Reversal of Fortune

She was my lover. My mistress. My one-night fling now one-year on.

She was French. Feisty, passionate, easy inflamed. I, Nordic. Cool and calm and intense in my stare. In a fit of rage she would shout, stomp her high heel into the floor and glare at me with wild eyes and, although these moods infuriated me, I would merely fix her with a look of disinterest and shrug in apathy. We would turn each other on through this pissing each other off. Opposites attract.

It was a classic affair; doomed from the first caress, the first hotel room tryst, to fail. We were both married, happily, contentedly, both with a family. We met on a business trip in the south of France and, during that meeting, our fate was sealed. Unavoidable. I was inside of her three hours later. We spent that first weekend doing every thing physically possible to one another in the name of sex. She excelled at sucking my cock, knowing from the first moment she enclosed her full, supple lips over my head exactly how I liked it. I could pleasure her with my tongue for a full hour, rocking her body with continuous orgasms. Physically, we were one.

Over the course of a year we met in Paris once, sometimes twice, a month. Always the same room in the same expensive hotel. Our relationship was defined - it is sex and soft words. It is the fulfillment of our needs. We never contemplated divorcing our respective spouses and moving off to Martinique together. The framework for our affair was solid and we carried on without hang ups or regrets. We shared our fantasies and acted them out in an air of liberating freedom. Free from commitment and guilt.

It worked, to a point. To that inevitable point where things become familiar and things begin to repeat themselves and too many emotions seep out into the air. I began to get bored and began to dream of new pastures. She could sense this and would get angry, perhaps jealous without ever daring to admit it, and she began to get desperate.

It saddened me that no matter how strongly you believe an affair can carry on perfectly it will always end up unbalanced. I loved her as a man loves a woman but we would never end up together. My lover began to hope that we would and, when my thoughts began to drift, she intensified her attempts to cement the relationship. She began saying the things that should never be said in an affair. Sounding out ideas that should remain unspoken and it pushed me away.

Chantelle. A classic name for a classic Franco beauty. She was 35, with chestnut hair that cascaded in curls around her shoulders. Always exquisitely dressed in the finest clothes, in the classic Parisian fashions. Feminine fabrics that clung to her form, turning heads in the street as envious female eyes and hungry male eyes tried to glimpse the curve of her firm breasts, the tautness of her ass, the length of her legs and the perfection of what lay between them. She was in the majority of the 60% of Parisian women who claim never to wear underwear, content with stockings and garter belts of the finest silk.

I was not a stranger on the street so I knew the curves of her breasts and ass as if I had designed them myself. The breasts firm, neither too large or too small, curving upwards so that her nipples thrust up and out at my tongue. Her ass as glorious and taut as that of an 18 year old. Her waist slim and her stomach flat. Her legs as long as time itself and between them was, indeed, perfection. A little tuft of pubic hair crowning an otherwise perfectly smooth-shaved quim.

I knew her every intimate detail and her classy appearance betrayed her true sexual desires. She fucked angrily and passionately, grabbing my hair, raking my back, deep-throating my cock until I came down her throat, giving her ass to me for my pleasure with my tongue and cock, insisting to tongue-fuck my own puckered hole. In bed she was everything you wouldn't expect her to be if you saw her on the street in her Gucci attire, but everything you hoped she we be.

She was almost the same height as me, the first woman I have known who was such. Daunting at first, but soon exciting in the feigned battles of strength and endurance in the bed. I was 40 and my hair thick and blonde. My wardrobe was expensive and I tried to stay well-groomed and in shape. Far from muscle-bound, I aimed for a finely-toned, thin and firm frame.

We sat in the hotel bar, in silence, and sipped our martinis. She had tried to bring up the subject of "What are we going to do...?" again and I refused to take the bait.

The last three weekends we had been together had signalled the definitive unbalancing of our relationship. In her desperation, she had convinced herself that if she put in extra effort, pushed herself to the limits, she would win me over. But the tryst was winding to a close although I couldn't say it, and didn't really want to admit it. We lingered heavily in that zone in every affair where things that should be said couldn't be said.

She began to insist on various new twists to our lovemaking. She wanted me to treat her roughly, tie her up, humiliate her, piss on her in the shower. Things that have the capacity to turn me on, but things that weren't apart of my affair with Chantelle. They were things I would do to other women, in other cities, under other circumstances. She thought she was introducing new spice into our sex and that I would have a change of heart and insist that we should be together.

