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The Dinner Party
by Remittance Girl © 2007



The invitation to dinner was unexpected. It came in the form of an email.

It was very nice to meet you at the Consulate party on Tuesday night. Carmen and I are having a little dinner party on Friday and would be happy if you could join us.

We realize that our villa is a little bit out of the way, and getting back to the city might be a problem. Please feel free to use one of our guest rooms.

Drinks at seven p.m. Dinner at nine. Map attached. Please RSVP.

Gilles and Carmen Mase

Isabel opened the map. "A little bit out of the way" was something of an understatement. It was in the middle of nowhere, almost forty kilometres north of Saigon, past the old rubber plantation area around Bien Hoa.

It wasn't just the distance that made Isabel hesitate. She didn't know these people. They were part of a cliquish French ex-patriot community that rarely socialized beyond their own kind. The French still mourned for the days when they'd been colonial masters here and regularly got together to complain about how everything had turned to shit since they got kicked out.

Still, the invitation intrigued her. Gilles Mase was the owner of a huge lacquer ware export company, and Isabel had been bidding for a contract to provide translation services to his company for the last three weeks. It would be stupid not to accept the invitation. So she did.

*               *               *


The traffic out of the city was light. The taxi driver was chatty and he assured her that he knew where he was going, but as soon as they turned off the highway, and onto a poorly lit dirt-track that ran alongside a never-ending row of towering rubber trees, Isabel began to have her doubts. There was nothing out here but run-down shacks that served as housing for the rubber tappers.

"Are you sure you know where the place is?" asked Isabel.

"No problem. The map is good. Just five kilometres up this road and then turn left."

Another five kilometres of this pot-holed, bumpy road, and Isabel was sure she'd be sick. She wound down the window and let in the warm, humid night air. She could only imagine how hard it would be to get down this track in the rainy season. Why on earth did they choose to live all the way out here?

After close calls with a three-legged dog, a trio of drunken boys, staggering arm in arm, and a clutch of chickens, they reached the end of the main road and turned left. Isabel could hardly believe her eyes. The gates to the house were over ten feet high, and beyond it, rows of flaming torches picked out a long, straight path to a sprawling white plantation villa.

The gate was open, and Isabel could see a number of cars, parked in a row along the drive. Their drivers were playing cards on the hoods of their vehicles or dozing in the front seats.

Isabel paid the taxi driver. "Can you come back for me at eleven o'clock? I don't think I'll be able to find a taxi out here."

The taxi driver looked unenthusiastic. "I don't know. It's a long way to come again."

"I'll pay you double. Please. Otherwise, how will I get home?"

"I'll try to come. Depends on how busy I am. It's Friday, you know."

Isabel shrugged and smiled. "Well, please try," she said, and stepped out of the car.

The grounds and the house were so grand, Isabel suddenly worried that she was woefully underdressed in her plain white linen shift. She'd pulled her hair back in a braid and donned a pair of strappy bronze sandals. Her intention had been to dress sensibly and conservatively. After all, who hires a flamboyant translator? But now, as she walked up the path, she felt she should have made more of an effort. It was a dinner party, after all.

As she walked up the terracotta steps to the broad entrance, Gilles Mase stood waiting, in a plain white shirt and linen trousers. Isabel breathed a sigh of relief.

"Isabel! So nice of you to come." He bent and kissed her on both cheeks in the French manner. "Did you have trouble finding us?"

The building was u-shaped, and he guided her through the entrance that that led, not to any interior room, but out into a huge courtyard, flanked by the walls of the house, filled with potted plants of every variety and ending at the foot of an wide, aquamarine swimming pool. Isabel was virtually speechless. She'd never seen anything like this in all her years in Saigon. Now she understood why they chose to live here, so far from the city.

"Mr. Mase, what a marvellous house you have."

He smiled at her, looking genuinely pleased by the compliment, even though he must have heard it a thousand times. "Gilles, please. And thank you, it was my grandfather's house. Je l'ai reprise."

Isabel was tempted to ask how he managed to persuade the communist government to give it back to him, but she thought perhaps the question was impolitic.

A group of six people stood around, chatting, glasses in their hands. Gilles made the introductions, but the only person Isabel recognized was his wife, Carmen, who looked cool and elegant and beautiful with her black hair in a tight chignon, and a blood-red strapless dress. She was a consummate Parisian woman: svelte, willowy, and always turned out to perfection. Isabel suspected she was Gilles' second wife; she was much younger than he was, and had all the signs of being someone's trophy.

