left the apartment. I heard the door close gently, then made out the sound of the elevator. When it shut, I flung open my closet with a great racket and ran to the toilet. I heard Samson chuckle. What a boor.
When I came back to the bedroom, I did not know what attitude to adopt. I was so happy to have him to myself again, but I was also very angry that he had made me witness such a spectacle. In truth, no, I was not that angry. I knew I should have been, but I wasn't. I must really have had something wrong in my head… Since I was not angry, the right attitude imposed itself : I threw a fit :
« Who do you take me for ? For the whore you stash in the closet while you… while you with the other whore ? » I raged at myself for not finding my words. I had made incredible progress in French, but not enough yet to stage a scene without looking for words. Samson seemed a bit unsettled by my attack. He straightened up and sat cross-legged on the bed. He looked at me calmly, coldly, and answered :
« First, you're going to change your tone. I took you in here without asking any questions, without asking any contribution to the rent. I house you, feed you, and do your laundry. Granted, I treat you like the little bitch you are, but if that doesn't suit you, you are entirely free to go back to Marc. He regularly asks me for news about you ; he would gladly take you back. Is that what you want, Éya, to go back to Marc ? »
I did not know what to answer. I was not even angry anyway… Now I simply felt ridiculous. I thought I was in a couple with him. But I was nothing, nothing more than a pet in his eyes. After all, that was not so bad already.
I climbed onto the bed and nestled against him.

## Chapter IX

Samson had promised me that if I managed to stay discreet during his meeting, he would reward me. And I felt I had been remarkably discreet. But since I was trying to make him forget my little fit of jealousy, I didn't dare bring up the subject.
And yet this whole masquerade had left me somewhat perplexed. Samson playing the innocent, as if our relationship had no value, no tangibility — it rang false. And having sadomasochistic relations with a girl while I was shut in the closet couldn't be innocent… He had to know I could see what was happening through the crack !
He had staged this show for my eyes… Kirsten might even have been complicit. Ah ! that name, Kirsten… I could have hated her just for that.
But no matter my questions. If I didn't voice them aloud, I would never get answers. For the moment, I simply didn't have the strength to have that conversation.
The day after my imposed voyeurism session, Samson invited me to help prepare the room. I had to help him choose suitable background music, set candles in place, and light them. We then spread a towel across the bed, and on a tray he placed a bottle of massage oil. For whom were all these attentions ? A Ukrainian top model ? a Swedish corporate lawyer ? a Chinese gymnastics champion ? Whoever she might be, one thing was sure : I already hated her.
I was in quite a negative state of mind when Samson slid the compact disc into his stereo and invited me to lie down on the towel while Glenn Gould's piano filled the air. I obeyed without thinking much, but I had not yet realized that the girl who was going to receive all these attentions — that girl was me.
So I was perfectly naked, lying on the bed, in a dimly lit atmosphere surrounded by scented candles. Samson bared his torso, seized the bottle of oil, rubbed it between his hands, and laid them on my back.
My God ! What skill he had ! Well, it was the first time in my life anyone had ever taken the time to massage me, but still ! It was incredible. It was a mixture of gentleness and firmness, an uncanny ability to find the knots in my muscles. It was, it was… slowly my brain switched off, and I let myself be carried by the expert hands of my lover.
The back, slowly, the shoulders, more firmly, the nape, with his virile fingers, then again the back, more insistently, the shoulders, the arms, then slowly up and down along the spine, down to the lower back, then the buttocks, the thighs, the buttocks again, the inner thighs, the calves, the feet, oh yes ! the feet again… Then slowly he climbed back up my legs and slid to my sex. Yes, he massaged my sex, softly, knowing how to find the sensitive points and stimulate them with delicacy. I felt him climb onto the bed for easier access to my intimacy. I felt his nakedness. When had he taken off his pants ? Impossible to say. He continued massaging my thighs, my buttocks, my back, always returning to my crotch… What was this strange sensation rising within me ? A kind of vibrating warmth that flooded my whole body… It was… it was an orgasm of incredible power ! Without realizing it, I cried out. I no longer controlled my body.
This didn't disturb Samson, who continued massaging tirelessly.
He rolled me onto my back and carefully, very carefully, massaged my stomach. The stomach, the hips, the breasts, the neck, the breasts, the breasts again, oh yes ! the breasts !
To this massage that was turning into caresses, he added kisses. Kisses on my stomach, on my navel, kisses on my breasts, kisses on my lips, sometimes delicate, sometimes more ardent. He traveled my whole body with his lips, then descended to my thighs, which he spread. He kissed the tender skin inside them, then went back up to my stomach, carefully avoiding touching my little vulva, swollen with pleasure.
He drove me to frustration, to agony. I could take no more ; I seized his head with my hands and crushed it against my pussy. It was so drenched he could have drowned in it. Strangely docile, he lapped, he sucked, he devoured me. I wrapped my legs around his head, caring for nothing but my pleasure.
Never ceasing to play with his tongue, he penetrated me with his fingers. What sorcery he was working down there, I did not know… but that vibration returned to take possession of me. The discharge was so powerful that my whole body shook. I was seized by a wave of uncontrollable pleasure. I held Samson by the hair so tightly I must have torn some out. But the beast was not frightened ; on the contrary. He lifted his face back up to mine and kissed me with ardor. I felt the weight of his body crush mine. His hands caressed me firmly. We were no longer in gentleness but in passion, an ardent and uncontrollable passion.
Just as I was barely coming down from the seventh heaven where he had sent me, he penetrated me with his sex. Without care, without precaution, he penetrated me. But I was so wet and aroused that a semi-trailer could have slid into me with no problem.
Samson straightened up, kneeling at the entrance of my body, lifted my legs toward the sky, and pounded me with the regularity of a metronome. It was simple, it was virile, and it excited me to the utmost. In, out. In, out. In, out. I was conscious of nothing around me, only of that sex thrusting in and out of me. Very quickly, a third orgasm seized me, longer and more powerful than the others. It was almost unbearable. My whole body trembled, I could barely breathe. And Samson, caring nothing for my state, kept on fucking me. Yes, fucking me. I had abandoned my body, my spirit had left it, I was nothing more than a damp rag laid on the bed, ready to receive the divine seed. I was on the verge of losing consciousness.
When Samson finished, he offered me a few caresses, and nestled against me. He pulled the sheets up over us, and for the first time, we passed the whole night together, side by side.

## Chapter X

Spending a night in a man's arms is an incredible experience. Of course I had done it already with Marc, but was Marc really a man ? I had always told myself I would never be a superficial girl and that I would care about my partner for his qualities, his way of being, not for his looks. But I had to admit that between Samson's athlete's build and Marc's chicken ribcage, the choice was quick. In truth there was no choice at all.
To be fully honest, I noticed one's physique matches one's attitude. Marc, the well-meaning, attentive, submissive, ever-helpful boy who made love the way one absentmindedly pets a cat, Marc had the physique of a consumptive in the terminal phase — or close enough. Samson, who embodied himself as a man, who took, who led, who, in short, had the charisma and attitude of a male, well he had the body of an athlete, a martial artist, and sleeping against him was an incomparable experience.
An experience that must have, on some mystico-telepathic plane, awoken Marc's jealousy, since he had written to me in the night to check in. It would have been better for everyone if I had kept his number blocked, but I knew no one in Toulouse, and getting rid of my only acquaintance besides Samson was hardly conceivable.
In perfect post-adolescent fashion, unable to separate from my phone, I answered him at the table over breakfast with Samson. He did not much appreciate seeing me check my screen during a meal. That I was writing to someone irritated him all the more :
« Who are you talking to ? he asked in a cold, inquisitive tone.
— I don't know if you'll like it if I tell you, I replied timidly.
— I won't like it either if you don't tell me.
— It's Marc. He's checking in.
— And why shouldn't that please me ? he huffed. Do you really think I'm in any way jealous of that baldy ?
— Well… he was the first boy I knew. If I hadn't slept with him, I could have given you my virginity.
— Oh, I've already had my fair share of virgins, he said offhand. If at least he'd managed to loosen your ass a bit and teach you how to suck properly, that would've been something. » Since I did not answer, he continued :
« So then, what does he want, does he want to get you back ?
— No, I already told him clearly I don't wish to go back to him. I think he got it.
— Yeah… he answered with a smile.
— You think I'm wrong ? I assure you we only talk as friends. You have nothing to fear.
— First off, began Samson, with a hint of annoyance, first off, I know I have nothing to fear, no need to play the princess. Second, I can assure you he'd be ready to do anything to see you again.
— No, that's false. I left him like a dog. He has too much self-respect to want to take back a poor girl like me.
— A girl's value is measured by the size of her breasts. And having them right in front of me, I can assure you you're no poor girl. And I maintain, he'd do anything to see you again. You could propose he whip his balls while I wreck your ass doggy style and he'd still accept — notwithstanding the fact it'd make him fantasize to see me screw a girl, that little faggot.
— You're talking nonsense ! I screamed. He loves me too much to accept that sort of thing. And anyway, he doesn't give a damn about me !
— He loves you too much or he doesn't give a damn ? Samson enjoyed pointing out.
— I don't know… But I know he'd never accept your stupid idea !
— Stupid ? So my idea would please you then ?
— No ! I snapped. Stupid means not a good idea, a bad idea.
— Yes, yes… Since you seem so sure of yourself, how about a bet ? Samson proposed.
— What bet ?
— If you win and Marc refuses to watch you get ass-fucked in front of him, I'll give you a week's vacation in Paris, in a luxury hotel, with massage, jacuzzi, indoor pool, huge buffet every meal, the works.
— And if I lose ?
— If you lose, you'll have to sleep with my friend Kirsten.
— Kirsten, the Dane ?
— Kirsten, the international-law attorney who works at the European Commission in Brussels, yes. Believe me, you won't get chances every day to sleep with a girl like her…
— I'm not interested in girls !
— Yes, they all say that… Samson shot back, condescending. Anyway, since you're so sure Marc will refuse, you're not taking much risk, are you ?
— True. Bet accepted. Want me to ask him now ?
— Yes, but I'm going to handle the conversation. I don't want you sabotaging my bet's success. Tell me what he says, and I'll dictate the replies. » And so, over Colombian coffee, we made this absurd proposal to Marc in writing.

Tell me, Marc. If I suggested we see each other again, would you accept ?

$ Of course, Éya ! I'd be super happy to see you again. $

Even if it were only for a purely sexual date ?

$ You're the most beautiful girl I know. Of course. Why, are you thinking of leaving Samson ? $

Do you have voyeuristic fantasies ?

$ Not really, no. Why ? Are you thinking of leaving Samson or not ? $

No, I'm staying with him. But I think it would excite me a lot if you watched us sleep together.

$ What are you talking about, Éya ? I thought you wanted us to see each other again. $

Yes, to see each other, all three of us.

$ I love you, Éya. I want to hold you in my arms again. $

If you want to see me again, it will be in the frame of a voyeuristic fantasy. That's all I can offer. If you're not interested, I'll understand.

$ What interests me is that we see each other, just the two of us. We had a beautiful story, didn't we ? $

Sorry to waste your time. If you change your mind, write me. Later.

$ Éya, please… $

I raised my eyes triumphantly to Samson and said, rather proud of myself :
« You see, I was right ! I won the bet.
— You are not right at all, Samson replied, looking sour. He just told you he's still in love with you. And as for the bet, wait a bit, nec alea jacta est. Nothing is decided yet.
— Stop playing the snob with Latin quotes. You lost, that's all. »
— I'll book your luxury Paris hotel tonight, all right ? Want some more coffee ? Yours is cold. »
I accepted and drank my fresh hot cup with mixed pleasure. I was happy to have won, and the idea of visiting Paris under such conditions made me dream, but at the same time, licking pretty Kirsten's little pussy might not have displeased me. International-law attorney working at the European Commission in Brussels… I wasn't even sure I really understood what that involved, but it sounded so good… Her skin must smell like vanilla and her lips probably taste of cherry. As for her long blonde hair, I had never touched hair so light ; it had to be extraordinary…
My phone buzzed and snapped me out of my sapphic daydreams. I glanced at it : a message from Marc. Samson flashed a broad smile and dictated the replies :

$ Are you serious about your proposal ? $

Very serious. Is the idea starting to sink in ?

$ If I accept, can we talk afterwards ? $

If you whip your balls while you watch, yes.

$ WHAT ? $

Embrace your fantasies, Marc. You want to see me get seeded by an alpha male while you stay on the floor and fully live your beta condition.

$ Is that you writing, Samson ? $

« Ah, damn ! » my companion blurted. I thought I saw a hint of alarm in his eyes, but he quickly regained his calm and ordered me to call Marc at once to salvage the situation.
« Hello, Marc ?
— Éya ! It makes me so happy to hear your voice.
— I was serious. If you want to see me, it will be under the imposed conditions.
— Is Samson okay with that ?
— When it comes to screwing me, he's always okay.
— I don't know if I can do that, Éya. It's hard, what you're asking.
— You've never been a very good lover, Marc, that's no news to you. But now you'll have the chance to give me an incredible orgasm, to hear me cry out with joy. You just have to accept that it won't be your sex at work. » Marc did not answer. But I felt he had capitulated. After a few polite exchanges, I hung up and sent him, by message and under Samson's orders, the logistical details of our meeting.
I did the math in my head. That left me three days to prepare myself psychologically to watch Marc humiliate himself for the sole purpose of seeing me again. And Samson agreed to it. He had even orchestrated the scene. He had spurred me on, he had manipulated me, one can say it, he had manipulated me so that his best friend would watch him ass-fuck me…
< Who are you then, Samson ? A simple sex-obsessed man with no limits, or a narcissistic pervert who gets off on others' suffering ? > I was a little too afraid of the answer…
All I knew was that by being so skilled at convincing Marc on the phone, I had put myself in a strange position. I had to sleep in front of my lover's friend, and I had to sleep with my lover's friend. But I had that stupid bet as moral cover. I did not need to ask how much all this excited me ; I simply had to keep to my commitments, without asking myself questions.