But these things only made her more pathetic in a sad way. I participated, sure enough. I bound her with gaffer tape, shoved enormous butt plugs up her ass, pissed on her, spanked her. I played along. I got off on it. I sensed that she actually liked the humiliation. At first, she just went through the motions for me, but I could see that it was a dark area that seemed to turn her on. But my heart wasn't in it. She was beginning to annoy me.

Suddenly she spoke at our little corner table in the hotel bar. She kept asking me what I wanted. What could she do for me to make me happy, sexually. I was now impatient and irritated at the whole affair. I provoked her by telling her I wanted to see her with another woman. I knew her jealousy and by saying this I secretly hoped she would do the deed and break up.

Sure enough, she was furious at my proposal and rejected it outright. I glimpsed the fiery passion that had faded away and I felt that familiar stirring in my loins. She was angry that I wanted another woman. With my cool, calm demeanour, I egged her on, saying that it was my fantasy to see her fucking another woman. To have her watch as I fucked another woman. To fuck them both.

This enraged her. She stormed out of the bar and up to the room. I ordered another drink, taking my time going up to her, knowing this would piss her off even more. Maybe there was hope for some of our good, old fashioned sex.

She was naked and under the covers when I came in an hour later. She was furious that I had taken so long. She got up out of bed and screamed at me. I ignored her and undressed slowly and calmly, meticulously folding my clothes.

My cock was hard and she saw it as I turned, naked. Just a month ago, we would have started fucking right then and there, but now I felt like playing with her. She annoyed me and I wanted to piss her off. She accused me of having a hard-on, saying that I was thinking of other women I wanted to fuck. Not far wrong, I said. She pushed me onto the bed, straddling me in one quick motion and started slapping me. I grabbed her arms and pushed her off, pinning her down as she kicked and screamed obscenities. I merely fixed her with my cold, blue eyes and slid my cock into her. She wasn't having it, but I had the upper hand, physically and mentally. I slammed my long cock inside her to the hilt and held it there, motionless. Her fighting and kicking did the work for me and her cunt was hot and slick. Finally, she calmed down when realising she couldn't win.

I looked her in the eye and said that the only thing that would save our relationship was another woman. If she loved me, she would make it happen. With that I humped her twice, three times, and pulled my cock out, jacking my hot, salty cum onto her tits. Unceremonious. Inelegant. Insulting. Especially when I rolled over and went to sleep to the sound of her great hulking sobs, hoping that I would wake up and find her gone and the affair finished.

To my surprise, when I opened my eyes, she was on the floor, next to the bed, staring at me. Her makeup smeared, her hair a mess. Tragic in her beauty.

Her first words were soft. "I'll do it. I'll find you a girl and I'll fuck her for you. You'll fuck her for me. We'll all fuck".

Well this was unexpected. My mind fucking games hadn't succeeded. I doubted her sincerity.

"What do you want?", she asked. I was confused by the question and she expanded on it.

"What girl do you want? How does she look? How old is she?"

More surprises. I get to choose. Still eager to provoke I answered quickly. All men have some ideal female creature in their mind's eye. A combination of past girlfriends and never-ending fantasies. I answered, too, knowing that this sweet young thing in my head was the opposite of Chantelle.

"She is blonde. Shorter than you. Smaller, firmer breasts than you. She is younger than you..." I could see her jaw tighten but, too my surprise, she didn't react. Impressive.

"She is much younger than you. I want her to be a teenager. Barely legal, perhaps? Hard body. So hard it hurts to look at...."

I could feel my cock growing beneath the sheets at the thought of this perfect girl and the promise of a threesome, although I still doubted Chantelle dared pull it off. I threw back the sheets and lay naked before her, seemingly absentmindedly stroking my cock as I described her. Chantelle's eyes flashed down to my cock and while ready to explode, she kept her cool, feigning indifference.

"I don't want virginal, She should be shy but eager to please, eager to prove she is a little cocksucking slut. Her hot little cunt should be shaved smooth...."

I was really on a roll now. I stroked my cock faster now.

"She should have pig tails and wear an expensive little black dress. I want her to call me daddy..."

