Mistress Camille

Camille turned off the engine of her Maserati sports car and took a moment to breath in the cool evening air.

The day, well, the day had been amazing. She could barely believe what she had achieved. Mark, Jenny’s once upon a time husband had been dumped at a hotel ten miles away and he was bound for a flat fifty miles away in London if that was what she chose. His defeat had seemed absolute. The man had capitulated to her. Not only had he not made a fuss about the fact that she and Jenny were now lovers, but he had meekly capitulated to the requirement that he leave the home immediately. He had kissed her ring, then the palm of her hand, and at last, wickedly, cruelly she had humiliated him by having him lick her bottom.

Now, within the house her prize awaited her. Jenny, curvaceous and appealing, so accommodating, was probably finishing the supper preparations. She would be nervous. Yes, Camille would deal with Mark. She was used to handling man brusquely if needs be. She was the CEO of her own company. But it was still nerve racking to wait and to wonder. It was still an anxious wait to hear whether the house was truly now their love nest. Camille checked her watch. It was almost seven. She had promised to take back a case of clothes for the hapless husband. But he could sit and stew for a while. She pictured him seated in that comfortable but emotionally bleak hotel room, staring forlornly at the wall. If she was honest with herself, she hoped that he was masturbating.

‘It’s done…and he was meek, incredibly meek’ she said calmly after stepping into their home and putting the car keys down. Jenny came to her. Her eyes were wide with wonder. This was just the most surprising day and Camille, well, dear god, she was the most amazing woman. The woman was a little shorter than Camille, a little more curvaceous in that way that excite men. She was wearing denim shorts and a tie top and a pair of severe looking laced Victoria ankle boots on her pretty feet. She wore the Cartier watch that Mark had given her at her wedding, the exact match that Jenny had given to Camille in a symbolic ending of the marriage. She kissed Jenny, moving her lips first against hers, and then when the woman submitted to her embrace, slipping her tongue inside her mouth. Jenny was relieved, she was emotionally exhausted. The waiting had been terrible. She had walked Loki Camille’s Rottweiler, but nothing had distracted her.

When Camille unbuttoned the fly of those sleek little shorts, Jenny didn’t resist. Loki was shooed back to the kitchen, and giggling Camille slipped her manicured fingers into her lover’s sex. Jenny was wet, really wet! It was as if the woman was permanently ready to fuck with Camille. It was as if she spent her life waiting and wanting what they had. When she had caught Jenny masturbating herself thinking about them and what they did, she had kissed her woman’s forehead and encouraged her. It was one thing habituating Jenny to the smell and the taste of girl sex, but it was better still to think that she, Camille, now obsessed Jenny’s very thoughts. In the end, that was how Camille needed their life to be. She couldn’t bear the idea that Jenny would ever need a man again. She couldn’t bear the thought that Jenny would look at any other woman either.

‘Can supper wait a while?’ she asked, teasing Jenny, feeling her move against her fingers.

‘Yes…..yes it can….’ Jenny whispered.

Camille led her through to the bedroom. All reference to Mark was gone. The old lifestyle photographs, his African tribal stuff from the walls. There was now a photograph of Camille by the side of the bed, the one after she had completed the car rally.

‘Take my jeans down’ she said softly, stroking Jenny’s auburn hair.

Her lover smiled, moving slowly down, planting a sweet kiss on each of Camille’s breasts as she descended. The kisses progressed below, down over her slim tummy and then to her crotch, before the jeans were undone and lowered. Jenny helped Camille to step out of first the white jeans and then her thong.  All couples have little rituals, little niceties of how they make love and Camille and Jenny did too.

‘Please’ Jenny simpered.

Camille stroked her hair and feeling her pulse quicken, nodded.

Her lover started to lick her. She licked delicately but with obvious devotion, her mouth wide and her tongue fulsome in its complete regard. Camille felt the wash of Jenny’s tongue against her clitty and she trembled with the pleasure of it.

Ten miles away, in a hotel room, with the room service meal discarded uneaten and pushed to one side, Mark stared blankly at the TV screen. A soap opera was playing. He never watched soap operas. He loathed soap operas and now he was in the middle of one himself. He blinked and tried not to cry again. That was pathetic!

Fiddling with the remote, shaking his head in a kind of continued ritual shock Mark wondered how on earth he had done that? Lick that bitch’s bottom for her. She had bent forward like a spoilt little cow and he had licked her arse clean. He shuddered. However beautiful the woman was, he shouldn’t have done that. Whatever strategy he vaguely proposed in his bewildered head, a chance to see Jenny somehow, her way, he still shouldn’t have stooped that low!

He looked at his mobile phone again. How many times had he done that since lunch?! He shouldn’t call them. He shouldn’t call the house. It would seem like resistance and increase the dire prospect of a life alone. But he couldn’t stop himself. Not this time. He waited. He waited. The number was unobtainable. The hiatus, she managed everything. That fucking bitch controlled everything. He started to touch himself. He started to touch himself with a burning self disgust, a hatred, the like of which he could never have imagined possible.

‘Lie on the bed’ ordered Camille once her sex was lathered wet and her clitty stood out like a bulbous ripe fruit. It stood out proud, just above her engorged sex lips, the hood pushed back so that her bud glistened wet. She looked at Jenny there, lying prone, available, hers, on the bed. She ordered her to take down her shorts and to start pulling at her sex. She was to pull her cunt lips up and roll them fiercely between finger and thumb. Camille watched, watched as the woman teased herself hard. She looked the way that Camille liked to see her worked up.

When Mark ejaculated, the spunk splashed all over his trousers.

‘Fuck!’ he swore grimacing hard. It wasn’t just how fierce and hard he felt about that bitch Camille, it was that he had soiled his trousers, his only pair of trousers. Now, he looked and smelled, literally like a tosser. Shaking, feeling the utter fool, he hurried to his feet and sponging off the spunk as best he could. it rolled into little snotty gloops of sticky white mess, the consistency of glue. He swore again and sponged some more. 

‘Are you happy?’ Camille whispered as they lay 69 on the bed. She teased Jenny’s sex relentlessly with her lips, the tip of her tongue, playing a soft breeze from her mouth across the quivering quim of her woman. Jenny sucked cunny like a glutton. Finesse would come, but right now, Camille was being tongued out.

‘Blissfully’ Jenny responded. It was true. She felt blissfully happy and relieved, so relieved that the awkward matter was over. She had asked Camille about how Mark had responded to her letter, and Camille had admitted that her husband had cried. But that was how it had to be. He had to hurt. That was the nature of meaningful, complete and utter change.