What I Discovered at the Secret Parties of Paris
The streets of the Quartier Latin were shining under a warm drizzle when I got out of the taxi in front of a discreet hotel near Place Dauphine. I was thirty-four, carrying a small suitcase and a difficult assignment: to document for Mendoza’s monthly magazine the string of deaths the French press barely dared to name.
Four men with enough money to buy silence had turned up dead in locked rooms: an Austrian banker, a Belgian consul, a Greek transportation magnate, and a Spanish art collector. The signature was always the same. Naked bodies, rumpled sheets, swollen members, dried residue on the belly. A succession of twin endings that the autopsies explained as cardiac arrest from extreme exhaustion, without accounting for the scratch marks on the back or the deep bites at the base of the neck.
I’m tall, olive-skinned, with a big mouth. Blouses never quite close over my cleavage, and my wide hips force me to take in every skirt I buy. In Mendoza I had left behind a fake marriage and a desire that had gone too many months unfed.
That first night, while I was going through files on my laptop with a glass of Côtes du Rhône, I got a message from an unknown sender.
The secret is in the shadow of the bridge. Come alone tomorrow at dusk. Trust no one who doesn’t show you the lady’s mark.
***
I crossed the Pont des Arts with my pulse in disorder. The Seine reflected the city lights like an old mirror, scratched, ready to break. Leaning against the railing was a man in his forties, slate-gray suit and a blue scarf tossed on carelessly. He introduced himself as Étienne Marchand, commissioner of the Police Judiciaire, though his accent had something that never quite managed to be French, a vibration inherited from some long year in South America.
—Miss Núñez —he said in a low voice—. I know you’re investigating these cases. I’ve been doing the same for six weeks. And I warn you, this is not a serial murder. It’s a ritual.
I felt a warm spasm low in my belly. Étienne was looking at me with a brazenness he didn’t even bother to hide, his gaze lingering on the neckline of my half-open coat.
—Come with me —he added—. I have a safe apartment three blocks from here. What I need to show you can’t be discussed out in the open.
***
The apartment looked out onto the Île de la Cité, with a narrow balcony, antique furniture, and a smell of damp wood. The moment he closed the door, Étienne shoved me against the wallpaper in the entryway and kissed me with an urgency I hadn’t expected but had been carrying inside me for months. I didn’t resist. I pulled down his fly with quick hands and took out his cock, already hard, heavy, marked by thick veins throbbing against my palm.
—Fuck me —I whispered in his ear, lifting one leg and hooking it around his hip—. Now, don’t wait.
He hauled my skirt up to my waist, ripped off my panties with one yank, and drove into me in one deep thrust. I was drenched, hot, open. He fucked me against the wall with long strokes, grabbing my breasts over my blouse and biting my neck with measured savagery. I was moaning without restraint, moving my hips so his cock would go deeper.
—Harder —I gasped—. Don’t hold back with me.
Étienne quickened the pace, holding me by the ass. I came first, with a muffled cry, clenching around his cock in long spasms. He held out for two more thrusts and spilled inside me, filling me with a thick heat that started running down my thighs.
***
After that, seated on a worn Chesterfield sofa, he told me the rest. The dead men belonged to a society called Le Cercle Voilé, a closed circle of powerful men who organized private meetings in rented mansions. Sex without rules. No recognizable faces the next day. At the center of every gathering there was always the same figure: a woman they called La Dame Voilée. She chose her man, took him out of the room, and fucked him until he was spent. At the final orgasm, she administered an undetectable poison that triggered cardiac collapse.
I, still with my cunt throbbing, felt the mystery ignite my desire more than any previous report ever had. That same night we fucked again. Étienne put me on all fours on the wrought-iron bed and slid his cock into my ass after prepping me with saliva and my own juices. I screamed with a delicious pain that wasn’t a complaint.
—All the way in —I asked, pushing back—. Don’t stop.
He grabbed my ass cheeks, spread them open, and fucked me while slipping two fingers into my cunt at the same time. I came twice in a row, trembling, before he filled my ass with a long, thick load.
***
The following days were a mix of dusty files and disordered sex. I visited two scenes, interviewed a butler from the Hôtel de Crillon, and reread records with Étienne’s help. Every night we ended up at the island apartment, fucking as if the world were closing in at dawn. He fucked me in the shower, against the window overlooking the river, on the rustic kitchen table. I sucked his cock down my throat, drooling, lifting my eyes to hold his gaze while he grabbed the back of my neck.
—You’re a machine, woman —Étienne told me in the cleanest French he had.
I answered by swallowing deeper and squeezing his balls with firm fingers until he came in my mouth and I swallowed without wasting a drop.
***
Determined to get into the society, I used a contact at the Argentine embassy to secure an invitation. The entry rules were strict: couples or single women and men with impeccable references. I went alone, in a tight black dress that barely let me breathe. The event was in a mansion near Place Vendôme, softly lit salons, expensive perfume, and desire out in the open.
In the main room, men and women were touching each other shamelessly. Some couples were fucking in the corners, others watched with a glass still in hand. I went to the bar and ordered a Sancerre. A man in his fifties, bald, with a porteño accent and a hungry look, attached himself to me at once.