Chantelle was fighting her emotions and her anger. She knew that I knew that her own father had had his way with her when she was a teenager. She admitted to enjoying it but it was still traumatic for her. I was pushing all the right buttons and I expected an outburst of fury any second.

"I want her to fuck her daddy while you watch."

I was close to orgasm now, lying there on my side, facing her. She knew when I was close. She shifted and leaned over to the bed, opening her mouth obediently. I realised what she was doing and I aimed my cock at her mouth, shooting long ropes of hot cum onto her tongue, down her chin and in her hair.

When I was finished, she rose, wiped the cum off her face and sucked her fingers clean, staring me in the eye. She disappeared into the bathroom.

When she came out, she was herself again, impeccably made up, exquisitely dressed, but quieter than normal. Like a broken filly. I was amused and curious where this would end. She put on her coat and turned to me.

"I will 'make it happen', as you say. I'll be back here at 5. Meet me in the bar." With that she was gone.

I wandered about the city, my eyes looking at women differently now, playfully, flirtingly, since I was sure that my affair with Chantelle, whatever the outcome at 5 o'clock, was over. With the indifference that men can have in such situations, I dreamily plotted my next affair, exchanging promising glances with sweet young things before heading back to the hotel.

I waited in the bar and Chantelle was prompt. She was also alone. I knew she couldn't handle it. It was too much for her.

"It is all arranged."

Her voice was steady and strong. Her eyes unwavering, almost challenging. I was impressed, almost taken aback.

"But first, a light dinner, no?"

Okay, what's she up to? I couldn't figure her out.

She led me to the hotel restaurant and we sat down to a light dinner in silence. I couldn't read her. She gave nothing away. Afterwards, it was back to the bar for drinks. Just when I was beginning to lose patience, Chantelle nodded towards the door.

I looked over at the vision on its way through the door. The very fantasy I had described to Chantelle had appeared in flesh and blood before me.

The most beautiful little blonde thing came into the bar wearing a tight-fitting, tailor-made black evening dress. She had stilettos on her feet and walked as though she was born in them. No stockings covered her perfectly-formed legs, her suntan was enough. To my surprise, she walked past our table and I saw the dress was backless, plunging low enough to reveal the upper curve of her ass. Never had such a classy dress graced such a incredible woman. She sat in the bar on a barstool. Crossing her legs so that her short skirt rode up ever so slightly and left little to the imagination about what was in those shadows between her legs.

Her face? Angelic. Chiselled to perfection and made up with just a little too much make up to give her the too-young to be wearing make up look that defines the textbook Lolita image in every man's head. Her hair golden blonde hair was indeed in pigtails, but they were both fixed so that her hair was up. She wasn't a day over 18. Balancing fantastically on the edge of teenage and womanhood. That wonderful grey area that has inspired so many writers and artists in Europe. Indeed, she was the very picture of the European ideal of womanhood portrayed in so many films and, in quite another way, porno magazines.

She sat elegantly perched on her barstool and casually ordered a martini from the just as stunned bartender. I realised she hadn't even looked over and I was unsure that she was "mine".

Chantelle didn't give the game away. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I questioned her with my eyes and she merely placed her hand on my crotch, feeling my searing hot erection through my pants.

"Perfect, no?

Did she mean my hard cock or the girl? I didn't know. Maybe both.

"Is that our plaything?", I asked. Trying not to sound too hopeful. But Chantelle merely looked away, staring at the wondrous creature at the bar. Then she spoke.

"Doesn't Daddy recognize his own baby girl?" Her voice was calm. Too calm. She was too composed and I wondered what was going on. Wasn't she a broken filly only a few hours ago? Eager to please? Willing to do anything to make me love her?

"Is this part of the game?", I asked.

"You wrote the rules of the game, darling. You wanted to play. Your fantasy needed to be acted upon. Now you get to play."

"Fine. Then get her to come over here and let's go play."

"Not so hasty. Enjoy the foreplay. Soak it up."

I sat for a while staring at the girl at the bar who seemed oblivious to my existence.

"What's her name?"

"She's your daughter..."

"Nicole"

Chantelle nodded.

"Should I go get her?, I asked.