Her bracelets jangled as she transferred her drink from one hand to the other and air-kissed Isabel's cheeks. "So nice to see you, my dear." She bent and whispered in my ear, "It's good to have some new blood in our midst. All these boring old colons—I've had enough of them."

The remark surprised Isabel, but it also made her feel less like an interloper in this tightly-knit group of people who had known each other for years, perhaps generations.

The other guests were all older than Isabel: Mr. and Mrs. Charles Fournier were almost in their sixties and looked like they had been married so long they had begun to look like each other. Sophie and Marcel d'Aubigne were about the same age as Gilles, perhaps early fifties.

The only other single member of the party was Michel Godard. Although she'd never met him, Isabel had seen him around town. He ran a French bar down in the centre of town. He was in his forties and rather short and stout and had a pinkish complexion. He grinned at Isabel and offered his hand. "I've met you before, I'm sure."

"Not formally. But I've seen you. You run La Forchette, don't you?"

Michel grinned and then pursed his lips. "I do! But I cannot believe that I would have allowed a woman as beautiful as you to come into my establishment without wanting to know her name." He took Isabel's hand and clutched it, covering it with the other. His palms were sweaty and hot.

Isabel did her best not to recoil. "You were playing dominos at the bar," she said dryly.

He seemed unwilling to let her go, even as Carmen came over bearing a cocktail glass with something pink in it. Isabel took the opportunity and freed herself, reaching for the glass.

"Thank you so much," she chirped, a little more gratefully than was strictly necessary.

Carmen smiled enigmatically. "Would you like to help me in the kitchen?"

"Of course. I'd love to."

Carmen took her hand and led her up the stairs into the house and through to an big, old fashioned kitchen where three elderly Vietnamese ladies were hard at work preparing what looked like a banquet. It was obvious Carmen was in no need of help.

"I must apologize for Michel. His wife left him a year ago and went back to France. He's been unbearably predatory every since."

Isabel laughed. "Well, thank you for the rescue. He's very friendly but a little...as you say."

"It's your white dress," said Carmen, stepping closer and running a red-tipped finger along the line of Isabel's shoulder. "He has a thing for virgins."

It was a strangely intimate gesture, and Isabel wasn't certain how to read it. She shrugged and laughed it off. "Well, I'm absolutely safe then."

Carmen giggled and withdrew her hand. "I need to check the dining room, will you come with me?"

"Of course."

Isabel followed her through a pair of mammoth wooden doors, past a darkened salon and out onto a wide wooden veranda. A table was set in the middle. It glowed in dim light; its white tablecloth and gleaming silverware reflected the flames from a pair of lit candelabras.

"Your house is just gorgeous, Carmen."

Carmen walked around the table, checking settings, moving a glass, refolding a napkin. "Yes," she murmured distractedly, "but it is very lonely out here."

"I'd imagine it is."

The woman stopped and smiled, her face framed on either side by the flickering candles. "My husband, he likes you."

God, the French were weird, thought Isabel. It was a simple statement but Isabel had no idea how to read this woman. She decided that face value was best. "I'm very glad to hear it. I was hoping to get his translation work."

Carmen smiled again and shrugged her elegant, angular shoulders. Her tanned skin shone in the candlelight. "Oh, I'm sure you'll have it," she said, lightly.

*               *               *


Seated around the table, the conversation was animated and in French. Although Isabel was fluent, it was not her first language and she listened to the banter feeling somewhat like a voyeur. She was being afforded a glimpse into this closed and cliquish world of people who dreamt of the past and regretted the present.

Gilles Mase sat at the head of the table, playing the magnanimous host. He lounged back, one arm carelessly flung over the back of his chair. In his other hand he held a half-empty glass of Beaujolais. He was a bigger man than she remembered, and his hair was shot through with silver strands. He had a strong neck, a very square jaw and rather intense brown eyes. He was handsome in an arrogant, paternal sort of way. From time to time, his eyes rested on Isabel, as if assessing her. It made her uncomfortable, and she took refuge in the chatty Michel who was sitting opposite.

Carmen was on Gilles' left and showing the effects of having drunk a little too much. She brushed her glass with her hand and knocked it over, spilling deep red liquid onto the pristine tablecloth. It spread out like blood.