## Chapter XI

That is how three days later we got ready to receive Marc. On my lover's orders, I was dressed that day in very little elegance : a pair of jeans, white sneakers, and one of Samson's T-shirts far too big for me. As for him, he was in a, shall we say… extravagant mood. For some obscure reason, he had put on his keikogi, his sword-practice attire. It was composed of an uwagi<6>, a hakama<7>, and an obi<8> that held it all together. In practice, he looked like a clown in a kimono wearing a culotte skirt. I am certain that in his iaidō dojo he cut a fine figure in that outfit, but for a voyeuristic sodomy it was a bit beside the point. I wanted to say :
« Hey, brother, so you think your cock is a sword, is that it ? » but I would not have said it aloud for anything in the world.
I imagined he had made me dress like a sack so Marc would not draw too much sexual excitement from this meeting. As for the choice of his iaidō outfit… I could not explain it. Perhaps he wanted to impose himself as the dominant male in the room, to show he was the strong man ? < Samson, my handsome Samson, you have nothing to prove ; everyone knows you are the strong man in the room. >
Roughly on time, Marc rang the intercom. I was the one who answered and buzzed him in. He greeted me with an awkward bise. I could feel his awkwardness rising ; it was almost olfactory, he stank of anxiety.
But my own anxiety rose quickly too. I wondered what I was doing there and how I had gotten myself into such a situation. Stupid bets are guy behavior ; how had I let myself get dragged into one ?
Samson approached Marc and greeted him with a firm handshake, looking him straight in the eye. Their respective body languages said it all. Samson was the master and Marc submitted. There was not even any need to stage our fantasy ; domination was already established. Suddenly his iaidō outfit was not so ridiculous after all ; it almost gave him the air of a Western samurai. I almost regretted he had not strapped on his sword.
On the coffee table lay a small martinet<9>. Samson ordered Marc to undress, then handed him the implement and made him sit in a corner of the living room. Poor Marc did not even deserve to enter the bedroom ; he would stay crouched on the living-room rug like a common dog.
Samson then made me kneel before him. He undid his obi — his belt — and with one movement slid his hakama down his legs. He wore no underwear, so his cock appeared at the level of my face. < Ooh, naughty : he's naked under his skirt >, I said to myself inwardly. My silliness drew a hint of a smile that Samson did not miss. He shot me a withering look and I hurriedly swallowed his cock into my mouth.
I tried to put my heart into it as much as possible, but Samson's erection was slow to set in. He had only a half-hard, as one says in vulgar French. I deduced he was not all that comfortable in this situation. Marc, still in his corner, was even worse. He held his flogger in one hand, hangdog look, and his cock was on strike, a little wrinkled bit of flesh unable to stand up. For the first time in my life, I was the most at-ease person in the room. Sucking, I knew how to do, and as long as I sucked, I did not think about the situation. A man in a kimono ? another naked, sitting on the floor ? I did not care. They could have organized a rhinoceros gangbang in the kitchen and it would not have distracted me — so long as the rhinoceroses were not the ones sodomizing me, obviously.
I had lubed my ass before getting dressed, so Samson could give the impression of taking me dry, without gentleness. He received Marc in the living room and made him sit on the floor without so much as offering him a drink, as if everything were informal, as if nothing had been prepared, but in truth Samson gave me the impression that every minute of the dance had been meticulously planned.
Once his cock was hard enough, he took me by the hair to force me to stand. He told me to undress while he removed what remained of his clothes. Curiously, sensuality was absent from our little act. It was cold and calculated.
For a few seconds I looked at him : he was truly well built. Broad shoulders, defined abs, powerful thighs, a solid chest — a real athlete. Of course I already knew his body and had tasted it more than once, but with Marc's scrawny anatomy as contrast, Samson looked like a demigod. < Yes, Samson, your cock is like a katana. Carve my ass ; it's all yours. > Needless to say I did not say those words aloud, but the feeling was there and, without his asking, I got on all fours on the sofa.
As if he had read my thoughts, he took his cock in hand and rammed it into my backside. Lubed though I was, the pain was boring and sharp. My body tensed and, punctuated by a loud cry, I made a move to break free. But Samson's hands held my hips firmly and I could only collapse onto the sofa, still crying out. Samson kept my ass up and set himself to pounding it. I buried my face in the cushions, hoping somehow it would dull the pain, but it did not.
Samson grabbed my hair and pulled back to make me straighten. I had no choice but to follow, and I found myself now with my back against his chest while he kept thrusting. With my hands I tried to hold onto him, but it was almost impossible. I cried that he was hurting me, I begged him to stop, but the more I pleaded the more it excited him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marc also stirred by the violence. In a handful of seconds, his cock went from a wrinkled old ravioli to a proud rod full of life. With one hand he masturbated and with the other he flogged his balls. I could see he was in pain, the poor thing, perhaps even more than I was, but he kept going, as if the pain turned him on even more.
I began getting used to Samson's cock. It was still painful, but bearable. And feeling myself the object of desire for Samson and for Marc was more stimulating than I would have imagined. I could see it excited them to see me being raped, so I put on my best actress act and laid it on thick :
« No ! Samson, stop, please ! Stop ! Stop !
— Shut your mouth, little slut… he answered through his teeth.
— Stop, you're hurting me ! » and I burst into sobs intercut with cries of pain. I felt tears running down my face, and when I went to wipe them away, I saw the back of my hand blackened by makeup. Samson held me against him, one hand on my breasts, the other yanking my hair with an iron grip.
Almost instinctively, I began to rub my clitoris. Samson insulted me in my ear. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marc rolling on the floor while still flogging his balls, and I no longer had any real sense of my body or my actions.
Spent, I ended up collapsing onto the sofa. Samson climbed on top of me and, as I lay on my belly with my head over the sofa's edge, he set to wrecking my ass again in earnest.
Marc, now lying on the floor, met my gaze but did not look away. We stayed like that, eyes locked, one enduring the flogger's blows, the other the cock's thrusts, sharing an almost mystical experience. I was aroused, I knew it, but I was as if out of my body ; I could no longer distinguish pleasure and pain, my sensations blurred. I heard words but did not understand them. All I was aware of was that one man was making me his sexual object while another masturbated to the show.
But soon Marc ejaculated. He came so hard that some of his cum splashed his face. Thinking to excite me, he licked his chops and thus swallowed a bit of semen into his grubby accountant's mouth.
That snapped me down at once. This man was a pig, a filthy thing, a scrawny nonentity — in short, a piece of shit. Samson kept sodomizing me, but I paid it no mind. My ass hurt a bit, sure, but nothing insurmountable.
Very quickly Samson started to come as well, but it brought me no real satisfaction. As soon as I felt his cock leave me, I stood up. I went to the bedroom, took a heavy flogger from the wall, and came back with rage in my eyes. Marc was on the floor, bathing in his own cum, satisfied with his mediocre self. I raised the flogger to the ceiling and began to strike him. I had no experience, no skill at it, so the blows fell in a disorderly, chaotic way. I did not care if I hurt him, did not even care if I put out an eye ; he had to be punished. Punished for what ? I did not know, but he had to be punished. For his mediocrity, for his lack of manliness perhaps ?
Samson came to press himself behind me, but far from stopping me, he placed his hand between my legs and began to caress me. I was not beating my victim out of sexual drive, but Samson, with expert fingers, managed to turn that fit of rage into a moment of pleasure.
Marc was still on the floor, crying, curled up, not even trying to flee. He apologized, begged forgiveness. He did not even know what he was apologizing for, but he was sorry.
Once orgasm hit — an orgasm rather weak given the intensity of the scene — I dropped the whip to the floor and headed to the bathroom, without a word, without a glance, without caring what the two men were doing or thinking.
In the shower, I saw blood flow. < He really did wreck my ass, that bastard Samson >, I murmured to myself under the water.
I do not know how long I stayed in the bathroom, but when I came out, Marc was already gone and Samson had shut himself in his office, back to work as if nothing had happened.
I then sat on the sofa, noticing my ass still hurt quite a lot, and asked myself :
« Did I even like that ? » I was quite unable to find an answer.

## Chapter XII

After that episode, I heard nothing from Marc for quite some time. I supposed that having to admit he took more pleasure in watching a man fuck a woman than in having sex himself was difficult for him. Yet pornography follows a similar principle : men are aroused by the sight of stronger, better-hung males plowing into unattainable girls. How many men watch such films regularly ? A very great number. How many are ready to admit their status as inferior males, unfit to mount women ? Practically none.
I could call myself a feminist, but I knew that in bed, sexually, I was not the one in control — and that suited me, that was what gave me excitement and orgasms. Sexual liberation is not so much being able to sleep with anyone anywhere in any way ; sexual liberation is understanding what makes us tremble at the deepest core of our being and enjoying it. Whether it be submission, homosexuality, or some other paraphilia, the gaze of the rest of the world matters little. I have never understood this urge to be proud of one's sexuality and flaunt it publicly. If Tunisia had one quality, it was at least this : modesty was a matter of common sense. Whether one's fantasy was to get one's ass wrecked by niggers or to eat the pussies of Chinese girls — it concerned no one but ourselves and our conscience. That is probably the biggest problem of religious dogma : the will to dictate one's vision to others. And all these progressive currents that want to impose their gospel ultimately have more of religion than of any true social justice.
I was Tunisian by blood and culture, and sometimes, for me, integration was difficult. But I had nevertheless changed a great deal since that day I landed at Toulouse airport. I still remember that shawl I used to cover my shoulders.
Now, when Samson and I went out, I dressed like the most frivolous of French girls. I had learned to accept my body, I had learned to accept that I could be desirable and desired — above all I had learned that awakening desire was not a mortal sin. Or perhaps it was, but it no longer mattered to me.
I had become a sexual object — and an object of sexual desire. And not only did that suit me, but to be perfectly honest, I could not have imagined myself in any other kind of relationship. Marc was a good boy, but he was incapable of making me feel an object of desire, incapable of making me feel his virility. I preferred to share Samson with a Dane than to have exclusivity with Marc.
Samson, moreover, had not forgotten our bet. When the opportunity arose, I would have to sleep with Kirsten, my worst enemy. But however much I hated her, there was a part of me that dreamed of tasting her flesh, of feeling her long blond hair, of caressing her legs, of kissing her, fingering her, hearing her cry out against me. But I would never have admitted it aloud. And if, deep down, I was eager for Samson to force me to sleep with her, I never asked a single question on the subject — I simply waited.

# Part Three — Whispers on the Road

## Chapter XIII

It had beenn early six months that I'd lived with Samson, and the more days passed, the more I discovered, about him and about myself. I discovered that being a feminist was a difficult exercise. I left Tunis to emancipate myself, to blossom as a woman. You know, strong and independent, all that… Well, independence wasn't quite there yet. I lived with a man and paid absolutely nothing. And strength… What does it even mean to be a strong woman ? If it means refusing help, refusing to admit one's weaknesses, killing oneself with work by wanting to do everything alone, then not only did that not interest me, I had trouble conceiving it as an ideal.
If not strong and independent, I was at least a woman. I was gentle, attentive, feminine, I was learning to enjoy my body and to give pleasure. And there was no shame in finding pleasure in sexual submission. Isn't that the feminist ideal ? To enjoy one's body without suffering society's moral lectures ?
The perfect model for that was Kirsten. She was a woman of power, who had quickly climbed the rungs. The world was at her feet and with a single signature she could decide the fate of millions. Reality was surely more complicated and less rosy, but I liked to imagine her that way.
And that woman, that woman of power, took her pleasure in sexual submission. She embraced her fantasies without shame, without restraint, without bearing the chains of morality or the shackles of social pressure. She dominated in public and she enjoyed at home. Exemplary woman if ever there was one. I so wanted to resemble her…
Those ten months of living together had made me grow, awakened me to my desires. Between Samson and me things had become different, deeper, more metaphysical, if I dare say. I wanted to please him, satisfy him, submit to his slightest desires. I was ready to give myself over to him body and soul. If he had asked me to throw myself off a cliff or under a train's rails, I would have done it, knowing he would catch me at the last second.
I felt like Abraham when God asked him to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Abraham felt such devotion for God that he took his son up a mountain, raised the sacrificial knife, and struck Ishmael's throat, his own child… Or at least he tried ; Jibril intervened at the last second to stay the father's hand.
Readers with a Christian education will be troubled to see me speak of Ishmael and not Isaac, and of Jibril and not the archangel Gabriel. But Islam is the most recent religion, the one that brought the last prophet to Earth, so its teaching is the most legitimate. That is why, to evoke my submission to Samson, I evoke the Dhabih, the sacrifice of Ishmael, which in Tunisia we celebrate at Aïd el-Kebir.
You will find my comparison excessive. It very likely is. But to me, submitting to Samson was the only thing that fulfilled me. I loved sex, yes. But obeying this man, that made me thrill in the deepest part of my guts. To obey him, satisfy him, be his thing, his precious thing.
That is why I said being a feminist was a difficult exercise. Being a bitch in bed is one thing ; being a bitch day to day and making it your main source of satisfaction strays somewhat from Olympe de Gouges's ideal. But if feminism were living one's life as well as possible, according to what fulfills us ? Then the ideal would be reached.
Anyway, at 19 are you truly able to grasp the ins and outs of feminism ? With hindsight I feel my convictions were more pose than real commitment, but no matter.
After those ten months living together, I discovered above all that Samson received many strange people : very rich people in suits, marginal types with homeless looks, people who resembled him, dressed all in black and tattooed all over, men, women, but all relatively young. Most stayed only a few minutes, sometimes less, and left as they came.
Sometimes some girls — the prettiest — lingered. They'd go into Samson's office and not come out for twenty minutes, often a bit disheveled or rumpled. I watched them pass through the bedroom keyhole. I wasn't stupid ; I knew what they were doing in that office, but Samson forbade me any show of jealousy. So I pretended not to understand. And to be honest, at that time I didn't yet really understand the game being played in that office. I was nothing but a poor little Tunisian taken out of the countryside.
One day, though, things became clear. After ten months of a rather quiet, monotonous life — if you can call a life of sex, mysteries, and submission quiet and monotonous — after those ten months, then, Samson told me we were moving. However much I asked where, when, how, or why, the only answer I got was « You'll see ». It had been almost a year since I arrived in France ; I was capable of understanding sentences longer than two words. But no, Mister Samson liked to cloak himself in mystery.
Besides the suitcase I'd arrived with, he gave me a second and asked me to put in it everything I wanted to take. I wanted to tell him that when you move you plan ahead, you pack boxes, and you don't leave half your things behind, but I felt he would brush me off if I said that.
It was my moment to sort my belongings. I set aside some clothes I'd brought from Tunisia that no longer matched the way I dressed. I did it reluctantly ; it wasn't in my nature to throw things away or leave them behind, but Samson had spoken : choices had to be made.
He, for his part, filled a large suitcase and two duffel bags. He had few clothes, so his packing went quickly. He left all the sex toys in the bedroom, likely counting on me to select the ones I liked most. Out of pure contrariness, I decided to put none in my suitcases, preferring to fill them with the sexy, indecent clothes Marc had given me or that Samson already owned before I arrived.
When I finished, he took me to the kitchen, sat me at the table, sat across from me, and fixed me with his piercing green eyes.
« Listen closely. I'm going to have visitors. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, you do not leave your closet unless I tell you. Even if you hear gunshots, even if my throat is cut, you keep the door closed as long as someone remains in the apartment.
— Gunshots ? Like a pistol, you mean ?
— Yeah. Well, normally, no, it should go fine. But just in case, whatever happens, you stay locked in. Understood ?
— Yes, I answered without really understanding what he meant.
— And if for any reason I come get you, you do not speak and you do not look at me. Under any pretext. I don't want to hear a single word from your mouth. Clear ?
— I don't speak and I don't look at you.
— Very good, Samson replied in a satisfied tone.
— It's Kirsten who's coming, isn't it ? I asked, a bit worried.
— No, it won't be a girl.
— Oh, all right. Who then ?
— Doesn't matter.
— And what will he come to do ?
— Listen, it's… nearly three o'clock, Samson said, checking the time on your phone. From six p.m. I'll answer your questions. Until then, closet, and not a sound. » I couldn't help wondering who this mysterious guest was. Was it Marc ? But I couldn't imagine Marc with a pistol… And why would I need to come out of the closet — did he plan to offer his visitor the use of my body ? My submission had its limits. I had no intention of doing anything with that stranger. But if I refused, Samson would be disappointed… He had only asked me to be silent and not look at him, not to comply with the guest's demands. And in three hours he would answer all my questions.
So I settled in my closet and watched some silly videos on my phone to quiet the whirlwind of questions spinning in my head.
After maybe half an hour, I heard the intercom buzz, and soon two people entered the apartment. From their voices and accents I easily recognized the presence of two Black men. It was odd ; Samson had little to do with that sort of people. In truth, outside the mystery visits to his office, he didn't see that many people. Not in my presence anyway. I realized I knew nothing of the life of the man I shared my life with. For all I knew, every night he claimed to practice iaidō, he was actually having orgies with Black men. Their exchange cut short my train of thought :
« What ? you don't have the money ! You think it's free ? You think I do credit, brother ? the first African voice snapped.
— No, I know it's not free, Samson replied. We've been doing business a while, brother. I know how it works ; I'm the one who helped you set it up. I'm just asking you to wait two hours, time to collect the funds.
— You think I'm gonna leave you alone with five kilos of machine, brother ?
— I'll explain, Samson began. I'm going to receive a socialist MP. He'll buy the five kilos at a good price. But you know, he's a well-heeled Parisian. If he sees two Blacks in the room, he'll freak ; you know how suit-wearing Whites are.
— Wallah, I'm Black so you can't show me. Okay, I get it, I'm out, brother. Find yourself a white supplier ; I'm not your bitch.
— Wait, wait, Samson stopped him. I'm proposing to buy five kilograms from you in one go. I'm just asking you to wait two hours downstairs in the car, while I make the deal. Then you come back, I pay what I owe, and you leave with one hundred and twenty thousand euros on you. A nice suitcase of cash, like in the movies, straight from the hand of a socialist MP asshole. You can't do better for a money source. And besides, in a way, you're doing yourself a favor — it's thanks to guys like him that you get your RSA<10> each month.
— You think I need RSA ? the African took offense.
— You're not going to tell me you don't take it ?
— I do, but I don't give a fuck ; I make enough dough to do without.
— I know. And in two hours you'll make even more without doing anything.
— Wallah your business stinks ; don't try to mess with me or I'll smash you.
— Give me a few seconds ; I'll show you something. » I then heard Samson open the bedroom door. To me the only possible scenario was that he would take the sword that sat across from the bed and cut the two niggers in half in the middle of the living room to take their five kilos of machine — though I had no idea what machine was. I saw no other option, no other outcome. I was terrified by that scenario. I had a holy horror of violence — except, of course, when I was the one being subjected to it — and imagining such a bloodbath was out of the question. I pulled the covers over my head, as if that could protect me and cut me off from the world.
But against all expectation, Samson did not seize his sword. He opened the closet door, yanked off my covers, and dragged me by the hair into the living room. He hissed through his teeth :
« Follow me and don't contradict me, understood ? » I had no time to answer ; we were already facing the two angry Africans. Samson presented me :
« Here's what I can offer you. A little Tunisian girl freshly arrived in France. She doesn't speak the language, she's 16, and she's still a virgin. The MP is going to give me good money to take her virginity. Once he's done with her, I give her to you. You can do whatever you want : fuck her, put her on the street, whatever you want. Do the math, a pretty little whore like her, at a hundred euros a trick, ten tricks a day, seven days a week.
— That makes seven hundred euros ? one of the Africans ventured.
— No, seven thousand euros a week, Samson corrected. Almost thirty thousand a month.
— And why would you hand her to us if she makes that much ?
— Because I have a clientele of rich people who don't want a used product. Once she's no longer a virgin, she's worth nothing to me.
— Wallah that's some heavy shit, the African said. You a virgin ? » he asked me, looking at me. Of course I answered nothing, Samson having explicitly told me to keep silent under any circumstance. I still wanted to lift my eyes to him, to get from a look the confirmation to keep quiet, but that too I had no right to do. I kept my head down and stayed silent. The Black man piled on :
« So what, the gadji<11> doesn't talk ? You don't like black cock ?
— No, she doesn't speak, Samson confirmed. I got her like that — but isn't that a bit of a dream, a girl who doesn't talk ?
— You're trying to palm off a crazy on me.
— Listen, I'm giving you for free a girl who in two hours you can wreck through every hole, and she won't make a sound, nothing, just a few squeaks if you go too hard. You can even both go at her, no problem. What are you complaining about ?
— Me, I like gadjis who scream, brother.
— I'm sure you'll manage to make her scream, brother. But my socialist has to go first. And he won't be long. In two hours, I hand you a hundred and twenty thousand and a girl to fuck. Look at those tits — what more do you want ? All I ask is you wait for me down the street. If you see me run, you catch me. If I try to play you, you find me ; you know where I live. What are you afraid of, brother ?
— If you play me, I'll fuck your mother. For real, I'll fuck your mother, he threatened, stressing each syllable.
— I know, don't worry, there won't be a problem. As soon as the guy leaves, I'll message you. » With that, Samson opened the door and invited them out. He then went to the kitchen and looked down at the street through the window, likely making sure they were waiting in their car. I was stunned, near shock. Why had he said I was 16 and a virgin ? That was totally false and he was well placed to know it ! I had no idea what a socialist was, but whatever that odd practice, I had no desire to indulge in it, not with a stranger, not for money !
As I began to boil inside, I watched Samson get moving : he started emptying the fridge and kitchen cupboards, dumping everything into garbage bags. Curious, I drew closer, my mindset having changed in seconds. He did not intend to sell me to those two Black men or to a socialist ; he intended to flee. Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me :
« Éya ! Go get dressed. Choose comfortable clothes that don't draw the eye ; we're going to be on the road. Then take these trash bags and set them in front of the elevator door. After that, take out the bags and suitcases and wait for me in silence. »
— And the furniture, aren't we dealing with that ?
— Is it six o'clock ?
— Uh, no, it's not even four, I answered, not understanding.
— Then why are you asking questions ? I'll answer you at six. For now shut it and execute. » He didn't let me answer, took another look down at the street, then headed to the bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, while I wrestled with the too-heavy trash bags, I saw him take a large cloth and wrap his sword.
From the hallway I heard him wind tape around it, and I wondered if he had lost his mind. Was that really how to pack an object that seemed so precious to him ? But I'd understood the message : no questions before six. Maybe I should have taken a notebook to write them down ; I was afraid I'd forget.
As he put his computer in its sleeve, he left his office door open. At last I could see what was hidden in that mysterious room. I was disappointed. There was only a desk, a little sofa, and a closet. When he opened the closet I saw nothing but papers — papers he threw un-sorted into a trash bag.
In under fifteen minutes we had cleared the place. Cleared… There were still lots of things in the cupboards, the furniture was left as-is, and he didn't even bother to give a last sweep or do the dishes. Leaving everything like that bothered me, but it wasn't up to me.
On the living-room table he set the spare keys, then closed the door behind him. He called the elevator and we stuffed our bags and the trash inside. He asked me to hold the door and went to ring a neighbor's bell. An old lady opened. Samson spoke in a confident voice :
« Hello madam, I live here, I'll be away a few days ; I'm entrusting you with my keys, I hope you don't mind keeping them ; I'd feel safer. I'm back in a few days. Thank you, sorry, I'm in a hurry. I'll be right back ! » It all went far too quickly for the old lady, who hadn't really understood what was being asked. I was admiring : Samson had held the keys out to her as he spoke, and she had mechanically taken them without really thinking. She found herself with the bunch in her hand, without really knowing why or how, and before she could grasp the situation, the elevator door had already closed, carrying my lover, me, and our bags down to the basement.
Samson ordered me to bring our things to the car — which I did with difficulty. Meanwhile, he threw his wrapped sword into the dumpster and covered it with trash bags. That would surely be my first question : why throw away his sword ? Six p.m., six p.m., how slowly time passed…
He then loaded the luggage into the trunk and back seat and invited me to sit in the passenger seat. So it was true : we were indeed moving. Not to live somewhere cheaper or nicer, but to flee two angry Black men. What dark business had I gotten myself into despite myself ? Five p.m. One more hour and I would know…

