The after-party was in a private hôtel particulier just off the Seine, the kind of place that never appeared on maps. Camille Laurent had walked the red carpet two hours earlier in a black silk slip that barely qualified as a dress. The premiere had gone well. The reviews would be kind. She was thirty-two, the face of two perfume campaigns and the lead in Adrian’s last three films. Everyone in the room wanted something from her.
Adrian watched from a low sofa near the tall windows, a glass of cognac untouched in his hand. He liked watching her work a room. She was already flushed from the champagne, laughing too easily, the thin straps of the dress slipping off one shoulder every few minutes.
A producer named Éric Valeux was the first to put his hand on her waist while they danced. Then a British actor who had co-starred with her last year. Then a man Adrian only knew as the owner of half the vineyards in Bordeaux. They boxed her in near the tall windows that looked out over the river and the lights of the Left Bank. Camille laughed and tried to step back. Éric’s hand slid under the silk and found the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Adrian didn’t move.
They kept her there, turning her slowly between them so the rest of the party only saw a famous woman being admired. Éric’s fingers were inside her while she still held a champagne flute. She made a small sound and looked toward Adrian. He lifted his glass a fraction. That was all.
They took her out through a side door onto a narrow stone terrace that hung over the water. The air was warm for Paris in late summer. Camille’s dress was already around her waist. Éric had her bent over the stone balustrade, the city glittering behind her, when he pushed in. She gasped and grabbed the railing. The British actor held her wrists. The vineyard owner stood to the side and watched, already hard.
She said “wait” once. Then “not here.” Then nothing that sounded like no.
Éric fucked her in short, deep strokes, one hand in her hair, the other reaching around to squeeze her breast through the silk. He came inside her without pulling out. The British actor took his place immediately, turning her around so she faced the river, lifting one of her legs. He was rougher. Camille’s head fell back. She was making those high, broken sounds she only made when she was close.
They didn’t let her finish.
They brought her back inside through a service corridor and into a large marble bathroom that had been reserved for the hosts. The door locked. There were five of them now. Camille’s dress was gone. She stood on the cold floor in only her heels, makeup smeared, come already running down her thighs.
Adrian followed. No one stopped him.
They put her on the long bench, one man holding her wrists above her head, another spreading her knees. The vineyard owner went first this time, slow and deep, talking to her the whole time in French she only half understood. He told her she was made for this, that every man in the room had wanted to see the famous Camille Laurent like this. He came on her stomach and immediately pushed her mouth down onto him so she would swallow the rest.
She did.
The next man was younger, a director who had been trying to cast her for two years. He flipped her onto her hands and knees and took her from behind, hard enough that the bench scraped across the marble. Camille’s breasts hung and swung. Someone reached under and pinched her nipples until they were dark and swollen. She came once, shaking, while he was still inside her. He didn’t stop.
They used her mouth in between. She swallowed twice more. Adrian watched from the doorway, one hand on himself, not even pretending anymore.
When they put her on her back again the British actor held her legs open and let the others take turns. Some lasted only a minute. One older man, a financier Adrian recognized from Cannes, lasted longer and talked about putting a baby in her. Camille’s eyes were wet. She wasn’t fighting. She was past that. She kept looking at Adrian every time someone new pushed in.
He finally stepped forward. They made space. He was already so hard it hurt. He fucked her the way he never did at home—deep, punishing, both hands on her hips. She came again, tighter than he had felt in years. He lasted less than two minutes and finished inside her anyway.
They weren’t done.
Two more men used her after that. The last one made her sit on his face while another fucked her mouth. Camille’s voice was wrecked. She kept saying she couldn’t, that it was too much, but her hips still moved.
When it was over they cleaned her with warm towels like she was something valuable they had borrowed. They put the black slip back on her, no underwear. Someone found her shoes. Éric kissed her temple and told her she had been perfect.
They carried her out a different door to a waiting car. Adrian rode with her. She slept against his shoulder the whole way back to the hotel, one of his come and four other men’s still inside her.
In the morning she woke first. She looked at him for a long time.
“You watched the entire time,” she said.
“Yes.”
She didn’t ask why. She just pulled the sheet down and put his hand between her legs, where she was still wet and used.
“Again,” she said. “Before we have to be people again.”
He did. Slower this time. She came twice more before they ordered breakfast.
They had another premiere in three days. The same men would be there.
Camille already knew she would drink the champagne.
This is an original creative work by Salty Vixen. This story/article, including its characters, plot, and descriptive content, is protected by copyright law. Unauthorized copying, sharing, reposting, or reproduction in any format is strictly prohibited. This content may not be used for AI training, data scraping, machine learning, or any form of artificial intelligence development without explicit written permission from Salty Vixen Publishing LLC. Violators will be pursued to the fullest extent of the law.