"Oh, how clumsy!" she giggled, trying to staunch the spread with her napkin.

"You did it on purpose, Carmen."

It was Gilles voice, hard and cold, totally unlike the bonhomie of his earlier conversations. The change was so abrupt and so out of place; Isabel felt a small chill run down her spine. The whole table had fallen silent.

"I...I didn't!" Carmen pleaded, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.

"Don't argue with me, Carmen. Stand up," Gilles said, getting up himself. The legs of his chair scraped against the wooden flooring.

Carmen stopped twittering. "No...no, Gilles. I'll get the maids to change the cloth. Just wait a moment... I can make it all..."

"Stand. Up." Gilles' voice was clipped and cruel. It was a voice that would not tolerate dissention.

Isabel sat paralysed. In all her life, she'd never heard a man talk to his wife that way in front of other people. Suddenly, she felt terribly protective of Carmen. "Gilles," she said quietly, but firmly, "It's just a little spilled wine. I'll help clean it up." She started to rise, but the almost murderous look in Gilles eyes stopped her.

Across the table, Michel reached out and took her hand, pinning it to the cloth. "Don't interfere, Isabel. They do this all the time."

Down, at the end of the table, Carmen rose slowly to her feet, and began to move the place setting away from in front of her. She did it in a kind of slow motion, and like an automaton, until the table in front of her was entirely clear of everything but the dark, red stain.

"Bend over."

Isabel's jaw dropped open as she watched this beautiful, sophisticated woman bend over the table until her upper body was resting on it.

"This kind of undisciplined behaviour is unacceptable," said Gilles quietly.

"Yes, Maitre," Carmen said.

Isabel watched the woman's face lying on its side against the wine stain. Her lips were almost exactly the same colour. They moved, but her eyes were glazed over and dead.

"You have no right to embarrass me in front of my guests. Apologize this instant."

"Yes, Maitre. I apologize for my behaviour." Carmen's voice was toneless and as dead as her eyes. Then, slowly she closed them.

If it hadn't been for the fact that she was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with her hand pinned to the table in Michel's sweaty grip, Isabel would have walked out. The whole scene was surreal. These people were all, surely, mad, and this was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Isabel didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be a witness to this—whatever it was.

Finally, she got up the nerve to speak again. "Gilles, please stop this. There is no need for an apology. It was just a glass of wine, for God's sake!"

But Gilles wasn't listening. He reached down and pulled the hem of Carmen's red dress over her hips. Beneath, the woman wore nothing. Her bare buttocks gleamed in the candlelight.

"Be quiet, Isabel," hissed Michel. "Don't spoil the fun. This is the only reason I bother coming out to the god-forsaken place!"

"You're all insane," Isabel hissed back. "This is barbarous!"

Mrs. Fournier, who had said nothing up until now, looked over at Isabel and giggled. "It's nothing more than she deserves, my dear."

The sound of flesh hitting flesh made Isabel jump and lock her eyes on the source of the noise. The first slap moved Carmen's body further onto the table and set the glasses and dishes tinkling. The woman herself was completely silent.

Gilles drew his hand back to hit her again, and Isabel heard someone inhale sharply. The second slap made Carmen yelp. Isabel saw the pain of the blow flash through her face before leaving it, somehow, utterly impassive.

She felt Michel let go of her hand. He drew it beneath the table and she heard the distinct sound of a fly being unzipped.

The whole thing was beyond description. As the spanking continued, Carmen's cries became louder and louder. But the woman didn't struggle or try to get away. In fact, despite the noise she was making, she was clearly enjoying this. She'd pulled her hands beneath her chest, and was squeezing her own breasts as the castigation went on.

Gilles, on the other hand, was completely unreadable. He dealt out the punishment with studied impassivity. Over and over, he hit the lovely upturned buttocks with the broad palm of his hand, leaving visible prints on his wife's flesh.

A little worm of excitement curled and twisted in Isabel's stomach. She knew she should get up and leave; what she was witnessing defied all appropriate behaviour. She fought the strange feeling, willing herself to turn her eyes away from the terrible, fascinating spectacle in front of her. Then, just as she thought she'd overcome her unaccountable reluctance to move, the spanking stopped.

It was impossible to ignore the groans and sighs and quick breathing that filled the silence around the table. At the head of it, Gilles smoothed a possessive hand over Carmen's red bottom.

"Eh bien, ma petite. C'est tout."