Exiting the underground parking, Samson turned left to avoid the two Africans' car and calmly pulled away. But soon, watching his rearview mirror, he hissed through his teeth :
« Damn it ! Those fucking niggers have sharp eyes ! » Samson swore very rarely and I had never seen him so tense. Clearly those two Blacks who had seen us leave and were now following us were dangerous.
Usually I felt safe with him, but this time, seeing Samson's hands clenched on the wheel, his worried gaze pinned to the mirror, I panicked inside. Those two Africans had been very clear : if Samson tried to mess with them, they would screw his mother — and mine while they were at it. And Samson was very obviously trying to mess with them.
They had a car much bigger and more powerful than Samson's and, weaving through the rather dense city traffic, they overtook cars to slot in right behind us.
Once in place, they floored it to ram our bumper. Samson had anticipated the move and accelerated too to soften it, but the collision made him momentarily lose control. He braked, which surprised the Africans and they hit us again. The jolt was strong enough to lift me off the seat. That was it, I panicked for real. I didn't dare look behind, for fear of finding a tank on our tail.
At the last second, Samson took a right turn and accelerated so hard I was pressed into my seat. He had clearly surprised our pursuers with that move, since he allowed himself a : « Yes ! » I tried to turn to see, but he ordered me not to move. He took another right. Then he dived into a paid underground car park. He took a ticket, drove down to the very bottom level, and stopped in the middle facing the exit without cutting the engine. He kept alert, scanning constantly around us and the mirror. Then, after a good twenty minutes, I felt him relax and he said :
« Well, we didn't get out of it too badly, I think.
— They're not following us anymore ?
— Unlikely. They're the kind who watch too many American movies. They must have imagined we'd do a high-speed chase through Toulouse, slaloming between cars at a hundred an hour, but with traffic jams and lights on every corner, the odds we'd get stuck and they'd get out to wreck us were higher.
— And why didn't they follow us ? I asked.
— They were too busy going as fast as possible. I wasn't sure that last-second right turn would work, but hey, I wasn't dealing with sharp tools. Anyway, keep your eyes open in case we cross them again, but we should be good.
— Where are we going then ?
— You'll wait till six p.m. to ask your questions.
— But it's almost six ! I protested.
— Then you'll wait till seven. I'm not in the headspace to chat right now. » Usually Samson kept his word. I was surprised he pushed my questions back, but I had to admit this wasn't the moment. I wasn't up to it myself ; I was still in shock from that car escape.

Leaving the underground car park, Samson paid cash, as if afraid our pursuers could track his bank card. Ridiculous of course, but no precaution was too much that night. He quickly left the city and merged onto the ring road. Then he took the exit toward Bordeaux/Albi/Castres, then followed signs to Bordeaux/Paris. I deduced we were headed either to Bordeaux or to Paris. If only it were Paris… I, a little Tunisian girl, dreamed of visiting the City of Light : shopping on the Champs-Élysées, eating at the top of the Eiffel Tower, passing under the Arc de Triomphe, taking photos in front of the Mona Lisa and the Louvre pyramid, having a romantic dinner with Samson in a chic restaurant — in short, behaving like a perfect little tourist, and without the slightest shame.
My eyes were glued to the car clock. Soon it read seven o'clock sharp, but I didn't dare speak. We had just passed Montauban, which could have given me a clue to our destination, but my knowledge of French geography was far too sketchy.
After almost another half hour, as we drove over a bridge spanning a waterway, Samson suddenly broke the silence :
« We're crossing the Lot.
— The Lot ? I repeated.
— Yes, a tributary of the Garonne. We're not far from Cahors.
— And where are we headed ? I asked innocently.
— Paris, my dear, we're going to Paris. » I rejoiced. I loved when he called me my dear, and on top of that we were going to Paris. What more could I want ? For him to answer my questions, of course. And that, he was going to do. What an emotional roller coaster : that evening I'd gone from the fictional pervy socialist to a panic move, then a car chase, then a long highway silence before finally getting answers. But since I hadn't written them down, my mind went blank : what to ask ?
« So we're going to live in Paris ? I ventured. No, no, no, no, no, I cut myself off. No, my first question is : why did you throw your sword in the trash ?
— Because I didn't want to drive around with such a weapon ; I don't want to draw eyes. And because the Japanese ambassador is supposed to bring me a real eighteenth-century Japanese katana. Compared to that, my old sword is a kid's toy.
— You know the Japanese ambassador ?
— More or less. Let's say I'm in contact, and I'm slated to help organize a kind of evening at the embassy. You'll soon discover I know quite a few people in Paris.
— Who else do you know ?
— We just got chased by two thick-skulled lunatics and your burning question is who I see in Paris ?
— Ah, yes, those two Africans, who were they ? I corrected.
— Right. I'd like to avoid too many stops tonight so we reach Paris in the morning. We'll take a break after Limoges, then try to push through. But between here and Limoges, that gives me time to tell you the story from the beginning, otherwise we won't get anywhere. » He might just as well have said : « Your questions are dumb ; let me talk. » That didn't bother me ; I think in a way I liked his condescending manner. He knew far more than I did about just about everything, and I admired him for it. Exaggerated, surely, but to me he knew more than anyone about almost everything.
Since his sentence didn't call for an answer, I stayed silent. He then began his narration.

## Chapter XIV

Samson's Confession
I don't know if you remember, but I told you that for the Greeks, having a big penis was the sign one's mind was obsessed with sex. For them, it was impossible to be an intellectual with a big penis ; our priorities don't allow it.
I say our, because as you know, I'm one of those people with a big penis. And if I like to see myself as an intellectual, I must admit sex takes up a considerable place in my life.
As a teenager, I dreamed of raping my classmates. The only thing that stopped me was that I was too introverted to actually do it. But believe me, it wasn't the desire I lacked to smash those little sluts' faces into the asphalt and wreck their asses. I was in love with the prettiest — and though I was in love, their consent didn't interest me — I dreamed of making sex slaves of the less pretty, and I had no interest in the ugly. I lived in my inner world, a world fed by reading and video games, a world full of pretty girls I could take whenever I pleased.
Masturbation was for me more than a bad habit ; it was an addiction. I masturbated two, three, four, five times a day. Sometimes, at the back of the bus, hidden by the seats, I'd masturbate under my pants. Adolescence has this marvelous feature that you are charged with sexual energy. But instead of harnessing that energy, I spread it as white liquid everywhere I went. I wasn't far from a slimy slug leaving a trail of sperm behind.
In my senior year, my literature teacher fascinated me. She was a beautiful woman with long red hair and divine buttocks. She was in her thirties, which to me at the time seemed very old. But I had an infinite desire for her. Her culture, her knowledge, her analytical mind, her literary sensibility, her long curly hair — all of it made me want to make love to her. Not rape her : make love.
Since I was the smartest student in the class — modestly speaking, it was a class of dimwits — with a natural literary sensibility, I read a lot, I was curious, the attraction I had for her became reciprocal. Of course I was too young to understand, but one thing leading to another, one evening after class, she kissed me. She kissed me, then she sucked me. Oh Lord ! A woman's hands, a woman's mouth, experienced hands and mouth striving to extract semen from my phallus… it was a near divine experience.
A few days later she invited me to her place. I fucked her like the last of the tramps. I was rough, borderline violent, and in under two minutes it was done. It was enough for me to fall madly in love.
That evening, she realized who I was and she backed off. Sleeping with a student was already a mistake, but sleeping with a student like me was disastrous.
Of course I harassed her, of course I wrote letters, so much so that we ended up seeing each other again. She tried to guide me, to make me have gentler gestures. But the instant I penetrated her, the sex demon took over and I wrecked her. I think in fact she liked it, that mix of violence and guilt of sleeping with a 17-year-old student. But the guilt was too strong for her to handle. We saw each other two or three more times, then at the end of the school year she disappeared. She outright changed cities. I never heard from her again.
If I'm telling you this, it's because thanks to her I understood masturbation was evil. Masturbation was the easy reward, the satisfaction within reach. Masturbation was forgetting that sex is the self opening to the other, the pleasure given by the other. It was my first sexual experience, and it was what let me understand my rape fantasies were purely masturbatory. Rape is not sexuality.
As you know, my conception of sex is still very atypical. I don't share ; I take. And I'm deeply convinced that what makes a woman come is making her man come. Any other consideration is idle rambling. A woman who comes for herself, for her own pleasure, is a woman masturbating on a penis, nothing else.
You'll say that I too do nothing but masturbate in a vagina. And sometimes yes, it's true. But most of the time, no. What makes me come, what creates sexual arousal, is contact with flesh, the pleasure given to me, the pain I inflict, the submission I impose, the triumph of self over the other. By our current morality, that's perfectly reprehensible. By our deep, primal desires, it's the natural order. You know it well, Éya, you who come from my pleasure and your unconditional submission.
Of course, there are other ways to think about sex, and you do sometimes come otherwise. But deep down you know what truly makes you vibrate. Am I not right ?
From the moment this reality appeared to me, it was obvious I had to stop masturbating. Sexual arousal is important in a man's life, for the health of his body and the elevation of his spirit. And it also contributes to his social life. It's a beneficial activity on many levels, unlike that bleak, individualistic practice that is masturbation. Yes, bleak and individualistic, nothing less.
I needed sex, real sex. But for that I needed girls, and seducing girls is exhausting work. Talking philosophy or reciting poems doesn't make them wet. You have to play the male, distract them, make them dream. My time is far too precious for that. I need girls ready to damn themselves to suck my cock. I did run into some like that — and yes, you're one — but it wasn't enough ; I needed more.
One day I met a cocaine addict. She drew me because she was very thin, actually skinny. And my sick brain is drawn to those cadaverous girls. I like big asses like yours, Éya, but I like anorexics even more. That cocaine addict was ready for anything to get her dose. A prostitute, when you pay her, lies down. A cocaine addict, for her dose, would be ready for any sexual debauchery, even the most humiliating.
There was, in fact, a whole generation of club chicks who thought doing cocaine was the best way to have fun. For most it had no consequences, but for some it was the first step toward ruin. You just had to be there when they tipped.
Having understood that, I found an abandoned mailbox whose lock I forced and replaced with a new cylinder. I put a fictitious name on the box and bought a plane ticket to Colombia.
There, I procured one kilogram of cocaine, which I cut into little fifty-gram packs carefully wrapped. I had a stamp made with fake law-office details and mailed to France twenty large envelopes filled with white sheets I had hollowed to slip a cocaine packet inside. I put my fake law-office stamp on them and shipped them to my fake French mailbox.
Back in France, I found seventeen letters in my box. Only three parcels had been intercepted by customs. My operation was a success. What I had bought for a few hundred euros in Colombia I was going to resell for a few tens of thousands in France. And to maximize the operation, I cut my cocaine fifty percent with powdered caffeine.
But the goal wasn't so much money as bartering for sexual favors. So I regularly staked out nightclub exits and offered my product to pretty girls I crossed. Since I sold cheaper than the competition, I quickly built loyalty in this clientele, and when a girl started to fall into dependency, I, magnanimous lord, offered to supply her for free in exchange for sexual favors.
With the most reluctant, I first asked for a simple handjob and a few kisses. Often that was enough to get the machine going. After that, asking for a blowjob rarely met refusal. And as they became more dependent, I could demand intercourse, then sodomy, then venture further still into degradation and humiliation. Their drug-eaten brains pushed them to do anything to get their dose.
With one kilogram of cocaine cut fifty percent, I was able to push four thousand half-gram doses. Of course, for the dirtiest, most degrading acts, I sometimes gave up to five grams, but my stash was amply sufficient to last a few years.
Regularly I returned to clubs to find new girls, thus creating a formidable herd. I fucked like the devil.
But things were going too well to last. One night, as I offered my product to a group of girls, three Black men came over to settle things : my cut-rate prices hurt their business, and that club was their turf. If I valued my life, it was best I left and never came back.
Had I been a bit scrawnier, they probably would have beaten me senseless. Luckily I was sturdy enough to keep them at bay. I had no desire to start a drug war with three meatheads. I explained I could show them how to source cocaine very cheaply without depending on their usual supplier. I guaranteed they could multiply their margins by ten. I had their attention at once.
Building some trust was hard, but those primates had a good nose. They could see I had access to better product than they did and could sell it cheaper.
So I trained them in the Samson method : fake mailbox, plane ticket to Colombia, and shipment in small quantities by post. Even dimwits like them could carry out the plan.
To avoid tension, I committed to selling nothing in Toulouse and its region. I would only supply girls who had run out of money. Well, in practice I still supply my old clientele, and word of mouth works well for me. But since I had promised to give up Toulouse, I expanded my business to Paris's upper spheres. I supply a big swath of France's political left. You only need to know one and pull the string : the rest follow. In fact it works so well the string brings me right-wing and centrist MPs too.
One of my three Africans moved to Colombia to supply regularly the two who stayed in France. As for me, I bought stock from them at a preferential rate, saving me the run to Latin America and keeping me on good terms with them.
Business was going rather well. I went up to Paris regularly to move product ; I even had contacts with members of the European Commission in Brussels — that's where I met Kirsten — and I still had my girls in Toulouse to feed the sexual beast I was and still am.
But those constant trips exhausted me, so I eased off a bit. And then you appeared, forcing me in a way to give up Paris. I could have kept going, but the capital's bourgeoisie wore me out.
However, I'm the only one offering quality merchandise. Because yes, Colombian cocaine cut only fifty percent, and with caffeine, that's top quality. And a few days ago, I was offered a chance to widen my market by being invited to some very private parties. Being introduced as a drug supplier and not an intellectual is a bit frustrating, but listen, I'd be an idiot to refuse.
So there you have it : I ordered five kilograms of cocaine from my two Black friends which, once cut, comes to over five hundred thousand euros in revenue. And since I had no desire to hand them one hundred and twenty thousand euros to buy it, I played a little trick on them. It does bar me from coming back to Toulouse… but nothing was keeping me in that city. So, to Paris we go.

