MasukÉLÉNAThere was no promise. No vow exchanged in the dark, no lingering look before leaving. Only the sound of morning entering unannounced, that raw, pale light coming to lay its cold fingers on my naked hips. Only the sheet still damp from us, from him, from what we had done—or undone—during those hours stolen from the night. Only the emptiness where his body should have been, the still-warm imprint of his form on the mattress, that hollow where he ought to have been, where, for a few hours, I had thought I could abandon myself without falling. I had thought he would stay. That he wouldn't flee. Not yet.But he did.Without a word. Without a scribbled note, without even a cigarette left on the edge of the sink like an offering, a sign, a proof that he had truly been there. He vanished like a shadow you can never truly grasp, like a fever that leaves you at daybreak but leaves you drained, a stranger to yourself, breathless and dispossessed.And I stayed there, lying in that rumpled b
ÉLÉNAIt was supposed to be once.A deviation of trajectory, an ephemeral vertigo, a quick, wild unreason that you lock in a black box, repress, deny come morning.But Neyl is not a memory you put away.He is an imprint.A slow-release poison.He stays in the bones. He insinuates himself into silences. He rises to the surface with every heartbeat that's a little too strong.And I… I come back.Always.I come back even when I hate myself for it, even when my legs tremble from having given in too much, even when my conscience screams at me to flee, I come back like an oil spill that keeps washing up on the same cliffs, again, again, unable to do otherwise.Because he doesn't fuck.He conquers.He reduces.He transforms.And what he does to me, I had never known before.What he awakens, what he devours, what he leaves after… it's more than a lack. It's a wound. And I go back to it, because I need him to reopen it.Tonight again, I cross the threshold like walking through a fire I'm no lo
ÉLÉNAIt starts with a voice.Deep. Slow. The kind of timbre that grabs you by the spine to force you to listen. I can't make out the words, not yet. Just that warm vibration that slips under my skin, like a whisper blown against my bare neck.I shouldn't be here.Drop off a file, sign a form, leave. That's all. Nothing more. But my fingers tremble around the cardboard folder, and my heels hesitate on the polished floor of the entrance hall.Then I see him.Neyl.He doesn't look at the others. He doesn't look at anything, really. He moves through the space as if he already possesses it. A perfectly tailored anthracite suit, a dark shirt open at the throat, and those eyes… black, slit with steel, impassive, until they turn towards me.And there, everything stops.He sees me.Not like you notice someone. No. He sees me like you target. Like you choose.His gaze sweeps over me without shame, without detour, without modesty. He doesn't linger on my eyes. He lingers on my mouth. And my sto
Élise---I thought that by leaving, by fleeing this house, this bed, this past… I would feel better. I thought guilt would eventually fall silent, that the void would fade with time. But no. Three months have passed. Three months of living alone. And every morning, every damn morning, I wake up with that bitter taste in my mouth, that knot in my stomach that refuses to disappear.Julien is no longer here. There is nothing left. No more screams, no more lies. No more stolen embraces in the darkness. No more bodies seeking each other, finding each other, ruining each other. Yet, I am incapable of breathing. It's as if the air froze in my lungs the day I left him behind.I live in this small, impersonal apartment, far from everything, far from them. Far from that house too big, too full of memories that tore me apart. Here, there is only silence. White walls, cold furniture. And me, in the middle of it all, emptier still than this soulless decor. Sometimes, I catch myself staring at the
Camille---I thought the morning after would be harder. That guilt would come, like a ghost clinging to my skin, ready to suffocate me. But no. This morning, I wake up in his arms and for the first time in months… no, in years, I simply feel alive. Not broken. Not dirty. Not ashamed. Just… here.I stay a few seconds observing him. His peaceful face, his eyelashes fluttering slightly. His hand still on my hip, as if he wants to keep me there, prisoner of this suspended moment. I smile, a real smile, sincere, rare.I slip out of bed reluctantly and rush to the kitchen to make breakfast. I want to leave him this image of me, soft, light. Not the woman damaged by regrets. When he joins me, hair disheveled, dressed only in pajama pants, he hugs me, without a word. And everything seems simple, natural.After eating, I went home. My heart was beating hard as I walked through the door of my apartment, as if I was afraid André would guess what I had done. But he was there, absorbed in his toy
Camille---I didn't see the days pass. Since that dinner, Édouard has been here. Not intrusive, never pressing, but his presence has slipped into my daily life as if it were obvious. A reassuring whisper.And tonight, he's here, on my doorstep. Not a word, just that look. That look that burns me, overwhelms me, and pushes me to take a step towards him.I close the door behind him. And everything becomes silent.I no longer know who moves first. Maybe him. Maybe me. But suddenly, he's there, in front of me, and I look up at him.His hands cup my face with an almost painful slowness. His skin against mine. My breathing quickens.— "Tell me to leave, Camille…" His voice barely trembles. "Say it and I'll go…"I shake my head. Unable to lie. I want him here. Now.So his lips find mine. And I lose myself.It's not brutal. It's not that dirty, guilty passion. It's slow. It's tender. It's a kiss that teaches me again what desire without shame is.He almost lifts me, carries me to my bedroom.
Amelia I watch these two people leave the house and I can't understand what just happened! So he's engaged? Engaged? And I didn't know anything about it! Why did he hide something like that from me? And here I was, starting to get my hopes up, dreaming of a story between us! I should have realized
Alessandro She's sprawled beneath me as my lips graze her clitoris, then I suck, eliciting a moan from her. My tongue joins the dance, teasing her clit while I continue to thrust in and out of her pussy with my fingers, trying to reach as deep as possible. She finally climaxes with a cry. A smug
Alessandro I look at my mother and ask: - Are you sure about what you're saying? Did she really tell you that the father is Sandro? My mother gets up and points to her room. - Go see her, she'll tell you herself. I turn to Amelia. - My dear, I'm sorry you're in a situation like this. I'll be
Alessandro For five minutes, there was dead silence. Marissa detached herself from Sandro and came towards me, but I moved away to avoid her touch. I couldn't comprehend what had happened. How long had they been mocking me behind my back?– My darling, it’s not what you think.– Oh, really?– No,