Mr. d'Aubigne made a disappointed sound. "You can't leave her like that, Gilles. It's unkind. You have to finish her off."

Isabel's back went rigid. She scanned the faces round the table in disbelief. "Finish her off? Are you all out of your mind?" she demanded.

Gilles chuckled, his hand still rubbing his wife's rump. "I suppose it doesn't sound very appealing in translation," he said in English. And, without taking his eyes off Isabel's face, he slid his hand between his wife's buttocks and began to caress her. Even at a distance of ten feet, Isabel could hear his fingers slipping through the wet flesh of his wife's cunt. Carmen moaned and arched her back, beginning to pant. And, even from her vantage point, Isabel knew when he'd pushed his fingers inside her, because the posture of Carmen's body changed and she began to push backwards, riding his fingers.

Despite her best intentions, Isabel's own body responded to what she was witnessing. Between her legs, her panties were damp, and as she moved, uncomfortably, in her chair, her inner thighs were slick with her own juices. Carmen's moans and grunts only added to the bizarre eroticism of it all. And around the table people cleared their throats, and fidgeted in their seats. Mr. and Mrs. d'Aubigne began to kiss deeply, passionately.

Isabel tried to look anywhere but at Gilles Mase, but every time her gaze drifted back to him, he was staring at her, even as his wife impaled herself on his fingers. Isabel felt her face turn red and she forced herself to stare down at the empty plate in front of her, until Carmen moaned and began to shudder so hard the whole table shook.

"Ah! Je jouis. Je jouis!" whimpered Carmen. Her body relaxed, and her eyes closed.

Then it was over. It seemed as if everyone let out a sigh. Carmen pushed herself up off the table, smoothed a couple of stray wisps of hair from her face and primly pulled down her dress.

Isabel considered the problem of getting up from the table. How was she going to hide what felt like an massive damp spot on the seat of her dress? Why couldn't she have worn black?

"We have strawberries and crème fraîche for dessert. Does everyone want some?" asked Carmen.

Isabel smiled inanely and nodded her head.

*               *               *


Isabel ate her strawberries in silence. The table had returned to normal. It had been cleared by one of the Mase's staff and even the wine stain was gone. The conversation had reverted back to gossip and rumour: who's business was doing well, who was leaving for the home country, which school was best for international schooling. Isabel pretended to listen, but her mind was trapped at the moment when Carmen's face grew still and her body slumped, sated, against the white cloth.

Isabel couldn't get over the fact that each of these seemingly conservative, middle-class couples had sat and silently watched what Isabel considered to be, at the very least, an intimate moment between a husband and wife. Now they were acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Worst yet, the uncomfortable twinges between Isabel's legs hadn't abated at all. She could still feel herself oozing all over the back of her dress. She decided that now - while everyone was busy with dessert and coffee - was a good time to find a bathroom and see what could be done about it.

"Could you tell me where your bathroom is?" she asked Carmen.

"Oh, it's back into the house, though the salon and to your right. Shall I come with you?"

"No...no. It's fine. I'm sure I'll find it on my own."

"Are you sure?" Carmen asked, standing up.

Isabel felt a moment of panic. She had absolutely no desire for company or for having to discuss her state of disarray. "No," she said, rather too loudly. "No. I'm absolutely certain I'll be just fine. Thanks anyway."

She stood up, backed away from the table as gracefully as she could, and made a rather awkward, sideways exit into the darkened living room. It wasn't hard to find the bathroom; it was through a door in the small hallway that connected the living room to the kitchen.

Once inside, she switched on the light and turned to lock the door, but there was no lock, so she closed it firmly and stood with her back to the mirror, trying to survey the damage. It wasn't as bad as she'd feared. If she kept standing up, and let it dry, the stain would not be noticeable. Her panties, however, were another matter. They felt sticky and horrible between her legs.

Isabel reached beneath her dress and stepped out of them. They were very brief, and silk. She filled the sink with water and began to rinse them out. If she rolled them in a towel to get the excess dampness out of them, they'd dry very quickly.

As she washed them, her mind kept creeping back to the earlier scene at the table. She shook her head and tried to think of day-to-day things, but the sound of the slaps against bare skin and Carmen moaning her way to orgasm kept echoing in her head. When she looked up at herself in the mirror, she was sweating and flushed. The need to touch herself, to be rid of this overwhelming urge was so great, it was almost impossible to bear. Perhaps if she just gave herself an orgasm, she'd feel less trapped, less disassociated. It wouldn't take her long.