## Chapter XV

Stunned by Samson's account, I was speechless. For months he had been selling drugs almost under my nose, in his office. For months cocaine-addicted girls had been coming to trade their bodies for a little powder. For months… for months… I had no words.
We stopped at a motorway service area a bit past Limoges. The night mood of those places was pleasant. It felt as if, without a word, we understood one another. We were all travelers of the dark. The road was exhausting, sleep lurked, yet with a simple look we understood each other. What did we understand, I couldn't have said, but the kinship was real. Yes, it was my first time at a service area and I was already an expert, perfectly.
Our meal consisted mainly of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, with energy drinks for Samson. He fully intended to stay awake all night and he was counting on the little winged bull to get him there.
Since his long confession on the road, our relationship had shifted noticeably. He seemed more relaxed, less intent on inhabiting that alpha-male role he wore nonstop. For my part, I saw him a bit less as a god and a bit more as a human. An incredible human who had built alone a drug-trafficking operation reaching up into politics, but a human nonetheless.
For some obscure reason, I suddenly wanted sex. Was it imagining Samson as a drug dealer that did that to me ? I doubted it. I already had a bad-boy image of him ; he didn't need the delinquent cap. In fact, I wasn't sure I even liked that side of him…
To clear my head, I looked around. The cafeteria in the service area was almost empty : apart from the cashier there were only two lone men and a family with two children. I was almost sure the two men were truck drivers who'd climbed down for a coffee. They were fat, a bit dirty, with no elegance and a laziness that gave them a strange look. It was as if at once they owned the place and were totally indifferent to their surroundings. Each sat in a corner of the room, superbly ignoring the other. Truth is, they were too busy watching me. I felt their lecherous eyes on me. I wasn't even very elegant. I wore a simple slightly loose dress with a leather jacket over it. On my feet ballet flats and, to please Samson, no panties, but that they didn't know.
I was seized by a strange feeling. I liked prettifying myself so men like Samson would desire me, but this was different. Around me were ugly, adipose men, without culture, without charisma, without elegance. Pure masculinity in its most repellent form. And yet I liked knowing they desired me. More than that, I wanted to suck them, make them come. I wanted to feel that power. For these miserable truckers I was the only one who might accept to give them pleasure, I was their goddess — and I wanted that goddess to be used as a doormat…
Besides the two lecherous truckers, I noticed a third man — the father — also had his eyes on me. His agitated children seemed to exhaust him and his wife, dry, shrewish, having lost all the freshness of youth, struck me as full of resentment and aggression. After two pregnancies, their sex life must have slowed, making this woman bitter — simply starved for cock. Her husband, cowed by his wife's hysterics, had lost his male status and thus any desirability. So tolled the knell of their relationship, which now revolved only around those overly fidgety kids. That woman's body needed to come, to exult, and that man needed to fuck, plain and simple, but nothing would bring them back to those blissful times when they made love regularly. Nothing, except me. If she saw me sucking her husband, that stepmother would suddenly recover all her desire for her man. But with her flat ass and spent nipples, could she still make him hard the way I could ?
My thoughts were running wild. I knew nothing of these people ; for all I knew they were very happy, just tired from an overly long day's drive. But that husband would surely have pinned me on his hood to wreck my ass. And for some reason I couldn't explain, I wouldn't have minded.
Samson could have taken me by the wrist and dragged me to the toilets, nostalgia for our first sex in the bar.
Then, leaving the door wide open for whoever wished to enter, he could have lifted me by the waist, sat me on the sink's edge, flipped up my dress, and skewered me without gentleness.
My cries would then have drawn the curious. First the two truckers, who would have started masturbating at the sight. Then the father, who, bolder, would have begun to fondle my breasts. The truckers would then have put their filthy cocks in my hands so I could take care of them with all my know-how. All that male presence would surely have made my dear Samson step back, but that would only have left more room for the other three.
I would have ended up on the floor, sandwiched by the two truckers while I sucked the father.
At that moment the mother, worried about her husband's absence, would have locked her two kids in the freezer before joining us. Seeing her partner erect again would have rekindled her sexual ardor. She would have bent forward to suck him with me, leaving her rump wide open so Samson could remind her what it meant to be taken.
But my imaginary orgy stopped there, Samson having told me it was time to get moving again. A shame ; had it happened, I could have brought a little joy to those apathetic truckers, and breathed a little life back into that almost-dead couple.
Of course I would never have wanted those dirty, fat truckers' hands on me. I would never have wanted that. Never ? Did I really know what I wanted ? I felt my crotch wet… that brief oneiric venture had aroused me a bit too much. Had I really wanted those dirty, fat truckers ? Sometimes my fantasies scared me…
As Samson walked toward the exit, I looked at him. That was a man, a male, a desirable being. He always smelled good, even after hours on the road ; he stood straight, had poise, broad shoulders, yet with long hair, tattoos, and illegally exciting activities. Fantasizing about truckers when Samson was ready to offer me his erection was pure madness. And yet being sandwiched between them would not have displeased me.
Samson turned, and seeing I was still seated, he motioned me to hurry — which I did.

We drove all night, crossing France. Samson took care never to exceed the speed limits. Running into police so late was unlikely, but if for any reason a patrol stopped us, it would mean an immediate prison sentence. I wasn't aware of all that of course ; or rather, I didn't think about it. A few months earlier, I was fantasizing about slightly sleazy Frenchmen on the internet, whereas today… today I was fantasizing about slightly sleazy Frenchmen at motorway services.
No, in truth in Tunisia I was bored all day dreaming of Western freedom, praying my parents wouldn't find me a husband too quickly, while here I had a sex life out of the ordinary and I found myself trafficking drugs with a male wielding a vigorous phallus.
Samson had found his silence again. He stared at the horizon, certainly focused on the road. Seeing him like that, hard-eyed, forearms tense, you'd swear he was performing some feat as taxing physically as mentally. He radiated such strength I almost wanted to bend over him and suck him off. Thus I would in a way have taken part in that triumphant act that was night driving with five kilograms of cocaine in the trunk. I had the feeling he wasn't in the mood and left him alone with his stretch of asphalt while I sank into my thoughts. Of course I was wrong. A man is always in the mood to be sucked. He could have buried his mother that afternoon or watched his own children die in a fire and he still wouldn't say no to a quick blowjob. Reality is even more abrupt. When a man goes through suffering or crisis, there are only two things to do : press his face to your chest and give him head. You can also feed him and take time to listen, maybe try to distract him, but the only two truly salvific acts are the same for the whole male species : press his face to your chest and give him head.
Taking care of a girl is hard. You must treat her with respect, give her attention, compliment her, make her feel beautiful, give her the impression she's useful, leave her space but not too much, make her come but only when she wants, make her a princess and a bitch at once, all with very subtle doses and different for each girl on Earth. A man, you just keep his stomach full and his balls empty and all will be well.
And in a way, that suited me… My parents dreamed of marrying me to some Muslim man who would enjoy veiling me and keeping me locked up at home, but what I sought with Samson wasn't that different. He decided how I should dress, and I spent a good part of my time alone at the flat, keeping busy cooking. At least my Muslim husband wouldn't have given me a closet as a bed ; he'd have let me sleep with him…
Had I fled my country only to end up in precisely the situation I was trying to avoid ? No. Of course not. Never in Tunisia would I have ended up crossing France to flee drug dealers, never would I have been able to wear low necklines and show my legs to the world, never would I have had so many orgasms…
My gaze was lost in the void. Sometimes far off I saw lights glint in the night. But most of the time there was only darkness. Only the road, lit by the car's headlights, gave a little relief to those shadows. We were alone, the night was ours, and as I drifted in my thoughts, despite myself, lulled by the purr of the engine, I finally fell asleep, making no effort to figure out how this night journey might be a metaphor for my life.

« Welcome to Paris », Samson announced in a toneless voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty, tried to adjust my pupils to the morning light, then, after a few seconds to gather my wits, pressed my hands and face to the window. Paris ! We were over the Seine, stuck in traffic. I must have slept all night. I turned to Samson, eyes wide, mouth in a heart :
« Are we going to see the Eiffel Tower ?
— If you look to your right, yes, you'll end up seeing it. But I suppose I can detour via the center ; it won't kill me, he answered, voice a bit weary and dragging.
— Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! I bubbled. And the Arc de Triomphe ! And Notre-Dame ! And Montmartre ! And the Louvre ! And…
— Yes, yes, that's enough ; we'll take a detour through the center. But for Montmartre, we're going to live right next to it, so you'll have plenty of time to take the funiculaire<12> up to the Sacré-Cœur.
— In Montmartre ! Really ?
— Yeah. Don't get too excited though ; it isn't Paris's most refined neighborhood, far from it. But since I don't want to spend all my income on rent, we'll make do. » I was perfectly willing to make do with Montmartre ; more than make do, I was simply happy, very happy. I started singing Charles Aznavour in the car :

« Hey, hey ! Calm down, young lady, Samson cut in.
— Sorry. When do we see the Eiffel Tower ? »
— We're passing the Porte de Saint-Cloud<13>, my driver told me.
— Where ? I don't see a gate.
— We call Paris's entries portes<14>, a nod to the ramparts that protected the city about a hundred and fifty years ago.
— The ramparts ?
— The city walls, of which few traces remain today. Look to your right, that's the Seine. Jacques Chirac promised we'd be able to bathe in it, but he wasn't above a lie or two…
— So we can't bathe in it ?
— If I were you, I'd avoid it, » Samson replied with a smile. Driving, he kept playing tour guide. He showed me the péniches<15>, then the Île aux Cygnes, let my gaze split between the Trocadéro and the Eiffel Tower, gave me the name of each bridge we crossed — I remembered none but the last — , spoke again of Jacques Chirac as we passed the Musée du Quai Branly, unfortunately a bit hidden by greenery, told me we were about to leave the Seine with the Pont Alexandre III on our right and in its line the Grand Palais. We then went round the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées before driving up the avenue of the same name to the Arc de Triomphe. I was fascinated by that mythical avenue yet at the same time torn… I struggled to see what was so extraordinary about it. Next Samson turned right and after a bit more driving brought me near the famous Butte Montmartre.
In under an hour I had seen almost everything I wanted. For that drive alone through the capital I didn't regret taking the plane to France. My problems didn't matter, my existential crises didn't matter, my future or missed chances didn't matter. I had seen the Eiffel Tower.

# Part Four — From Paris with Lust

## Chapter XVI

The humble digs that served as our nest were rather pleasant. Smaller by far than our old place in Toulouse — because yes, now what was Samson's was also mine, I had decided as much ; therefore, our apartment — but that was part of Paris's charm : a slightly tight space tucked in among those greenish Haussmann roofs, damp stairwells and creaking floorboards, yet a comfortable flat with a certain chic. The kitchen opened onto a small living room, which drove Samson mad : for him, eating off a coffee table was a crime. So he ate seated at his desk — which took up a corner of the living room — naturally turning his back to me during meals. But it wasn't a big deal ; when he wanted to talk, he'd swivel toward me, lose himself in his monologues long enough to forget his plate cooling quietly. Then he'd wolf it down in a rush and calmly resume his ramblings.
The bedroom was tiny. There was room only for a bed and a nightstand. The built-in closet wasn't very big — fortunately we had nothing but the suitcases we'd packed into the car. As for the bathroom, there was enough space to wash and that was already something… I like spacious bathrooms, so on that front I was a little frustrated, but you can't have a manor's bathroom and live in the heart of Paris ; one must choose. As for me, I hadn't really been given that luxury, but it suited me fine.
From what I understood, Samson had booked the place online for a week. Since he liked it, he negotiated to keep it six months more. Because he paid up front and in cash, the owner agreed without a fuss. I inferred I'd be in Paris at least six months. I was happy.
On top of that, I was obliged to sleep with Samson ; the closet was too small and the couch unsuitable. Every night I snuggled against him and, after twenty minutes, he'd push me to the other side of the bed to reclaim his space. I didn't mind. If I needed cuddles, I had only to suck him. Even in the middle of the night, even fast asleep, I'd work his shaft till I drained his balls, then curl back against his warm chest.
During that Paris stay, I became a proper nymphomaniac — but after all, living in Paris without a sex life is nearly blasphemy ; I was merely honoring that formidable capital. My mouth was glued to Samson's sex ; I sucked him constantly. Once, twice, up to three times a day. I didn't always push him to climax — my poor Samson needed vitamins and protein ; I couldn't empty him every time. Three to four times a week, I got fucked. He took me on the kitchen counter or on all fours on the couch ; he fucked me in the ass in the bed or against the wall ; I straddled him on his office chair or even lying on the floor. In that apartment, space was tight but the possibilities vast. In truth, the only curb on our sexual imagination was the number of partners. Me, Samson, me and Samson, Samson and me.
One afternoon when we'd screwed in a fairly classic — though feral — way, Samson reminded me of our old bet from the Toulouse days :
« Do you remember you still owe me to sleep with Kirsten ? Are you still up for it ?
— Do I really have a choice ? I answered him.
— Do you actually care whether you have a choice or not ?
— Well… a little, yes, I said hesitantly.
— Well then, next time I'll ask your permission before fucking your ass. Or before kissing you. Or before holding you in my arms. Or spanking your ass. Or…
— Fine, enough, you're right, I cut him off. No, having a choice doesn't interest me. You want me to make your Danish girlfriend come, is that it ?
— She just landed a job as a parliamentary assistant for some deputy, so she'll be leaving Brussels to live in Paris now. Chances are we'll bump into her from time to time, and I'd rather things go smoothly between you two.
— I suppose I don't get a say in the matter, I replied, a bit bitter.
— We just established that having a choice doesn't interest you. But if you don't like the situation, I'm ready to pay for your ticket back to Tunisia. Or write to Marc so he comes to pick you up, if you prefer. » I didn't answer those threats. The message was clear : if he ever had to choose between me and Kirsten, between the clumsy little Tunisian and the tall elegant Dane, he'd choose the pretty blonde without hesitation. At that moment, it felt like an immutable truth of mankind : the male would always choose the pretty blonde, whatever the circumstances. Kirsten could've been a heroin-addicted serial killer and I could've been a PhD student in Mesopotamian archaeology, he still would've chosen the blonde. In reality, I had to admit : his Dane was an international law lawyer, now a parliamentary assistant, while I was just a parasite living off him. And like an aphid, the only thing I knew how to do was suck his sap…

