Marcheline

The shadow of sorrow threatened to eclipse the natural beauty that caught my eye every single time she graced my classroom. Her long, brown, sunkissed hair was held back in a wispy ponytail, and her usual perfectly made face was bare. For the first time, I could see the light brown freckles that peppered her skin, but I could also see that her beautiful eyes had sunken into her face. Her cheekbones were more prominent than ever before, highlighted by her concave cheeks. Even as I noted that she seemed to be withering away, there could be no doubt that she was stunning. Not even the hand of death could divest her of her otherworldly allure.

She passed by to sit in the back of the lecture hall, but it was evident that she was only present in body. I worried over the somber haze that seemed to have clouded her mind and stolen the light from her eyes. This was my second semester as her professor; I tutored her personally through the first. I've watched her spread her wings like un beau cygne (a beautiful swan) and grow into herself as a woman. I once told her that the French language was a tongue of passion that could illicit carnal desire, and when it came from the mouth of a beautiful woman, it was a potent weapon that could make men…or women fall to their knees. That evening, surrounded by stacks of books, she asked me to show her.

The temptation to fulfill her request was too great, almost overshadowing the boundary between teachers and students. I couldn't deny that I had dreamt about teaching her the art of pleasuring a woman…how to pleasure me. I wanted to show her the pleasure in obeisance and introduce her to my world where she relinquished all control. Mon Dieu (My God), I wanted to cross that imaginary line that society drew between right and wrong. She was so young; I was supposed to guide her not corrupt her. But it was only corruption in the minds of those who were prisoners themselves to societal expectations about what relationships should look like. Love could not be shackled by something as frivolous as age, sex, or even monogamy any better than the human mind could control it. Sometimes, the choice of who to love was not your own and it couldn't be denied.

But before I could explore the tension that seemed to strike us whenever we spent those hours in the library getting lost in more than just French adverbs, I needed to talk to my husband. My husband was my Dominant and Master, but we both had desires that we decided to explore with others. I loved to serve him, but I also craved to have someone at my feet. Remy didn't bottom to anyone, and I wasn't the masochist to his sadist. He had found someone who needed him, and I was just happy that my Master was happy. The key to polyamory was communication, and it was important to me that we agreed on who we brought into our lives.

Four Months Ago

One night after serving Master's favorite meal of seared duck breast with garlic confit and asparagus, I kneeled before him with my head bowed, waiting for him to acknowledge me. I could almost see him smiling at my submissive position as he cut into his meat though my eyes were lowered. I heard his utensils clatter on the plate as he placed them down, and petted my hair. I shivered in desire at his gentle touch, closed my eyes, and sighed as he pulled my chin upward between his thumb and forefinger.

"Oui, mon chere (Yes, my dear)?" He stroked my cheek lovingly, his affection for me as evident now as it had been when we'd met 18 years ago. His eyes were molten honey behind his thin wire-rimmed frames, and they captured me every single time I gazed at him. Time had not chipped away at our desire for one another; each touch was as thrilling as the first. I still craved his praise above all things.

"Monsieur, may I sit with you?"

"Certainement, ma Cherie (Certainly, my Darling), such a good girl for asking." I was no longer a little girl, but it still tickled me pink when he said that. I stood and joined him at the table with a plate of my own. Nerves paralyzed my tongue temporarily; I was scared that he would be put off by her age or that she was my student. We were more open-minded than most, that was true, but I was risking my job if I pursued Jaime. I'm positive that Master would dismiss my concerns considering my career wasn't our livelihood, merely a passion for me. France was where we met, and it had deep-rooted significance for us both.

"There is a woman who has captured my interest…in my class," I added quietly. He merely nodded at me to continue with a smile on his face. He had to know that I meant she was a student, but maybe I should clarify that.

"She is a student of mine."

His deep chuckle lit a fire deep within my belly; his voice was enough to cause my panties to dampen. I knew that he had plans for me later when his voice dipped to that octave. His eyes darkened in the dim lighting of our dining room, and I could tell he was fantasizing about watching me with another woman. I decided to describe her to him, far more confident that he would allow me to pursue her now.

"Dis-moi (Tell me)," he said, pushing his plate away. He was giving me his full attention, and I liked it far too much to let the opportunity slip away to tease him.

"Her skin is as radiant as golden sand beneath a blazing sun but smoother than silk. Her eyes are a deep brown and appear amber in the light. Her voice is soft and timid, perfectly submissive. Her curves are delicate, and just enough for my petite hands. Can you picture her at my feet, Monsieur? Can you imagine her feasting on my pussy, while bound on her knees?"

"She sounds almost as beautiful as you, Cherie. You have my permission if that's what you need."

"It is Monsieur. I think I could teach her many things about our lifestyle if she were willing."

"I have no doubts that you can teach her how to serve; you are such a good, obedient slut for me." My food was forgotten at that point, taking a backseat to the desire to let him use me for his pleasure. I was already wearing nothing but an apron and my French silk panties. Master loved my body and desired that I didn't wear anything but panties in our home. It was a simple command, and my clothes were bothersome after a full day of being restricted anyway.

"Come ma Cherie, crawl to me."