Pulling up the hem of her skirt, she thrust a hand between her legs, bracing herself against the wall with the other. Her fingers were cool and wet and the shock of them against her burning pussy made her shiver. She bit her lip so as not to make a noise and began to work with serious concentration. The images of the evening flooded back into her mind, and this time she didn't stop them. Isabel closed her eyes and pushed her fingers between the slick lips of her cunt, grazing her clit over and over with her fingertips and teasing them into her hole with every pass.

She imagined herself on that table, in Carmen's place. It wasn't the audience that excited her; it was the sensation, the vulnerability, the sting and the hot flush. She was halfway there.

"May I be of some assistance?"

The voice made her jump and her eyes flashed open. She'd half expected Carmen to come knocking at the door to see if she was okay, but she hadn't expected Gilles.

He closed the door behind him before she had a chance to object. He stepped behind her quickly and engulfed her, pushing her hand out of the way, replacing it with his own.

"My God," Isabel stuttered. "This...this...this isn't right." But even as she said it, she felt a new flood of juice seeping out around his thick, rough fingers.

The hand that was not busy pushing its way into her swollen cunt covered her face. "Can you smell her on my hand," he whispered. "Do you like it? Her smell alone is almost enough to make me come."

Isabel whimpered and inhaled. She could indeed smell the cloying, sweet scent of another woman on his fingers. Moaning, she parted her lips and tasted the skin of his hand, revelling in the rich, musky taste.

"She likes you," he panted into her ear as he began to fuck her with two fingers. "She wants you to stay. And I want what she wants, always."

She let her head fall back against his chest and felt the faint spasms begin.

"Stay. Will you stay?" He thrust another finger inside her and pushed her over the edge.

"Yes," Isabel moaned. Her voice muffled by his hand, by Carmen's scent, by her own lust.

She twitched against him, repeatedly, like a marionette with tangled strings. His hips were pressed against her ass, his hard cock upright and nestled in the cleft. She couldn't stop coming. His fingers curled forward, brushing her g-spot and she convulsed, the muscles of her passage walls clamped down hard, like an iris shutting around his fingers.

"Do you want my cock?"

Isabel shook her head. "No...please...enough," she gasped.

"Later, then," he said.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of her. In the mirror, she saw him raise them to his mouth and suck them clean. Isabel stood trembling as the blood flooded back into her muscles, twitching as the little aftershocks raced through her body. It was all she could do not to collapse in a puddle on the floor.

Gilles looked down into the sink at the white silk panties floating in the water. "Don't bother with those. You won't need them around here."

*               *               *


Isabel walked mutely back onto the dining veranda. It was irrational, but she was positive that they only had to take one look at her face to know what she'd just been doing. If they didn't see it, they'd smell it - she was sure.

But Mr. and Mrs. d'Aubigne were on their feet, with Michel beside them, saying their goodnights. With what seemed like a little more reluctance, Mr. and Mrs. Fournier did the same. Carmen was being a perfect hostess, protesting that they were leaving far too early, but Isabel could hear the lack of conviction in her words.

"Must you go? Oh, how sad. Won't you stay for a cognac?"

"No. It's a long way back to town, my dear," said Madame Fournier. "Next time, you must come to us."

Michel stepped away from the crowd and cornered Isabel.

"It was such a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure we'll meet again very soon," he said with a sly grin.

"It was very nice. Yes, I'm sure we'll run into each other. Saigon can be such a small place." Isabel made a mental note that La Forchette was now strictly out of bounds.

"Well, you know where I am. You can find me any night of the week."

"I certainly do," replied Isabel.

Mr. d'Aubigne joined their group, smiling. "Would you like to ride with us back into town? We have a big car and lots of room. You aren't going to find a taxi out here at this time of night."

"Well," hesitated Isabel. "It's very kind of your to offer, but..."

A light hand fell on her shoulder. "But Isabel is staying with us for the weekend. She and Gilles have a mountain of translation work to do," Carmen casually put her arm around Isabel's shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. "Don't you?"

Isabel blushed. "Oh...yes. Mountains," she agreed, feeling slightly sheepish.

Michel and Monsieur d'Aubigne gave each other an enigmatic glance. Something that Isabel couldn't discern passed between them.