Several days passed, and I couldn't get out of my head that Kirsten was better than me in every way. It was obviously a misplaced form of self-deprecation : I was the one living with Samson, I was the one who'd followed him fleeing Toulouse, I was the one with the bigger pair of tits — and God knows that's a crucial criterion for a man — , I was the one sucking him with conviction several times a day, I was, in short, the one he had chosen. Yet, in my sick mind, it was obvious Kirsten was his favorite. Kirsten the Dane, Kirsten the blonde with long legs, Kirsten the girl with the ridiculous name whom I was going to make scream so loud that Samson would fall in love with me.
I'd never really asked myself whether Samson had feelings for me. Well, in truth, I asked myself this question every day, but the answer scared me so much that I shoved it deep down inside. After all, as long as the question isn't openly asked, there is no answer ; no answer, no problem.
Samson, of course, was completely oblivious to these miasmas devouring my brain. He carried on with his business as if we were still in Toulouse. Often he went out to deliver his goods to some mystery clientele, but sometimes he received buyers in the apartment. I was then ordered to lock myself in the bedroom and not come out. I couldn't see what was going on, but I could hear. Though rarely was there anything exciting to hear…
They were only men — though Samson had originally set up this business to sleep with girls, what an irony — , and from the way they expressed themselves, they were educated, certainly wealthy ; in short, the exact opposite of his Toulouse clientele.
One of them, however, caught my attention. He had a deep, gravelly voice that was easily recognizable. He had already come three times to buy cocaine. He wasn't talkative and went straight to the point. He rarely stayed more than a minute or two. He was there to stock up, not to fill any sort of social void.
His fourth visit was noticeably different. As soon as the door opened, he greeted Samson more warmly than usual :
« Samson, hello my friend. How are you ?
— Pretty well, thank you, and you ?
— Oh, not bad, not bad. But I'm going to need your services.
— If I may, sir, Samson ventured, your consumption is already dangerously high.
— It's kind of you to worry about me, my boy, but you know, what I buy from you isn't for me, it's for the girls I see. All it takes is one line up their nose and they turn docile as lambs. But actually, that's not what I'm here for today. I'm here for a mule of a girl who doesn't want to behave as much as she should. I wanted to know if you had a strong sleeping pill or something like that, so she'll stop annoying me with her stories about women's freedom and consent.
— Well… yes… I should have something like that. Wait here a moment. » Samson then opened the bedroom door and shot me a very significant look that said silence. He took down from the very top of the closet a plastic crate which he placed on the bed. He pulled out what looked like a bottle of some chemical product and set it on the nightstand. Then he grabbed a large lab pipette and a tiny glass vial. With the pipette, he drew some of the transparent liquid from the bottle and used it to fill the little vial. He put everything back, then stepped out of the bedroom with the preparation in his hand. Closing the door behind him, he addressed his client while setting the product down on the coffee table with a distinct sound :
« Here. Two milliliters of GBL. It's undistilled GHB, what's called the date-rape drug. In Toulouse I could have prepared it for you, but here I don't have the equipment, so instead of a powder, here's a vial of transparent liquid. But be careful, it's highly corrosive, you must absolutely not drink it pure, and the taste is very bitter. The best way to take it is to mix it into a tall glass of syrup or fruit juice. Stir it well before drinking.
— One vial in her glass and she'll forget everything I could do to her, right ? asked the client.
— Well, not exactly, it's a little more complicated. This is a product with aphrodisiac properties. From half a milliliter to a milliliter, you just wait half an hour and you'll have a girl relaxed and easily aroused, who'll have long, powerful orgasms. Beyond one milliliter, you risk having a half-asleep girl, still able to struggle though. Beyond two milliliters, it becomes dangerous for her health, you risk killing her. Now, with one milliliter and a glass of alcohol, you've got a girl who'll become confused, disoriented, incapable of understanding what's happening or defending herself. The sensations will be quite close to drunkenness. Then, she'll lose consciousness for a few hours. In that state, it's practically impossible to wake her, you can subject her to any outrage, she'll keep her eyes shut. When she wakes up, she'll be a bit lost, maybe nauseous, and it'll probably take her two or three days to fully recover. It's possible she'll have memory loss and remember nothing of the evening, but that's not guaranteed.
— I see, said the client. That's an interesting product you're offering me, Samson. So if I sum it up, half the vial in a beer with enough peach syrup to mask the bitterness, and I'll be guaranteed a good evening.
— Exactly. Just be careful not to leave her on her back once she's unconscious, the risk of choking on vomit isn't negligible.
— Very well. How much do I owe you for this little liquid wonder ?
— As you can imagine, it's not easy to come by. I can offer you the vial for four hundred euros, what do you say ?
— Your price will be mine, my boy, your price will be mine. And if it works as you say, I may buy a fair quantity from you next time, I have the feeling your GBL will suit me.
— It'll work perfectly, you'll see. But if anyone asks where you got it, the answer remains the same : some filthy little Arab sold it to you at Porte de Clignancourt.
— You know, Samson, one day I really will go shopping in Saint-Ouen, and then you'll regret it.
— The quality's not the same, believe me… » After a few polite words, Samson walked the man to the door and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. I took the opportunity to slip out of the bedroom and sit next to him. Curious, I struck up the conversation :
« Was that really a drug you just gave him ? It looked more like a bottle of some weird chemical.
— Because GBL is a chemical. In fact, it's a very strong detergent. But once ingested, our body converts it into GHB. It's true I could have sold him a vial of water, it would've been funny. But he's a good client, I can't afford that kind of game. And you know, a can of GBL I buy in Lithuania costs me something like a hundred bucks a liter. At that price, I might as well keep the client satisfied.
— A hundred euros, and you resell the tiny vial for four hundred ?
— He comes asking me for help to take advantage of a girl, and he has no idea where else to buy it. So all things considered, something I could sell for ten or twenty bucks, I sell him for four hundred and he's happy with it.
— And it doesn't bother you to sell him something that'll help him rape a girl ? I asked, troubled.
— You heard him : the girls he's with are junkies willing to do anything for their fix. Whether they slowly kill themselves with cocaine or get wrecked on GHB, I couldn't care less. No, actually I'll go even further. Girls who hang around pigs like him and destroy their bodies and minds with drugs, whatever their reasons, I feel no compassion for them. » I didn't know what to reply to so much cynicism. It wasn't a side of Samson I knew. He'd always been kind. Sometimes a bit harsh, often distant, but never toxic like that…
Maybe he really was a bad boy after all… But then, did that mean he was kind only with me ? I wasn't proud of it, but I liked that idea very much.

## Chapter XVII

During the few days preceding Kirsten's arrival, I set myself the ambition of maximizing my potential. I decided to watch a mountain of tutorials on how to be elegant, how to improve body language, how to dress with class, how to behave like a true Parisian bourgeoise, how to work out to have beautiful buttocks — in short, how to be better than a Danish lawyer.
During my workout sessions in the middle of the living room, Samson watched me, half excited, half amused, and sometimes, when I struck a particularly indecent pose, he would get up just to smack my ass. One afternoon, pitying me, he took me near the Paris Opera so I could buy some more refined, more elegant, more sophisticated, in a way more pretentious — in short, more Parisian clothes.
But watching a video of a girl well-versed in the exercise of choosing her clothes with taste was one thing… doing it yourself was quite another.
Ma chaa Allah, a kind saleswoman in some clothing boutique helped me with my shopping. She knew how to advise me with pieces that enhanced me without giving me vulgar airs. I now embodied sublime décadence : I was desirable, attractive, sexy, and all at once of a rare élégance.
I now felt so confident that I forbade Samson from touching me until Kirsten came. Of course, I couldn't forbid anything to Samson : if he wanted, he took, there was no discussion. But he played along and remained abstinent for three days straight.

Three long days of waiting, deprived of sex and cuddles… Was it really poor Samson I was making languish, or was it me ?
On the fourth day, God created the Sun, the Moon, and the stars. Here in Paris, on the fourth day, it was Kirsten who appeared — yet who was, in her way, a blend of Sun, Moon, and stars… I felt confident after my three days of working out and my new clothes ; in a few seconds my confidence had left me. Kirsten wore a white tailleur<16>, perfectly shaped, with a pencil skirt revealing delicious legs. Her makeup was sober, almost invisible. After a few seconds frozen on the threshold, seized by a palpable awkwardness, she gathered herself and entered the flat. She kissed Samson, glanced around, and decided it was a perfectly charming place. Then she looked at me for an instant — an instant that felt like hours — smiled and said :
« Hello, I'm Kirsten. I love your hair, I dream of having it that thick. » I didn't know what to say. I expected a sort of rivalry between her and me. I thought we would fight over Samson, that it would be a contest to offer the most spectacular performance to our male, but not at all. She was gentle, kind, even adorable, open and smiling. And truly gorgeous… I could have fallen in love with her. I could have told her :
« Don't worry, poupée, you're super hot too, I'll eat your kitty right now, no problem, » but first, my French wasn't good enough to talk like that, and second, I was utterly unable to utter a word, so disconcerted was I. I stayed silent before her, creating despite myself a kind of awkwardness between us. I then had no choice but to take her porcelain face in my hands and kiss her full on the mouth.
Kissing a woman felt strange… It was soft, delicate, and electric at once. She smelled wonderful, like a freshly picked jasmine flower. I let my hands slide down from her shoulders to her hips. It was unsettling. She was so slender, almost fragile. I could have lifted her with the strength of my arms alone. She too let her hands explore my body. She was soft, caressing, subtle, yet very present. She pressed her slender body to mine, kissing me in a way very different from Samson's. It was she who led the dance of our lips, she who set the rhythm of our caresses, and yet it was I who, though smaller, had the physical strength, had the upper hand over her. I could have thrown her onto the sofa the way Samson did with me. She was subject to my will and I was subject to her. All the codes of sex were upended. Kneeling before her made no sense ; caressing her torso carried a very different implication since there were her breasts ; running my hand through her hair was perhaps the only familiar gesture I could make. Her blond hair was extraordinarily fine, like silk threads filled with Sun. I buried my face in the hollow of her neck and devoured it. Her scent was incredible, almost heady. With agile fingers she slipped my dress down my body, then seized my breasts as if they were the very source of life. But her gestures, though firm, were oddly attentive. She touched my chest as if it were the altar of some temple to venerate, far from those masculine gestures that treat them like two melons to squeeze at a market stall.
I began undressing her too. Her skin was unbelievably soft and, I repeat, exhaled a suave, delicate perfume. It was like biting into a peach on a spring evening.
When at last her breasts appeared, I was troubled. They were small, discreet, white as alabaster, innocent as two buds seeking to bloom. I hardly dared touch them, and Kirsten was so sensitive that the slightest brush against her nipples made her moan. Those moans sounded like murmurs, as if she were whispering her pleasure into my ear. I felt her light breath against my skin ; I felt her hands roam my body in search of some zone that might awaken sexual magic.
But so much softness, exciting as it was, began to frustrate me. I needed something hard, tangible, bliss-bringing. With both hands I seized her two little buttocks, no bigger than hazelnuts, lifted her off the ground, carried her through the flat, and threw her onto the bed. As she wrapped her legs around my waist, she pulled me down with her and I collapsed onto her. I heard her let out a « ja » of pleasure. She really liked being dominated. I climbed over her and, with my hands, pinned her arms to the bed above her head. Then I kissed her ardently, passionately, almost savagely. In truth, I was biting more than kissing. Her lips, fine yet plush, I wanted to draw blood from them and suck it. Her rosy tongue mingling with mine, I wanted to devour it.
Still carnivorous, I descended to her breasts. I dreamed of tearing those little nipples off with my teeth, but she was so receptive, so sensitive that a simple flick of my tongue already grazed the border between pleasure and pain.
Kneeling on the bed, I went lower, kissing her belly, her navel, the insides of her thighs, back up to the belly, down her legs again, until that fountain of youth that was her wet sex cried out in frustration. Yes, it had come to the point where she burned so with desire that her body itself cried in silence. The time for gentleness had passed. Without ceremony, I shoved two fingers into her. I attacked the beast as if stabbing a victim. A lumberjack sawing a tree would have been more delicate.
Sensing her close to exploding, I cooled my ardor. I went back to kissing her body : her belly, her breasts, her shoulders, her neck, her face, her lips, then descended the same path, lingering at her navel, going down again until at last I tasted that delicate dish that was her sex. What a delicious pussy ! what a refined vulva ! It was French haute cuisine — Danish though she was.
I lapped at that fountain like a cat delighting in creamy milk. With the tip of my tongue, I teased that little hood trying to hide beneath the Mount of Venus. Kirsten began to shout words in Danish, so I redoubled my efforts, so much so that her body began to vibrate, to tremble, to exult, until she cried « beskidt kludehoved luder ».
As I moved back up her body, she seized my face in both hands and pulled it to kiss me. Her gestures had become firm, powerful. It was now she who devoured my lips. It was as if I had just released her inner beast. She was enraged. With unsuspected strength, she flipped me over and climbed atop me. She ate my breasts as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. She mistreated them with an unsuspected violence. But she knew what she was doing… She held exactly to the limit between pleasure and pain. With her long hard nails, she scratched up my body. I took her for a little kitten, but she was a tigress.
With my hands, I caressed her back, her legs, her breasts. Her body was a treasure of softness — a treasure of softness unleashing rare violence upon me.
Soon her fingers went seeking my sex. I was used to Samson's big musician's hands. However much heart she put into it, those fairy fingers were, for me, nothing more than a pleasant diversion. A very pleasant diversion.
Suddenly she cried out : « Hellige hort ». I saw above her Samson holding her by the hips. He had penetrated her without warning, inviting himself into our frolic. I had forgotten he even existed, so absorbed was I by my partner's attentions.
The mood shifted in an instant. In a heartbeat, the beautiful Dane surrendered wholly to her male. She was nothing but a pleasure object collapsing onto me. But when I kissed her, she returned my kiss. She moaned while kissing me, clung to me with her nails like an eagle to its prey, our hair mingling in a whirlwind of black ash and fire.
Samson then changed orifice. He entered my open pussy, that welcoming little nest he knew so well. Very quickly, he came in me. His excitement was such that he couldn't last more than a minute — I understood.
As Samson withdrew, Kirsten dove for my crotch and sucked up all the vital fluid that flowed from it, that seed too salty, too bitter. I admired her fervor. I too liked swallowing Samson's offerings, but I had to admit I did it with less zeal…
Our lovemaking finished — for yes, Samson having come between us and climaxed, we had therefore finished — our shared lover lay back, taking each of us in one arm. The pretty blonde and the busty brunette, both in the same bed, must have been a kind of masculine ideal.
I laid my head on his shoulder and discovered that Kirsten had done the same. Our eyes met and she smiled at me. I smiled back. Too many pleasure hormones floated in the air for there to be anything between us but tenderness and camaraderie.
After a few moments, Kirsten murmured in Samson's ear :
« We'll need to talk about something later. » The sated male answered with nothing more than a brief grunt of assent. He was already almost asleep — and so was I.

## Chapter XVIII

When I opened my eyes, Kirsten was no longer in the bed. I saw her on the balcony smoking a cigarette, her nose buried in her phone. She was already dressed, her suit perfectly fitted and her hair impeccable. I didn't dare look at my own reflection in a mirror, my face puffed from too long a nap and my hair disheveled.
Since Samson was still asleep, I didn't dare move much. I stayed like that, my face resting against his chest, watching Kirsten through the window. I felt good.
Once she finished her cigarette, Kirsten opened the door without restraint, as if she meant to wake Samson. Her plan worked, since he stirred in bed and emerged from sleep. I moved aside to give him space. He looked around, as if he had forgotten what had just happened, sat on the edge of the bed, thought for a few seconds, then declared :
« I'm going to take a shower.
— No, cut in Kirsten. I can't stay much longer and I need to talk to you, follow me.
— Well… sighed Samson. If my Lady wishes to speak to me, who am I to refuse ? » He then pulled himself out of bed, grabbed a towel in the bathroom, wrapped it around his waist, and followed the young Dane into the living room.
In this apartment, the walls seemed made of papier-mâché, so thin and poorly insulated they were. Although Samson closed the door behind him, I could easily hear the couch creak as he sat down, I could also make out Kirsten settling more delicately in the armchair, and of course, despite the light and discreet voice of the young woman, I could make out the whole conversation :
« Do you want something to drink, offered Samson.
— No, it's fine, thank you, replied Kirsten, letting a silence linger.
— Well, what do you want to talk about then, asked Samson impatiently.
— Listen, it's a bit delicate.
— No need to go around in circles with me Kirsten, I'm neither a lawyer nor a politician, your politeness protocols, you can skip.
— Alright. So listen, you know I work for a filthy socialist pig.
— I mostly know you don't want to tell me his name, but yes, you mentioned the subject, sneered Samson.
— Yes. And when you told me he hired me just because he thought I was pretty, I brushed you off.
— Yes, brushed me off — the polite version of : ignoring me for three months like a stuck-up bitch.
— Making your little Arab girlfriend wet, that's not enough of an apology for you ? snapped Kirsten. By the way, I wonder what you are doing with a kid like that, but whatever, I'm not here to talk about that.
— Oh, you know very well I don't eat spoiled food. Past a certain age, meat starts to go off.
— Yeah, save your misogynist sarcasm for someone else, will you ? snapped Kirsten. Sleep with whoever you want, I don't care.
— Says the one who does care, cut in Samson.
— Yeah, yeah, I'm crazy about you, I couldn't live without you. No girl could live without the great Samson, we know. I wonder why I waste my time with you, I'm leaving. » At those words, I heard her stand up. Samson probably made a move to stop her, since I heard flesh collide :
« Wait, Kirsten, sorry, I'm clumsy. I had an amazing time with you today. I always have amazing times with you. It's me who couldn't live without you, you know that. You've got a problem, sit down and talk to me, I'm here, I'm listening.
— Well, sighed Kirsten as the armchair creaked, you were right. It kind of kills me to admit it, but you were right, that old socialo did indeed hire me because he wants to sleep with me.
— And that's a problem ?
— Apart from the fact that he disgusts me both physically and mentally, yes, that's a problem. He's the old-school politician type who thinks everything is owed to him and that he has the right to demand whatever he wants. I feel like one night I'm going to end up cornered in his office and it's going to end badly…
— Then why don't you just quit ? asked Samson naively.
— It's not that simple… I left the Republican ship to go eat from the Socialist trough, it would be hard for me to go back. And he's not running again, that old bastard, he's too old, he's going to step down. If I play my cards right, it could be me as candidate in the next legislative elections. He's on a constituency almost guaranteed to the Socialists. It's not a sure win, but almost. And that's in four months. Four months to hold out. I can't afford to leave now.
— Mademoiselle the Dane and her ambitions in French politics… Double nationality isn't bad, is it ? mocked Samson.
— What are you talking about ? You know very well why I'm doing politics in France and not in Denmark. It's your country that's rotten, not mine. It's your country that needs to be taken back in hand, not mine. If I wanted, I'd be in a big firm in København right now, instead of dealing with these socialos. Copenhagen, sorry.
— I don't understand why you even joined them. They're pretty much the opposite of what you fight for, aren't they ?
— Doesn't matter which door I walk through. But forget that ! Stop interrupting me ! flared Kirsten.
— Alright, I'm listening, tell me everything.
— As I was saying, continued the young Dane, calmer now. So this fat pig hired me solely to sleep with me. And okay, he's not the first to have those ambitions, but him — he scares me. I feel — I know — that he can be dangerous, denne store bastard.
— And what do you expect from me ? asked Samson.
— I don't know ! That's the whole problem, I don't know what to do… Next week I have to accompany him to the Japanese embassy for some stupid ceremony and I'm sure he'll find a way to hint that he's sleeping with me. I'm sure one way or another he'll try to sleep with me. He scares me, Samson, he scares me.
— At the Japanese embassy ? You know I'm actually invited to that ceremony. Well, mostly I'm invited to the private party afterwards, but I'll be there. I'll keep an eye on you, don't worry.
— What's this about a private party ? I hadn't heard of that, worried Kirsten.
— Well, you should be worried. It's the kind of dirty soirée. They don't invite me because I'm charming, said Samson with a predatory smile.
— I have to cancel. I absolutely have to cancel. I can't go there with him. But I can't cancel. I have to hold out until the elections.
— Listen, tried to reassure her Samson, I'll be there, I'll have an eye on you, and if things go badly, I'll break noses. I've got a bit of carte blanche there, you know.
— You'll really be there ?
— Yes.
— I don't know how you get into all these places, one day you'll have to explain that to me. But whatever. Alright, I'm counting on you for next Saturday, you won't leave me alone there ?
— Don't worry, I'll make sure nothing happens to you.
— Samson… Thank you. I really have to go now. I'll leave you. And don't forget me. » I then heard her stand, place a kiss on Samson, and leave the room to the sound of her heels hammering the floor.
When she had left the apartment, I dared to poke my head through the crack of the bedroom door. Samson chuckled and beckoned me over :
« So, you were eavesdropping ?
— No, no, I tried to defend myself. But the walls are really thin.
— Oh, that's alright, you know. Especially since you too will be at the Japanese embassy next Saturday.
— Me ? For what ?
— To get pounded by the whole Parisian political clique. Well, not the whole… just the twisted ones, but that's already a lot.
— I'm not sure I understand, I said anxiously.
— How long have you been in France ? About a year ?
— Almost a year and a half, yes.
— And in a year and a half, what have you known ? Two cocks and a pussy ? It's time to explore new horizons. If your goal was to be the nice housewife, you should've stayed in Tunisia. And me, I have to admit I can't keep up the pace anymore. Those three days off did me good. I love sex, I love sucking your tits, I love pounding your ass, no problem. But three, four, five times a day, I can't anymore ! It's time for you to move up a gear. Sure, it won't be handsome young Apollos who'll fuck you, but still. You're going to see judges, prefects, senators, deputies, maybe even ministers. You'll be the queen of the ball. They'll all want you more than you can imagine. Exoticism, big ass, big tits — they love that. Sometimes I think they pass pro-immigration laws just to bring in little beurettes<17> to fuck. » I didn't understand everything Samson had just told me. Many words he used in French were unfamiliar to me : Apollon, préfet, sénateur, ministre, immigration, beurette, tringler. But I had understood the essential : he intended to offer me to a bunch of rich and powerful men who would make me their sexual toy.
The question was whether I wanted to do that or not. — Of course I wanted to ! No, the real question was this, and I said it out loud :
« What's a socialo ?
— A son-of-a-bitch politician who gives away money that isn't his.
— For what purpose ? I asked, without really understanding his answer.
— To buy votes and social peace. »