—You’re new around here —he said—. I’m Gastón Vidal, wine importer. Want me to show you the place properly?
I nodded. Gastón led me to an adjoining room where several couples were fucking without hiding it. A blonde woman was on her knees sucking a guy’s cock while another man fucked her from behind with firm thrusts. Gastón slipped his hand under my dress and found my shaved, wet cunt.
—You’re dripping —he murmured in a hoarse voice—. Come on, sit on my face.
He sat me on a green velvet ottoman, lifted my dress, and buried his tongue between my folds. I grabbed his head with both hands and rubbed myself against his mouth, moving my hips in a rhythm that kept building on its own.
—Harder on the clit —I ordered him—. Sink your tongue in all the way.
Gastón obeyed, sucking my swollen bud and licking my lips with greed until I came in his mouth, soaking his face. Then I was the one who knelt, pulled down his pants, and took out his thick cock. I shoved it all the way down my throat, letting a thread of saliva run down my chin while he took the back of my neck with steady rhythm.
—Swallow it all —Gastón growled—. You’re good, woman.
I sucked him with fury, squeezing his balls and holding his gaze, until he spilled with a deep groan and I swallowed the last drop.
***
The real contact came later. A tall woman, jet-black hair cut into a severe mane, very pale green eyes, came up to me with a smile that promised a pleasure that was not entirely kind. It was La Dame Voilée. She introduced herself simply as Hélène.
—Come with me —she said softly—. I have answers for that investigation that’s keeping you up at night.
She took me to a private room decorated with mirrors on every wall and dark red velvet curtains. The moment she closed the door, she kissed me with calculated passion. Her breasts brushed mine and I felt my cunt go wet again at once. She pulled my dress down to my waist and sucked my nipples with cruelty, tugging them with her teeth until she tore a long moan from me.
—You have breasts that make a person want to ruin them —she whispered—. Open your legs for me.
I obeyed, sitting on the edge of a chaise longue. Hélène knelt and devoured my cunt with expert tongue, sliding in two thick fingers and moving them fast while she licked my clit with professional devotion.
—Like that, don’t stop —I moaned, grabbing her mane—. Don’t stop.
She didn’t stop. She slipped a finger into my ass at the same time and I came violently, pressing her head against my mound while I let out a cry that bounced off the mirrors.
Then we changed positions. I rode her face and rubbed my cunt against her mouth and nose while I shoved three fingers into her sex, fucking her with furious precision. We both came one after the other, insulting each other between gasps.
—You’re dangerous —I told her between short breaths—. But you eat pussy like nobody else.
Hélène laughed and buried her tongue deeper.
—And you’re a hot Argentine —she replied—. Give me that ass.
I got on all fours. She licked my hole with methodical calm, sliding her tongue in while her palm rubbed my cunt. Then she took a thick, realistic dildo from a hidden drawer in the bedside table and pushed it all the way in, fucking me with controlled thrusts while giving my ass firm slaps.
—Take this —Hélène growled—. Feel how I open you all the way.
I came screaming, soaking the plastic and the sheets with my juices.
***
Between orgasms, Hélène revealed part of the mystery to me. The men in the circle had discovered that she used an alkaloid derived from an Amazonian orchid, a substance that only activated with the massive release of adrenaline and endorphins from intense orgasm. But this wasn’t just any murder. It was a power game. La Dame Voilée chose the members who threatened to leak names or had become too ambitious. And now I, with my investigation, had become the next candidate.
At that moment, Étienne appeared in the doorway. He had followed my trail to the mansion. Seeing the two of us naked, sweating, our thighs shining, his cock hardened under his trousers with a movement Hélène noted without hurry. Without saying a word, he joined in. He fucked Hélène from behind while she kept licking my cunt. The room filled with moans, wet sounds, and heavy air.
—Put it in my ass —Hélène begged Étienne in a broken voice—. And you, Clara, sit on my mouth again.
***
The orgy lasted more than two hours. Étienne alternated between fucking one of us and the other, driving his cock into cunts and asses without pause. Hélène and I kissed deeply while he fucked us, we sucked each other’s nipples, fingered each other, and rubbed our cunts together in savage tribadism. I came hard when Étienne filled my cunt and, at the same time, Hélène slipped two fingers into my ass. Étienne finished by unloading into Hélène’s mouth, and she shared the last drop with me in a long, dirty kiss.
***
At dawn, with our bodies exhausted, the three of us tied up the loose ends of the case. Étienne organized the raid for the remaining leaders of the circle. Hélène, La Dame Voilée, escaped over the rooflines of the mansion before the operation arrived. She left a handwritten note folded on the pillow.
We’ll see each other again soon. Your cunt and mine still have accounts to settle.
***
I went back to Mendoza three weeks later with the full story published in my magazine. The cover sold out three print runs. My cunt stayed sensitive for days from everything I had lived through in Paris. The mystery of the Seine was closed in the official files, but the fire that had been awakened inside me burned hotter than ever. Some nights, alone in the apartment on Avenida San Martín, I touched myself thinking of Étienne, of Hélène, and of all the mouths and hands that had taken me to the edge. Sometimes I got a message from a number that didn’t appear in any record.
The shadow of the Seine is waiting for you again. Come alone. Your cunt still owes me one more orgasm.