"Well, that's wonderful then. Everyone is set," chirped Michel, grabbing Isabel's hand and kissing her messily on both cheeks. Before he pulled away, he pressed his lips to her ear and hissed: "I'd love to see you two together, eating each other up."

Isabel tugged her hand out of his grasp. She couldn't think of anything more disgusting than performing for this repulsive slug of a man. The thought made her cringe.

Before she could get the words of disdain she was planning for him out of her mouth, Carmen slid her arm through Isabel's and pulled her away, through the house and out onto the front steps of the entryway.

The guests were repeating their goodnights, the way all guests will. Carmen held Isabel's arm possessively as she said her goodbyes and watched the guests get into their cars. Gilles was talking to the drivers, giving them directions to get back to the highway in rather bad Vietnamese.

"Smile and wave," Carmen muttered. "Smile and wave." Her fingers brushed discreetly against the side of Isabel's breast as she watched them off.

Isabel, not knowing quite what else to do, did what she was told: she smiled and waved.

The minute the last of the cars had driven through the gates, Carmen turned to Isabel, wrapped her arms around her and kissed her hard on the mouth. The ferocity and intensity of the kiss startled Isabel. She'd never kissed a woman before and she hadn't expected anything so forceful.

"Thank God. I thought they'd never leave," murmured Carmen.

She kissed Isabel again, softer this time and Isabel found it impossible not to respond. The woman's lips were so soft, so lush, and beneath the scent of her perfume, Isabel could smell the fragrance that had so overwhelmed her in the bathroom.

She relaxed in Carmen's arms and drew her own around the woman, opening her mouth to Carmen's questing, hungry tongue. It tasted of wine and strawberries; it was heady and addictive. Isabel sucked at it, as if she could consume and incorporate the very essence of Carmen that way.

"What a lovely picture you make."

Isabel pulled away from the kiss. She was unsure of how something like this unfolded. Of course, she'd read all sorts of novels where three people were involved, but they were romantic and full of drama and jealousy. This was about skin and need and something quite indefinable. But something in the back of Isabel's mind made her cautious.

"We're hot, Gilles," said Carmen, in a pouting, little girl's voice. She pressed her warm cheek against Isabel's. "We want to swim. Don't we?"

Isabel giggled and nodded. She could feel the faint pulse in Carmen's throat through the woman's skin.

"Who am I to deny two beautiful women their desires?

Carmen laughed. "Will you watch, Maitre?"

"Mais oui, naturellement. Let me grab a cognac."

*               *               *


They shed their clothes as they walked through the courtyard. Isabel watched as Carmen unzipped her red dress and pulled it down, leaving it puddle on the tiles.

"You're..." Isabel paused to find the words. For someone who had spent her whole life using words as tools, it was ironic that she was struggling to find the right ones now. Instead she reached out and laid a hesitant hand over one of Carmen's breasts. "Very beautiful."

Carmen laughed and shrugged, reaching up to unpin her hair. It tumbled down around her bare shoulders in dark cascades. Beneath her palm, Isabel felt the nipple stiffen.

"And what are you?" Carmen asked. She placed a hand on top of Isabel's and squeezed. "Let's see if you're a mermaid. Come into the water."

The pool shimmered electric blue as they waded in. The chill made Isabel suck in her breath. Cool eddies swirled around her thighs and, as she moved further in, her hips. She sighed.

"Come," whispered Carmen, pulling her closer. She wrapped her arms around Isabel's waist and pressed their bodies together.

Isabel looked down. There was something painfully erotic about seeing their breasts pressed together, their nipples touching. Drawing Carmen's face to hers, she pressed her lips against the woman's mouth. Inhaling her scent again. There was something magical about her skin. Once her lips were in contact with it, it was hard to break away. She trailed her mouth over Carmen's cheek and down her neck. The body in her arms shuddered as she opened her mouth and sucked at the skin.

"Isabel," Gilles voice called from beyond the pool. "You must kiss her breasts. They're exquisitely sensitive."

Nodding, Isabel wrapped her arms around Carmen's waist, lifting her up in the water. She gazed at Carmen's perfectly petite breast; the rosy nipple crinkled and stiffened in anticipation. Isabel pressed her mouth over it, sucking it gently and dragging her tongue over the hard bud. Carmen moaned and arched her back, pressing more of herself into Isabel's mouth.