## Chapter XIX

During the few days separating us from that evening at the Japanese embassy, I admit I was somewhat anxious. I felt as if Samson was dragging me, despite myself, into places far too debauched for my modest person. I fancied myself a wild girl, but he was right : for months I'd been playing the role of the nice housewife. It was time for me to explore the limits of my desires.
In truth, things were murkier still : what really made me thrum was turning Samson on. With Kirsten, yes, it was an incredible experience ; I'd never have believed I could feel so much desire for a woman's body. But deep down, the true source of my excitement was Samson's gaze on us. Knowing he had an erection just from looking at me was already, in itself, a source of intense satisfaction.
So this evening planned at the Japanese embassy — with powerful men, rich men, influential men — was going to be an extraordinary experience. And Samson, as aroused as he'd be, would very likely feel jealousy. He had never yet seen me in another man's arms. Well, he had seen me with Marc, of course. But who could decently be jealous of Marc ? Certainly not Samson.
Two days before the embassy evening, Marc — of whom I'd had no news for some time — sent me a message :

$ Hi Éya, it's Marc, how are you ? $

Hi. I'm fine, and you ?

$ I'm fine, thanks. Are you still in Toulouse ? $

No, why ?

$ Where are you then ? $

I'm in Paris.

$ Oh. I have a gift I'd like to give you. But since you don't live in Toulouse anymore, I can send it to you by post, if you'd like. $

What kind of gift ?

$ If I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise. Give me your address, I'll send it today. If all goes well, it'll arrive this weekend. $

I'm not so sure…

$ It's just a gift, you know. It would make me happy if you received it. $

Well, alright then.

It was certainly a foolish idea, but I gave Marc my address. My name wasn't on the mailbox, but normally, with the apartment number, the postman could still deliver the gift.
I already regretted telling him where I lived, but at the same time, I was really curious to know what this gift might be. And anyway, even if he came to cause trouble, Samson would deal with him — there was nothing to worry about.
He soon gave me news that made me forget all about this business of the address and the gift :
« Éya, this afternoon we're going to the airport to pick up someone you've already met.
— Who ? Marc ? I asked, worried.
— Oh ! No, not Marc. Leave him where he is, he'll need a few more months yet before he forgets you. No, I'm talking about a girl.
— Kirsten ?
— No, Kirsten's already in Paris. Someone else. » Rack my brain as I might, I had no idea who he meant. Who on earth could he be referring to ? Surely he wasn't bringing my mother from Tunisia ! Just putting the idea into words would have made me sick, so I preferred to stay silent. A girl I had already met ? Who on earth could that be ? The mystery remained whole for me.

We drove to Charles de Gaulle Airport. To tell the truth, I avoided walking around Paris or taking public transportation. When we moved near the Butte Montmartre, I thought we were reaching luxury. In reality, it was a filthy, disreputable neighborhood, and the few times I had the misfortune to go out alone, I ran into hordes of Blacks and Arabs trying to drag me home with them in the most unsubtle ways. I later discovered that this was called street harassment.
I had imagined Paris as a refined city, a reflection of French elegance. Of course, I didn't expect men to kneel before me reciting verses of Alfred de Musset with a rose between their lips, nor did I dream of someone playing the mandolin under my window, but I at least expected some respect and politeness — the very basics of good manners.
En place de cela, j'avais des hommes de tous âges — du vieux chauve ridé jusqu'à l'adolescent malingre — qui me sollicitaient en permanence. J'en regrettais presque de ne plus porter le voile. Au moins ainsi m'auraient-ils laissée tranquille.
I would have liked, though, for some man to take an interest in me, to approach me, to try to seduce me, to compliment me ; perhaps I would even have followed him for an hour of anonymous love. But what I got instead were animals, halfwits, men without subtlety or education who came to demand my favors — even in the Tunisian hinterland, men behaved better. And if I had the misfortune to decline their invitation, or simply ignore them, then came a torrent of insults raining down on me. I suppose there are techniques for dealing with such individuals, knowing what to answer, how, and under what circumstances, but I had only been in Paris for a short time, I was far from mastering all those codes — and I had no desire to master them. To be treated as a sexual object by a man, yes ; to be treated like an animal to be stuffed by filthy thugs from the northern districts, no.
I had already gone out very little in Toulouse. To be fair, the repeated lockdowns hadn't helped… In Paris I simply no longer set foot outside unless I was accompanied. In those neighborhoods they had managed to achieve the retrograde Muslim ideal : a woman does not walk alone in the street. In fact, even when I went out with Samson, the atmosphere was tense. People stared at me as if I were a traitor to my race for being with a white man. And the discomfort reached yet another level when we came back from the airport — but I'll get to that.
During the entire drive to Charles de Gaulle, I couldn't stop wondering who this mysterious guest was. It couldn't be my mother, no, that would have made no sense. And I was ready for a good deal of debauchery, but that would clearly have been too much…
The mystery was finally lifted in the arrivals hall. I immediately recognized that tall, cheerful Black girl who used to clean for Samson. I was utterly incapable of remembering her name, but I easily recognized her face and her figure. But what on earth was she doing here ? I was the one doing the cleaning in Paris, we didn't need her ; I was perfectly capable of taking care of Samson on my own. And bringing a girl all the way from Toulouse just to clean made no sense at all… The second she spotted Samson, she waved at us excitedly and came toward us. She kissed me on the cheek as if we had been lifelong friends, then did the same to Samson, and immediately launched into the story of her trip with her booming, resonant voice. I was quite certain the entire airport could hear the saga of her travels. Her talent for talking without saying anything was such that I can't reproduce a single sentence of that conversation. She managed to spend ten minutes explaining to us that she had left her home, taken the plane, and landed in Paris. < That's fine, girl, but who cares >, I thought.
So this was the mystery guest I had already met… I felt relieved. Léonie, the Black cleaning lady with a name even stranger than Kirsten's. Samson really had a knack for finding girls with unusual names. Even me — I was called Éya. Éya, in Arabic, means virtue. It's pretty, but it fits me terribly poorly. And anyway, would I really have liked to carry a stripper's name like Shannon or Stacy ? — Not in a million years.
During the entire ride, Léonie monopolized the conversation. Her life was bland and insipid, but she could talk about it for hours on end. The smallest annoyance was reason for endless complaints, the tiniest event became an inexhaustible source of wonder, any interaction an excuse for a never-ending monologue. She was exhausting. I prayed silently that she would return to Toulouse after the weekend. If not, I was ready to take the first flight back to Tunisia on Monday morning. — Or worse : go back to Marc. Well, no, not that, let's not exaggerate.

Once we arrived at the apartment, she unpacked her things and I was forced to make room for her in the small closet of the bedroom. I had never particularly liked Black people ; now I knew why.
After this brief settling in, the three of us found ourselves seated around the low table in the living room. Samson served us drinks and, once he had our attention, he spoke :
« Well, girls. As you know, on Saturday we'll be at the Japanese embassy. Officially, we'll be celebrating… well, I don't even remember what we're supposed to be celebrating, but it doesn't matter. What matters is the party afterwards, still in the embassy grounds. We'll have all sorts of politicians from different backgrounds. We'll also have senior officials and God knows who else. And it really doesn't matter. You don't need to know their names or their jobs. All you have to do is chat with whoever talks to you and fulfill their sexual desires. You'll be paid for it. Paid well. I'll take care of collecting the money and redistributing it to you afterward, so that everything runs as smoothly as possible for you. Of course, I'll keep half the money, but even then you'll still have enough to be comfortable for quite a while. You'll need to be perfectly presentable : no vulgarity, no crudeness, no refusals, and always enthusiasm and a smile. You must be charming company. If you have questions, I'm listening. » Naturally, Léonie had a billion questions. And some of them were even fairly relevant, but her cheerful tone, the pitch of her voice, her clumsy choice of words — everything about her grated on me. She was sitting on the couch, but she took up as much space as if she were pacing around the room, flailing her arms.
As for me, I was taking the blow. Samson was proposing that I serve as a luxury prostitute in a private party for elite men. We were no longer in the realm of adolescent fantasy.
While Léonie's endless chatter hummed like background noise to my thoughts, my brain began to smoke. I had the chance to take part in a grand orgy, to be the star of the night, to visit the Japanese embassy — and probably to suck the tiny dick of that ambassador — I was going to make a lot of money, I was going to make connections with high-ranking people. Who knows, I might even find myself a Japanese husband who would take me to live in Tokyo… Because yes, after only a few months in Paris, I was already weary. I wanted more, I wanted Tokyo.
The downsides, however, were not to be ignored. First, I was about to become a whore. Not just some slut who sucks her boyfriend's cock at three in the afternoon, no — a real whore who gets paid. That was, of course, morally condemnable : being a whore, before being a job, was above all an insult.
In Tunisia, having sex outside marriage was already a crime. And perhaps they weren't entirely wrong… But then again, fucking a wife you hated who despised you in return was just and even recommended, whereas giving in to desire and letting yourself be taken by a handsome stranger for one night was wrong and punishable by law.
In the same way, paving roads under forty-degree heat, burning your lungs with asphalt fumes, dragging yourself home exhausted for a meager salary was honorable. But giving pleasure to rich men, giving love to lonely men, coming and making them come for money — that was condemnable…
Of course, back then I didn't have the moral or logical tools to develop this reflection much further, and I mainly tried to justify in any way I could my participation in what I knew deep down was something wrong. But wasn't it precisely the fact that it was wrong that made it so alluring ? If I had wanted to embrace the path of righteousness, I would have married Marc. What a horror. It was obvious that I had to go to that embassy party. In any case, Samson wasn't really leaving me a choice. He hadn't asked my opinion ; he had simply informed me that my presence would be required. I was his object, and I loved it. I didn't really know the details of this orgy, but it didn't matter much. I would make them all come so hard that even years later, when fucking their wives without passion, they would still be thinking of me.