"Really, darling, I'm wondering if you have any imagination at all. The daughter fantasy is far from complete without the necessary build-up. The necessary psychological foreplay over many years. We don't have that much time, of course, so we'll have to have a crash course."

What the hell did she mean by that? I sat in silence, staring at Nicole. Just the way she stirred her martini was erotic.

No surprise really that Nicole had attracted the attention of others in the bar. Jealous businessman's wives sat miserably with their ogling spouses. A table of businessman, Italian by the sound of it, had also honed in on the susceptible target. One of the them a large-bellied hairball in a suit that cost the same as the GNP of France and a gold watch that weighed more than Nicole, rose from his seat. He was cocky and his friends egged him on.

He approached like a lion and sat down next to her.

"What the fuck is going on?", I asked Chantelle, rather panicked.

She just nodded that I should watch.

I couldn't hear the middle-aged Italian man's conversation but it was clear he wasn't asking Nicole about football results. I was shocked to her playing the coquette and lapping up his advances. He was encouraged by her signals and when he leaned over to whisper a question in her ear, she nodded. They both stood up and headed off to the toilets. I was stunned. What was Chantelle playing at? I was beginning to lose my cool and was getting angry but Chantelle ignored me.

I got up and headed out to the toilets and Chantelle didn't stop me. I didn't know why. Maybe I was just desperate to protect my psychological investment and the promise of sex with these two women. I entered the toilet hesitantly. It was empty, save the last stall. What was taking place in there was clear. The fat Italian was moaning and mumbling, "Si! Si! Si!". I bent over and saw Nicole's bronzed knees on the marble floor in front of his legs. His pants were round his ankles and she was giving him a blowjob. Couldn't see the details, of course, but there was no doubt about it.

This little girl, MY little girl promised to me tonight, was sucking the cock of some random fat businessmen. This wasn't part of my fantasy. I considered breaking down the door but realised that it would probably be a stupid idea. I've never met Nicole, wasn't even sure she was the one Chantelle had "arranged" for me. Angry and reluctant, I returned to the bar and sat down next to my now unreadable lover.

"This isn't my idea of fun..." My voice was a hoarse, vicious whisper, shrouded in what felt like jealousy, although I couldn't understand it really.

"Is Daddy jealous? Is Daddy feeling protective about his little darling girl?" Her words were laced with condescension. Her hand slid into my lap to ensure her that my cock was attentive. It was. Very much so.

"Fine. Yes. Daddy is jealous...."

"Go on, darling..." A faint smile, almost mocking... I knew I had to play the game.

"Daddy is jealous. Daddy is getting angry..."

"Why?"

"Daddy doesn't like his little girl.... doesn't like her sucking fat men's cocks in the bathroom..."

"Maybe his little girl likes it. Maybe she likes sucking cock. Any cock. Anywhere."

"No. Not MY little girl..."

"Little girls do the darndest things. Little girls have needs, too, Daddy"

She was good. She was good at playing this game. She continued.

"Maybe Daddy's little baby feels neglected by her Daddy. Maybe she wishes it was his cock in her hot little mouth."

"Yeah... Daddy's cock..." It was hard to catch my breath. Chantelle's hand was ever so slightly gliding up and down my cock through my trousers.

"Does daddy feel protective? Does Daddy want to protect his little girl from other men?"

"Yes. He does..."

Just then, the fat Italian came out of the toilet, his face filled with a grin. His ego and cock satisfied. He headed back to his mates. Nicole came out after him and she merely sat on her stool and sipped her martini as though nothing had happened.

"See, Daddy? Your baby likes to suck cock, doesn't she?"

I nodded and stared hungrily at Nicole, my mind beginning to wrap itself around the fantasy presented to me, the fantasy I had created myself.

Another of the fat, rich Italians was now on his way over, eager to try his luck. His approach was less obvious and Nicole's reaction more than willing. She slid off the bar stool, her skirt riding up enough to reveal that she wasn't wearing underwear, the Italian salivating at the sight. The two of them disappeared into the toilets.

I was ready to explode. Both my head and my cock. I couldn't stand this.

"Is she going to suck his cock, too?" My voice was meek.

"Mmm. I think she is. But who knows, maybe she'll feel her little hole getting all wet and want to feel his fat cock inside her..." Chantelle's hand rubbed my cocked more firmly now.