Splashing in the water made Isabel open her eyes. Gilles was wading into the pool, his shirt undone, but otherwise fully dressed. He stopped beside them, a balloon glass of brandy in one hand.

"Bite it. She loves it."

Isabel grazed the nipple with her teeth, and then softly bit it. Carmen's body stiffened and twitched in her arms. She bit again, a little harder this time and was rewarded with another sharper twitch and a low, guttural moan.

Gilles draped his arm around Isabel's shoulders and brought his lips to her ear. The sensation of his breath on her skin turned it to gooseflesh.

"Harder," he whispered and then kissed her ear. "Don't be scared to hurt her."

Isabel mewed and pressed her teeth into Carmen's flesh until she was worried that she'd break the skin. The effect was immediate: the woman in her arms bucked her hips and whimpered. She wrapped her legs tight around Isabel's hips and began to rub herself sensuously against Isabel's pelvic bone. What would it be like to have a cock and fuck her this way, Isabel wondered. She dropped her gaze to watch Carmen's hips roll against her in the water.

Gilles finished off his brandy, waded to the side of the pool, and left the glass. When he returned, he put his arms around both of them.

"Carmen loves sex. Don't you, my little salope? She'll rub herself raw against anything if you're not careful." Gilles grabbed Carmen by the waist and lifted her onto the side of the pool. "Show Isabel your hungry little cunt."

Carmen smiled, brushed her hair off her face and spread her legs wide. Isabel waded over to them, fascinated. She'd never seen any woman's pussy but her own, in the mirror. Carmen was shaved, and her outer lips were plump and blood-engorged. Her clit peeked out from between her inner folds, dark red, like a beacon, the same size as her erect nipples.

Gilles reached between her legs and stroked it with his fingertips. His wife reacted by splaying her legs wider still and leaning back on her hands, letting her head drop back. She let out a moan like an animal in heat.

"Want to taste?"

Nodding, Isabel moved between Carmen's legs stroking her thighs until her face was level with Carmen's pussy. She'd never done this before, but she knew very well how good it could feel. She lowered her mouth onto Carmen's vulva and stoked her tongue along the length of her slit. She began to tease the hard, erect bud with the tip of her tongue, unhooding it, giving it attention and then returning to long, languid laps.

Gilles moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, cupping her tits, teasing the nipples. Isabel moaned into Carmen's pussy and began to suck rhythmically at her clit, dragging her tongue over the nub every so often, until she heard Carmen start to beg. Then, with one swift movement, she pushed two fingers deep into Carmen's cunt. The slick, wet walls fluttered and contracted around her fingers. Isabel sucked harder, and pushed her fingers deeper, fucking as she feasted.

"Ah, Maitre. Permettre-moi, je vous prie!" Carmen shouted.

Behind her, Gilles laughed. "She wants to come. Should we let her?"

Isabel nodded. "Yes," she whispered against Carmen's clit.

Carmen was coming. Her hips, perfectly still until now, bucked beneath Isabel's mouth, fucking herself with Isabel's fingers. A flood of juices seeped from her slit, drenching Isabel's mouth and hand. It was just like she remembered, when she tasted Gilles' fingers - sweet, musky and tangy.

Carmen roared and convulsed. Her legs shook with the strength of her orgasm.

Then, as it abated, she lay backwards on the edge of the pool and sighed into the night sky. Isabel thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever witnessed.

"Kiss me," said Gilles, pulling Isabel back into the centre of the pool. He

turned her around in the water. "Kiss me."

Isabel put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him, her face and lips slick with Carmen's juices. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and fed off it, holding her head in his hands, as if she were piece of fruit for him to devour. When he pulled away, he looked at her and smiled.

"Nothing tastes as good as my wife, on another woman's lips."

*               *               *

The Dinner Party is a work in progress. For continuing chapters, go to:
http://www.remittancegirl.com/series/ 


Translation of phrases in French.

Je l'ai reprise:  I reclaimed it.
Colons: The French slang for foreigners living in the ex-colonies.
Eh bien, ma petite. C'est tout:  Now, my little one, it's over.
Je jouis. Je jouis:  I'm coming, I'm coming
Mais oui, naturellement:  But, of course.
salope: Slut.
Permettre-moi, je vous prie: Master. Please allow me, I beg you.

_______
© 2007 Remittance Girl. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Remittance Girl lives and works in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. A designer by profession, she also grows orchids and writes erotica. Her site is www.remittancegirl.com


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