## Chapter XX

Marc's surprise turned out to be rather unusual… if one can put it that way.
It was the morning before the orgy at the embassy. Léonie was carefully styling my hair — and with a certain skill, I had to admit. For such a classy evening, propriety would have dictated that I tie my hair up in an elegant, sophisticated chignon, but Samson had decreed that my hair — just like Léonie's — had to be left loose. I wasn't there to embody some boring baroness, I was there to embody sex and femininity. And so, apparently, sex and femininity meant long hair, both free and disciplined. — He probably wasn't wrong.
So we were in the middle of preparations when someone knocked violently at the door. A négroïde voice boomed in the hallway :
« Samson, enculé ! Open this fucking door or I'll smash it down with my foot ! You hear me, you motherfucker ? I'll fuck your mother if you don't open right now ! » These threats were somewhat absurd, because given the man's rage, if Samson did open the door, a torrent of violence would have crashed down on him.
It took me a few seconds to understand what was happening. I knew that voice. Of course ! It was one of the drug dealers Samson had ripped off. But how had he found us ?
It took me a few more seconds to realize it was me who had caused the leak. I had given my address to Marc, who, seeking revenge on Samson, must have passed it on to the two Blacks. And indeed the second one's voice soon joined in, pouring out a torrent of vulgarities that don't need to be reproduced here.
Samson seemed somewhat unsettled. He looked around. I saw in his eyes his brain racing at full speed. Suddenly, he fixed his gaze on Léonie and me and, whispering, ordered us to hide in the bathroom and lock the door.
Léonie obeyed without thinking and I followed her. However, our curiosity was such that not only did we not lock the door, we left it slightly ajar, so we could watch the scene unfold.
We saw Samson wrap a towel around his left forearm. I lifted my eyes to meet Léonie's, but she didn't seem to understand the purpose of this strategy any more than I did. He then grabbed a large kitchen knife, muttering something about his sword.
I had known it was stupid to throw it away. But then again, did I really want to witness a sword fight in my apartment ? No more than I wanted to witness a knife fight… But, as always, I had no choice.
Samson pressed himself against the wall near the door and called out :
« What do you want, Marcel ?
— You know damn well what I want, you motherfucker ! Give me back my dope and pray I don't put a bullet between your eyes !
— You came here with a gun ? Are you stupid or what, man ? This isn't the Mirail, the neighbors must've already called the cops if they saw you.
— Open this fucking door or I'll shoot your neighbors !
— Alright, alright. I'm going to open the door, okay ? So stay calm, don't do anything stupid, I'll give you your stuff back, does that work ?
— Open, damn it ! » As Samson's attempts to calm things down seemed to fail, he tightened his grip on the knife and with his other hand unlocked the door. The hysterical Black burst into the apartment. Samson, still pressed against the wall, took the chance to stab him from behind, plunging the blade into his right flank just under the ribs. Marcel screamed in pain and dropped his pistol. Samson didn't even have time to pull out the blade before the second Black rushed him and shoved him so hard they both crashed onto the coffee table, which shattered to pieces. Their struggle was messy, wild, loud. Samson was a martial artist, a refined practitioner of combat. In that moment, he was nothing. All those techniques he had learned meant nothing when fighting on the floor against a furious nigger.
With his left arm still wrapped in the towel, Samson was pressing against his attacker's throat, but it didn't seem to bother him. The Black kept pummeling his opponent's face without pause. Most of the blows landed off-target, being so clumsy, and Samson managed to block a good number with his right arm, but he wasn't getting out of it.
Meanwhile, the stabbed Black managed to pull the knife from his flank. His rage was so strong that adrenaline numbed the pain. He rushed at the two men on the ground and tried to stab Samson. The chaos was such that no one could land a decisive blow. The towel around Samson's arm suddenly made sense : he was using it to parry the knife strikes.
Suddenly, Léonie burst out of the bathroom and ran to the kitchen. She opened a drawer and grabbed the first weapon she found : a modest steak knife. Then she let out a scream so loud that all three fighters turned toward her. She ran forward and plunged the blade into Marcel's shoulder, stabbing him for the second time in less than five minutes. But Léonie didn't stop there. She pulled out the blade and struck again, then a third time, and kept going, screaming all the while.
That was when I decided to intervene too. Marcel's gun was still on the floor, everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. Everyone except me. I rushed to grab it and aimed it at the fighters. In a timid voice, I ordered them to stop. They didn't even hear me…
I repeated my order, a little more firmly. Still no reaction. Léonie kept screaming while slashing uselessly with her ridiculous knife. The Black tried to calm her by grabbing her hands, but she was a real fury. I could hardly make out what Samson was doing on the ground, but he still seemed to be struggling.
I wished I could fire a shot into the air to calm them all down, but I had no idea how the thing worked. Was I supposed to pull the trigger, remove the safety ? Above all, I needed composure — and that, I completely lacked.
At last, by sheer clumsiness, Léonie managed to slash the Black's throat. A first jet of blood spurted from his carotid artery, and the poor girl screamed even louder. Samson and his opponent froze in their brawl. They watched as the scarlet liquid spurted from Marcel in successive gushes.
It only took a few seconds before Marcel collapsed to his knees. The jets bursting from his neck were horrific. No horror movie could prepare you for such a sight. It was abominable.
As he collapsed, his eyes met mine for an instant. It was an empty look, a look of incomprehension. He didn't realize he was dying. Our eyes locked for three or four seconds, then he fell to the floor. I had just looked into the eyes of a dead man. Worse : I had just watched him die. I was the last image he would carry with him into the grave.
I too collapsed to my knees, unable to support my own weight. My arms dangled at my sides, and in one of them, I still held the gun.
After that, everything became blurry. The surviving Black ran away. He flashed past me like lightning. Someone took the gun from my hand and led me to the couch so I could sit down. They put a cup in my hands, though I couldn't tell what was inside. Water ? coffee ? whisky ? I didn't drink a drop.
I saw Samson rushing around the apartment. It was a sort of controlled panic. He was obviously overwhelmed by the events, but he was trying to manage them as best he could.
At some point, Léonie held me in her arms and pressed my face against her breasts. It really was comforting as a gesture… I think I started to cry. But I'm not sure.
After some undefined time, I found myself sitting in Samson's car. Someone buckled my seatbelt and I heard the trunk slam shut. Then the engine started and we drove through the streets of Paris.
As usual, Léonie was talking. My brain having shut down, I had no choice but to hear her rambling :
« But Samson, no, stop, we can't go to the embassy tonight. My dress is covered in blood, and look at Éya, she's in no state for anything. And me neither, by the way. I just killed a man, for fuck's sake ! He bled out in front of me.
— Fuck, you're pissing me off ! snapped Samson. I've spent almost three years busting my ass making contacts, creating connections, spending half my life in Paris to integrate into a certain circle. And finally, here we are, I've made it, I'm officially invited, the red carpet's practically rolled out for me. But no, you've got to act like little princesses because there are two nègres with slit throats in the living room. Well no, only one actually, the other one's still on the run. Yes, I get it, it's disturbing to see someone bleed out, but you can do your traumatized routine later, right now we have commitments to honor.
— But Samson, what are you talking about ? This isn't a game. What happened is serious. We have to go to the police, we have to explain that they were the ones who came, they were the ones who attacked us with the gun.
— Yeah. You're right, let's deal with it right away. » Samson was driving along the Seine. He suddenly stopped the car in double-park, got out, and went to the trunk. Then he knocked on the window to show Léonie a gun and two knives. I followed him with my eyes, without understanding or caring about the situation. He then went to the riverbank and threw all three weapons into the Seine, in plain sight of everyone. But no one seemed to care. He came back, got behind the wheel again, and drove off as if nothing had happened. Incredibly, Léonie stayed silent for several minutes. But finally, unable to hold it in, she broke the silence :
« What are you trying to do, Samson ? This isn't possible, we're going about this all wrong !
— What I want to do ? What I want to do, huh ? I'd like to throw this car into the Seine with all its passengers inside, me included. That'd solve a lot of problems. But otherwise, what I want to do is find a discreet hotel room, take a few hours to rest, and keep our fucking commitments. If the queens of the ball don't show up, what do I look like ?
— But is that all you care about, your party ? Don't you realize we've got problems a thousand times bigger ?
— We've got no problems, no. The apartment isn't in my name, no one knows who I am, or who you are, or who Éya is. In fact, nobody even knows you exist, you just have to clean yourself up and you could be on a plane back to Toulouse, unseen and unheard of, so stop giving me shit. Tonight you make yourself pretty, you perform better than you've ever performed, then tomorrow I take you to the airport, I put you on the plane with your money and you go back to your life as if nothing ever happened. Drug dealers killing each other, that happens every day in the XVIII^e, nothing extraordinary.
— But aren't you afraid the one who got away will denounce you ? He knows who you are, Léonie pointed out.
— Yes, that's a problem, actually. But not yours, it only concerns me. On the other hand, if you'd finished the other one off, that would've made my life a whole lot easier.
— Oh ! You think I enjoyed doing that ? snapped Léonie. I'm a straight girl, I don't kill people, especially not my brothers. I should never have come to Paris. We all know easy money only brings trouble.
— Calm down, sweetheart. Everything will be fine for you. Tonight you make yourself pretty, you pocket your money, and you disappear. Off you go to the good life. You'll be able to continue your studies peacefully, change apartments, you'll never hear from me or anyone else again.
— Do you really think we're going to your thing tonight ? Tell him, Éya, tell him we're not machines !
— We'll talk about it later, first let's find a hotel, » concluded Samson. I didn't answer. I just noted inwardly that Léonie kept a polished vocabulary on the surface, but when she lost her composure, she lost her words too. But noticing that was a good sign — it meant my brain was slowly coming back online.

## Chapter XXI

Paris was known for its beauty, for its charm, for its architecture inherited from the Second Empire, for its cultural landmarks, for its artistic effervescence. That Paris was dying. Today the city was nothing but filth, badly placed bike lanes, and aggressive urban fauna. Even in the worst neighborhoods of Tunis life was more serene. But Paris still had one resource : its girls of pleasure — Africans imported from Nigeria and thrown onto the sidewalks, 70-year-old Chinese women pacing the pavement, thirty-something Romanians moving in packs, junkies financing their habits, and countless other human waste too poorly integrated into society to find their clients online.
But thanks to these streetwalkers, the capital still had love hotels, sordid places where cleaning was rarely done, with rooms whose walls were too thin and through which one could hear the neighbors' activities. Yet they were discreet places where you paid in cash and no one asked questions.
When we showed up at the counter of one, the receptionist must have taken us for two hookers — and he wasn't wrong…
Samson paid for the room, promising it would be vacated by eight p.m. Then he helped me up the stairs — the elevator had been broken for years — opened the door, and laid me on the bed.
Léonie sat beside me and stroked my hair, trying to soothe me with murmured words I didn't listen to.
In truth, I had more or less regained my senses. I was surely still somewhat in shock, but I was now able to see and understand what was happening around me. We had just killed a man, we had disposed of the weapons in the Seine, and now we were hiding in a sordid hotel.
An unpleasant smell of mold and dried sperm filled the room. I asked to open the windows. Samson tried, but they were stuck. He nevertheless rejoiced that I had found my voice again :
« So, you can form sentences again, feeling better ?
— Leave her alone, she's traumatized, Léonie snapped.
— And you then, you just stabbed a guy and you can still hold yourself together, can't you ?
— I've seen worse. At 13, I crossed the Mediterranean in a rubber boat. I saw several of my black brothers fall and drown. So yeah, seeing your dealer buddy bleed out, I'll get over it.
— Good. Because in eight hours we'll be in the Japanese embassy eating canapés. This is no time for a breakdown.
— No but seriously, Samson ? Léonie flared. I told you today it won't be possible. For all we know we'll be in jail tonight, so stop it ! By the way, speaking of canapés, don't you have anything to eat ?
— No, your last meal was last night and your next will be tonight at the embassy. I don't want you shitting on a senator's cock while he's fucking you. So no, you'll both stay fasting until ten p.m. As for the rest… I gave you a more than well-paid job for a few hours of cleaning per week. And when you couldn't come because of your exams, I never said anything and I paid you anyway. And you, Éya, I took you into my home, fed you, housed you, laundered you and everything else. So damn it ! I know it's a lot to ask, I don't know how those two idiots found me or what they came here for today, but that's how it is. And you, Léonie, I never asked you to intervene, and certainly not to slit a guy's throat. I thank you for coming to help me, without you maybe I'd be dead, but the only thing I asked was for you to stay hidden in the bathroom. Anyway, whatever, it's done. Now we have commitments for tonight, and with people who are not used to being stood up. So if you have any sympathy for me, any minimum of gratitude for what I've done for you, make sure you're ready for tonight. I'll go get you new dresses that aren't stained with blood, and in the meantime, take a nap, cuddle, take a shower, do whatever you want, but be ready for tonight, damn it ! » He didn't give Léonie the chance to answer and slammed the door behind him.
She stayed silent for a few minutes — which was nothing short of a miracle. Then suddenly she stood up, looked at me, and declared in a booming voice :
« Come on, Éya, let's go, we'll bail and let him deal with his shit.
— I don't have money and I don't have anywhere to go. And I don't know about you, but for me he's right. He took me in, gave me everything without asking anything in return. And we committed to going to his soirée at the embassy. Don't worry, it'll be fine, there will be lots of people, and important people, not some trash barging in with a gun. It'll be a chance to meet personalities, to see what the embassy looks like, and if we're good, maybe even get invited to Japan. In their country, they only have flat little Chinese girls, they'd dream of girls like us.
— Yes ! You're so right ! We're totally going to rock tonight, the little Japanese guys won't be able to handle their cocks and they'll beg us to follow them. I love mangas, I've always wanted to go to Japan. You know what ? I'm so pumped for tonight, I hope Samson brings me a beautiful dress. We've got to get ready, we've got to… » My brain disconnected in the face of this logorrhea. This girl was incredible, she could go from one extreme to the other in seconds. Apparently my few motivational phrases had hit home. But it wasn't really her I was trying to motivate, it was me. Somehow, I had succeeded. My arguments held up. And then, the mere prospect of possibly going to Japan wiped out any counter-argument. It was decided : I was going to marry a high Japanese dignitary, end of story.

When Samson returned, he was surprised. He had in front of him two super motivated girls, making every effort to look as beautiful as possible — and in such a cramped, stinking, filthy, ill-equipped room, that was already close to a feat.
He had found us two magnificent evening gowns, one white for Léonie, and the other red for me.
It was really very, very flashy… He explained that he had chosen to follow the colors of the Japanese flag to honor our hosts. That worked for me : at least I didn't have the white dress.
After final adjustments, we set off for the embassy. Samson's car was a bit too modest for our grandiloquent dresses, but still better than running into the Arabs loitering in the street if we went on foot. I think that if I hadn't been Maghrebi myself, my stay in Paris would have made me racist.
Samson parked a few hundred meters from our destination. In this VIII arrondissement, the crowd was different : more sophisticated, calmer, richer, more Parisian in short — and, dare I say ? whiter.
The embassy building was rather ugly, far from the Haussmann standards of the capital. It was a façade all in glass, but without the smoothness of American skyscrapers. It was charmless. The evening was off to a bad start : my first impression was already poor.
Samson took us in and we discovered the reception hall. Again, I had expected something baroque, with arches, moldings, and a thousand other ornaments. It was in fact one of those perfectly homogeneous rooms whose blandness they had tried to soften with a few decorative draperies. Only the buffet had some allure. Well, in fact it had a lot of allure, and my stomach empty for almost twenty-four hours didn't help me be objective on the matter.
In movies, on television, and even in books, sex is shown only as the embrace of smooth, clean bodies. The smells — though so important — vanish, the only sounds are female moans, touch — the most important sense in sex — becomes abstract ; as for taste… just hiding the bitterness of semen says a lot.
Sex is dirty, primal, animal. Sex is the smell of masculine musk, the smell of a little pussy too wet ; sex is hair, stretch marks, moles, and other imperfections of the skin ; sex is the bare face, without makeup to hide spots and wrinkles ; sex is the partner's breath, it's the noises of air, it's hair in your eyes, it's clumsiness, sometimes it's pain, often it's frustration. And when one decides to explore anal penetration, sex is something else entirely. For the woman, it's knowing how to open up, how to trust, even more than during vaginal penetration, it's accepting pain as an integral part of penetration, it's knowing orgasm is unlikely to be reached. And for the man, it's knowing how to act with restraint, you don't smash an ass like you smash a pussy ; it's knowing not to seek pleasure too deep, it's being forced to use lubricant, but above all it's being ready to dip your cock in fecal matter — and that's what Samson wanted to avoid. He wanted to offer all these men a unique experience. And with an empty intestine, the risks were greatly reduced.
Since only two hours remained before the start of hostilities, I was finally allowed to eat. Digestion would not yet have done its work and I could offer all those men a clean ass.
I was, by the way, surprised by the male crowd present. I had expected a horde of flabby warthogs, a band of bald old men only able to get hard thanks to Viagra pills, dirty and ugly politicians. The men present were in fact mostly young. Most were between 30 and 50, well-groomed, athletic, well-coiffed, very elegant. If they had wanted to take me right there by slamming my face onto the buffet, it would have been with pleasure. Of course there were a few specimens of potbellied old men, but they were rare and surely far less vigorous than their younger colleagues.
There were also a few women, very few. They were all at least in their forties, so it was highly unlikely they were there for the same reasons as me. And there was… Kirsten. Our eyes met and she came up to me with a big smile. I thought myself elegant in my red dress, but she — she was superb, touching the divine. Her long blonde hair was tied in a tight chignon, revealing a face as finely sculpted as ever. She was a bit more made up than usual, but it suited her perfectly. She wore a long asymmetrical black dress that left one shoulder completely bare. Her stiletto heels were so high she was almost as tall as Samson. She bent to kiss me on both cheeks and began the conversation :
« So, Éya, how are you ? You look gorgeous, all the men will want to court you. Do you like the reception ?
— Uh, yes, I answered awkwardly.
— And you, my beauty, Samson chimed in, is tonight when you introduce me to your boss ?
— First of all, Kirsten answered firmly, if you call me my beauty again, it's going to go badly. Second, introduce you to my boss so you can resell him your merchandise ? Not in a million years.
— You're always so charming, my dear, Samson sneered. Luckily you're beautiful like an angel, it makes up for it. Here, let me introduce you to Léonie, she's with me tonight.
— Good evening Léonie, I'm Kirsten, delighted to meet you. » And there, Kirsten made the mistake of letting my black companion speak. She wouldn't stop, rambling on about I don't know what insipid subject. I took the chance to slip away and head toward the food. I noticed some men trying to approach me to start conversations, but with a sharp eye I managed to slip away each time. It was a real obstacle course just to reach the food without being bothered.
Suddenly, I recognized a voice behind me. It was the client who had bought GHB, I was certain ! I turned around to see his face. Unsurprisingly, he looked like a fat hog. His double chin spilling over his tie knot was downright repulsive. Turning toward him was a terrible mistake, since it gave him the chance to speak to me :
« Good evening my dear, we haven't been introduced yet, I believe, he began, extending his hand. You're Samson's friend, right ? »
— Yes, that's right, I answered timidly, shaking it.
— Good, good… Tell me, I'm a bit curious : where did he dig you up ? I imagine it's not easy to find a beautiful girl like you.
— I'm from Tunisia. I came to discover France.
— Ah, that, believe me you'll discover France, he said with a sinister laugh. How old are you again ?
— I'm 16, I lied.
— Good, good. Don't say it too loudly, not everyone here knows that tonight.
— Very well, sir.
— Well, I see you're shy. I hope later you'll feel a little more at ease. As for me, depending on how things go, I might not participate, we'll see. » And without further ceremony he walked away. I then saw him beckon Kirsten with one hand. She forced a smile and approached him. I couldn't tell if leaving the tedious Léonie to join this man was a relief or a torment. Perhaps that was the meaning of the expression from Charybdis to Scylla.
When she reached him, he handed her a glass. I casually moved closer to listen to the conversation :
« Kirsten, here my dear, taste this champagne, it's incredibly sweet, I'm sure you'll love it.
— Sir, I won't be drinking alcohol tonight.
— Come now, young lady, it's just a glass of champagne. If you don't make a little effort, you'll offend our host, Mr. Ambassador. »
— I warn you, this will be the only glass of the evening ! » I then saw her take the flute and down it in one gulp. Suddenly my neurons connected. She was the girl the politician wanted to abuse ! I absolutely had to warn Samson. I started scanning the room for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
I paced the room back and forth, hoping to stumble upon him, but the heels on my feet were a real handicap. After a few minutes, I was already walking like a cripple. Goodbye grace, goodbye elegance, Éya's natural clumsiness came back in full force…
Desperate, I went to see Léonie. She was in the middle of a conversation with three men acting like roosters fighting over a hen. It might have been amusing to watch if I hadn't had an urgent matter to deal with. I grabbed her arm to pull her aside and asked her as discreetly as possible :
« Haven't you seen Samson ?
— No, why ?
— I'm looking for him.
— He left with the ambassador I think, to go get something.
— Something ? I asked.
— Yeah. But he'll be back, don't worry. » I was indeed worried. I was almost certain that the portly man had just made Kirsten drink some GHB. She had complained about receiving persistent advances from her boss. To me it was obvious it was him, and that he fully intended to take advantage of her tonight. And doing so on the night of an orgy, with a supposedly underage girl — me — was perfect. These men of power would never let a complaint about this evening leak out. < Good God, Samson ! Where are you ? > I raged inwardly.
Failing to find him, I could at least keep an eye on Kirsten. But she too had vanished… However much I searched for that tall blonde perched on her heels, I couldn't see her anywhere. It was as if I were caught in the eye of a vortex making people disappear… And the worst part of all this was that I still had eaten almost nothing.
So I approached the buffet once again, keeping one eye on the unwelcome men trying to talk to me, another searching for Samson, and a third eye watching for Kirsten's reappearance. Yes, that evening I had three eyes, no less. I even had a fourth one to help me choose which hors d'oeuvres to eat, but since most were variations of sushi, there was little chance I'd go wrong. Samson had forbidden us to drink alcohol, so I settled for fruit juice… all the while hoping it didn't contain GHB.
Finally, after an eternity, Samson reappeared, holding in his hands a sort of tube wrapped in a velvet cover. I was almost certain it was his sword…
I was therefore in a territory outside of France — for yes, an embassy is considered foreign soil — with high dignitaries preparing to commit upon me things far from moral ; in the next room, there was a young woman drugged with GHB, ready to be raped by a vile politician, and between the two, a man strolling with a sword in hand. How could things possibly end well ?
I rushed toward Samson, nearly tripping from the height of my heels :
« Samson, Samson ! Kirsten took GHB and the fat pig is going to, he's going to, in the champagne, and now I…
— Hey ! Calm down for two minutes, Samson cut me off. I don't understand a thing you're saying.
— Kirsten drank GHB at the buffet and…
— There's GHB at the buffet ? What are you talking about ? Look, she's grown, she does what she wants. She wants to play the feminist, well so be it. Anyway, I've got other things to manage right now, you're about to go on stage, so to speak. I'll go check on her later. Go get Léonie and meet me by the door over there, I'll start rallying the right people. » I was left speechless. Had he even understood what I was trying to tell him ?
For several days he had been obsessed with his big evening at the embassy, living only for it and through it. A man had just died in his apartment and now a girl he cared for was in danger, and he didn't care in the least.
I watched him put his hand on some shoulders, whisper in certain ears, nod his head, and cast glances. He was like a conductor orchestrating a secret orgy right under everyone else's noses. Three-quarters of the guests had no idea what was brewing. The remaining quarter casually made their way toward the infamous door.
When I arrived there with Léonie, Samson handed each of us a glass of fruit juice :
« Here, do like Kirsten, drink this, it'll help you relax. I really need to see where she's gotten to… » He watched us finish our glasses and led us inside the room. The place was austere, not at all how I imagined the setting of an orgy. On the floor lay a thick carpet that seemed new. It was of a dark red, a bit vulgar. Had it been installed especially for the occasion ? Likely. And by morning, it would be so soiled it would have no other fate than the trash. In the center of the room was a huge bed, without headboard, without blankets, without pillows. The mattress was covered with a gray sheet that clashed somewhat with the space.
We waited for nearly twenty minutes, the two of us in that room. Out of weariness, we sat on the floor. A certain unease was palpable : Léonie was silent.
Soon, I felt my head spinning. The walls around me seemed to sway in place. Even while seated, I had the sensation of losing balance. So Samson really had given us GHB… Why ? So we'd be more docile, less conscious of the outrages they were going to inflict upon us ? Probably…
Finally, he opened the door and let the herd in, a few at a time. We scrambled to our feet, hastily readjusting our clothes and our smiles. Rising so quickly left me dizzy and I clung to Léonie, visibly steadier than I. She whispered a few words to reassure me. I needed them.
Each man who entered handed Samson a bundle of bills. How much ? Impossible to say. What was the price for the right to sleep with Léonie and me ? I was curious to know…
One after another, they formed a circle around us. They were perhaps twenty in number. I felt rather foolish just standing there, arms hanging, offered up to their stares, and it seemed Léonie wasn't any more comfortable than I. Suddenly, one of them shouted :
« Come on, eat each other's pussy, girls !
— Yes, come on, give us a show !
— Go on, nigger, finger that little virgin, she'll love it ! » The shouts of encouragement rang out from every side. Léonie took my face between her two dark hands, looked me straight in the eyes and said :
« Are you ready, my darling ? » She didn't give me time to answer and kissed me. She was ravenous. I felt her tongue penetrate me, rummaging inside my mouth as if she were starving. Her hands fell upon me and she tore off my dress in a single movement. Such strength ! The audience roared with joy, clearly delighted by the spectacle. I too had to make a bold move. I grabbed at Léonie's neckline and yanked with all my strength to free her breasts. The maneuver succeeded and before me appeared two heavy mounds topped with nipples and large, dark areolas.
I plunged my face against them and devoured her breasts. She urged me on, screaming « Go on, you slut ! » and pressed my head against her. A few men stepped closer and stripped away the remnants of my dress, while others unfastened Léonie's. Soon we were both in our underwear, wandering hands kneading our flesh.
My head was spinning, it was hard to stay on my feet. Léonie grew more and more aggressive, clawing at me, biting me, devouring me. I felt my buttocks slapped, my breasts pinched. All these sensations melted together. I could see that some of the men were already bare-chested. I saw well-defined abs and rounder bellies. I saw beautiful biceps and heavier bodies. I was swept into a whirlwind of flesh. The Black musk of Léonie intoxicated me, a scent I wasn't used to. She was unleashed. Suddenly, she threw me onto the bed and fell heavily on top of me. I should have hurt, should have had the wind knocked out of me — yet I felt nothing. Nothing but an ecstasy flooding my senses. Our underwear was torn away, hers and mine alike. Cocks appeared in my hands. I stroked them without even knowing who they belonged to. Léonie lowered herself and began to eat my pussy, but with no delicacy, no restraint. She bit at my vulva, tugged my clitoris with her teeth. I must surely have been in pain, yet I felt only an ethereal pleasure. I no longer had true awareness of my movements. Of course, I was jerking cocks, but it was almost reflex. I had the impression the men were fighting over me. The first to manage would be the one to take my virginity. I heard insults, scuffles, grappling.
It was finally a young, strongly built man, with a cock far too large for the virgin I was supposed to be, who opened the ball. He penetrated me without restraint. I began to moan, not from pain, but from pleasure. This excited even more the horde of barbarians sharing my body. I saw Léonie beside me being taken in double penetration by two men. I couldn't read from her face whether she was enjoying it or suffering. I reached out to grab her hand. She clung to me tightly, but very quickly, we were separated. Our hands were required for stroking cocks, all other considerations were superfluous.
I felt fingers enter my ass. The movements were clumsy, inexperienced. I smiled inwardly at the thought of some 40-year-old virgin touching a woman for the first time in his life. It would be unforgettable for him. For me too.
Strong hands gripped my waist and flipped me over like a crêpe. I was pulled up onto my knees and taken from behind. They shared my pussy with surprising civility. Each one granted himself a few thrusts, then gave way to a comrade. A phallus slid into my mouth and by primitive reflex I began to suck. It was a very small cock, I could swallow it with ease. After barely ten seconds, it ejaculated in my throat. The taste was unusual, indescribable. I swallowed.
Another sex, of a more traditional size, replaced the first. The man seized my face in both hands and fucked my mouth. He went so deep that I began to vomit. Samson should not have let me eat. I heard a few voices cry out, but it didn't seem to bother anyone — in fact, it seemed to excite them more. The man kept fucking my vomit-filled mouth. I had it in my nostrils, I was struggling to breathe, but he held my head so tightly I couldn't pull away.
I had the wit to pinch his balls. The result was immediate : he backed off. Another stepped in to take his place, but that gave me just enough time to catch my breath again. I sucked him with my usual fervor, all while feeling thrusts in my stretched pussy.
Then, the thrusts stopped for a moment. I devoted myself entirely to my fellation. My hands covered in vomit, my hair fouled, my face surely in a dreadful state — but none of it was to interrupt the rhythm of pleasure.
Suddenly, I felt a terrible pain in my anus. I collapsed under pain. Someone just fucked my ass dry, just like that. I heard some protests around. They estimated that I was not experimented enough for such behavior.
Since I was lying flat on my stomach, they flipped me over onto my back and the parade of cocks resumed. A few ejaculations took place, filling my little pussy with generous cum, but at least they left my ass alone.
The orgy was turning filthy. I was lying in my own vomit, my hair stuck to my face, and the men fucking me churned the sperm of their predecessors inside me.
I suddenly found myself thinking of Samson. I wanted him to take pleasure in seeing me taken by so many men, I wanted him to be proud of me. I looked toward the door but didn't see him. I searched for him with my eyes, but in vain. I tried to call out to him, but the cock clogging my mouth made it impossible. Too bad.
The cocks I was jerking off came one after another. Those I was sucking too. I was filling myself with cum and relishing it.
Beside me, Léonie seemed to be enjoying herself as well. She screamed like a wild animal, as if each thrust brought her another orgasm. I looked at her. Even covered in cum, even dripping with sweat, even with her hair a tangled mess, she was still beautiful. Beautiful and desirable.
I was on the verge of losing consciousness when I heard commotion on the other side of the door. There were shouts, cries for help. The door opened, and I saw in the gap Samson, his shirt covered in blood. He carried an unconscious Kirsten in his arms, and at his belt hung the Japanese sword. It was no longer in its velvet sheath.
He looked like some modern knight carrying against him a sleeping princess. I regretted that this spectacle had brought the orgy to an end, for at that very moment I had been on the verge of the greatest orgasm of my life. Instead, I let myself drift into a kind of sleep, almost certainly brought on by the GHB Samson had given me. I toppled backward, closed my eyes, and did not open them again for several hours.

When I woke up, Léonie was next to me. She was dressed. She was holding my hand and with the other she was stroking my forehead.
When I had come to my senses, she briefly told me what had happened.
Samson had received a distress message from Kirsten. He had rushed to her aid and found the young woman with a chair in her hands, keeping her boss at bay like an animal trainer with his beasts.
Samson then flew into a blind rage. In a flash he understood what I had tried to explain to him : the GHB he had sold to the politician must have been meant to rape Kirsten. If the young woman had ended up in such a position, it was Samson's fault. That realization made him lose control. He drew his katana from its velvet cover and was about to slash the politician.
But the old hand didn't let himself be cowed. He grabbed a chair and smashed it over Samson.
Samson stood impassive, and the chair shattered against him without making him flinch. Samson then answered by running his sword through the hog in front of him. But the animal had a certain resistance. Far from dying, he instead hurled himself at Samson. But the poor man, despite his paunch, was no match. Samson shoved him with a shoulder check, and he ended up knocked out against the wall, a gaping wound bleeding at his side.
Because of the sword, the onlookers drawn by the noise didn't dare intervene. Once his opponent was out of the fight, Samson wiped his blade and, with an elegant gesture, slid it back into its scabbard.
He then bent over Kirsten who, both in shock and under the influence of GHB, had lost consciousness.
Samson took her in his arms and carried her through the embassy without looking back.
The scene had been so surreal that people were left frozen.
Meanwhile, the men taking part in the orgy, intrigued by all the noise, had opened the door, exposing the frolic to full view.

Léonie then explained to me that we were in a room of the Japanese embassy. The situation was extremely delicate, since a French MP had been attacked in the embassy by a man no one knew, with a sword brought from Japan by the ambassador himself. The diplomatic incident could take on considerable proportions.
As for the orgy that had taken place on the premises… it had never happened, and the embassy had offered Léonie and me enough money to keep quiet. They had also booked a flight for Toulouse leaving late in the morning. They had found us spare clothes as well.
I asked if it was possible to have a flight to Tunis instead, and they arranged it almost on the spot. They must all have been very happy to know I was leaving French soil.
Of course I did not go back by the Paris apartment, I did not set foot in Toulouse again, I left both my things and my French life behind me by boarding that plane. And that suited me just fine.

# Épilogue

##

In the days that followed the embassy affair, the newspapers published very vague pieces on the subject. Among the general public, no one ever learned the whole story.
There were also a few lines about a young Toulouse drug dealer found dead in Paris's 18th arrondissement, but no one cared and the investigation never led anywhere.
No one cared either about the MP attacked with a sword who was discharged after a week in hospital. He did not press charges against anyone and did not run in the June 2022 legislative elections. It was Kirsten who took his place, making her the only member of the chamber with dual French and Danish nationality. And if I have been careful not to reveal any surnames throughout the book, this victory in the legislative elections risks making her lose her anonymity through my fault, but no matter, she may be the only person in the story to have a bit of nobility of heart.
As for Samson, I never had the slightest news of him again, not even to give me the money I had earned that night… From the moment he crossed the embassy door with Kirsten in his arms, he disappeared from the face of the earth.
With hindsight, I can't help thinking he lives with her, with his little Dane he has always been in love with. I was certainly a lovely distraction for him… but nothing more.

When taking the plane to Toulouse, I had dreamed of a splendid, happy France, a wonderful place to live, with incomparable gastronomy and an extraordinary culture. I had hoped to experience that sublime décadence I didn't really manage to define.
The reality was a bit more bitter… That France I had idealized was dying.
Its architecture wanted to take a bolder, more contemporary turn, and mayors thus gleefully disfigured their city centers. In the streets, there were no longer any French seducers who knew how to show finesse and daring, subtlety and elegance. There were only Arabs who had kept their retrograde machismo. Girls were careful about how they dressed, they avoided walking alone at night, they no longer felt safe on public transport.
I was quite unable to say who had done this — « the Socialists », Samson would have told me — but the conclusion was clear : they had killed France. Léonie seemed to be managing to adapt to this New World. She was full of life, fit perfectly into the Zeitgeist. I couldn't understand how she did it… As for me, this moribund France disgusted me. I do not regret having returned to Tunisia.

My parents found me a husband in Kairouan. Of course, before celebrating the wedding, I had to undergo a hymen reconstruction operation, but that is a fairly common practice in Tunisia. If I had been disappointed by France, I was nonetheless well aware that my native country was far from perfect. It was far from perfect, but at least it was my country, my culture ; I understood its meaning.

In France, I came, I saw, debauchery conquered me. I had thought I would find a free world, a refined world, an elegant world. I had thought I would find a country where I could flourish, where I could assert myself as a woman. But the reality was that I was not made for freedom. I liked being subject to a man, I liked not having to make decisions, I liked taking care of him, giving him pleasure, soothing him, giving him happiness. That is why today I am happy in marriage — or at any rate why I manage to convince myself that I am.
Samson was not a man capable of embracing happiness. He was a male in his purest form, a fighter, an adventurer, a predator who wanted to push the limits, explore the universe, possess the feminine. With such a man, you can take your pleasure, you can even take it very intensely, but you cannot build.
By coming to France, I had dreamed of the Louvre and Versailles, I had dreamed of gastronomy and good wine. What I didn't know was that France was sick, that it was dying.
Its vineyards now belonged to China ; its monuments were being bought up one after another by Qatari and Saudi fortunes ; its restaurants were either grimy kebab shops or establishments seeking to promote world cuisine — or worse still, proposing conceptual cuisine ; its culture was nothing but low-grade Americanism, with rappers as musicians, talentless people as artists, and atrocious sculptures as street furniture.
France had fancied itself multicultural. It had imagined itself at the crossroads of the New World and the Orient. It had never once thought that, caught between the American hammer and the Arab anvil, it would be pulverized.
For the reality is that a multicultural world is a world without culture. I had no place in that world.
At best I could have isolated myself in some suburb already great-replaced, but those places are no longer France ; they're a bargain-basement outgrowth of the Maghreb, a subculture, a non-culture, I am tempted to say. Progressive universalism forgets that for a tree to grow, it needs roots. And on that soil, I had none. I could have cursed the patriarchy that used me as a mere sexual object ; I could have howled about racism, since I had been nothing but the token little beurette ; I could even have blamed that strange feeling called love that made me lose my head. « Your honor, it was temporary insanity, I'm innocent, I was only in love. » What a joke.
Marc had opened his door to me and treated me like a princess. I could have embraced the life I wanted : I could have stayed at home becoming a veiled fat cow churning out kid after kid to live off family allowances. All those pseudo-feminist left-wing politicians who took pleasure in ejaculating in my mouth would have seen in that life plan a fulfillment of their political ideals : the little veiled Muslim who lives off benefits.
I also could have wanted to rise : study law, become a lawyer, make lots of money and show that one can be a woman, an Arab, and still succeed in life. All those right-wing politicians who took pleasure in wrecking me would have applauded my success.
But the reality is that I have nothing to do in France. That country that made me long for it by its grandeur, that Paris that made me dream with its splendor — both are dying slowly, with distressing indifference. I had aimed to become French, but today even the French are ashamed of themselves.
Tunisia may be a backward country, but at least it is not a country ashamed of itself, it is not a masochistic country that takes pleasure in being spat in the face.
As for sexual explorations, they are indeed finished for me. They will always gnaw at me a little inside, I'm sure. But there are fantasies that are better lived only in the mind. I only wish I had understood that reality a little earlier…
Éya, August 27, 2022.
Kairouan, Tunisia.

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