Secret Surrender Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Alice Daumier is an award-winning actress, envied by women and desired by men. But she tires of her sedate husband, Pierre, and the same old Parisian parties. When Jacques, a mysterious writer from her past reappears, old passions are reignited. Alice risks her career for sexual thrills like she has never known before...

  An erotic novella that will excite and shock in equal measure, in Secret Surrender passions are stripped bare for all to see.

  About the Author

  Ann Summers is the UK’s No. 1 pleasure retailer. Their stores are located on prime high streets and in shopping centres across the UK. The Ann Summers concept is unique: a one-stop shop for fashion and pleasure targeting women and couples. The website (www.annsummers.com) attracts 1.2 million unique visitors a month and there is a network of over 7,500 party organisers throughout the UK.

  FOREWORD

  Welcome to the second Madame B novella. We know you loved her passion-packed short stories, so here’s a full-length erotic adventure for those of you who like the pleasure to last even longer …

  Jacqueline Gold

  Ann Summers, CEO

  My name is Madame B, and I collect stories about sex. I travel the world, talking to women who aren’t afraid to go to the edge of sexuality, and I write their stories down in my little red leather journal, a book that’s bursting with sizzling secrets.

  Until now, I’ve published these true confessions as collections of short stories. But then I met Alice, a beautiful actress whose off-screen erotic exploits filled enough pages to turn into a novel. So that’s what I did. I hope Alice’s story gives you as much pleasure to read as it gave me to write, and that she inspires you to explore your own erotic potential.

  With love,

  Madame B x

  CHAPTER ONE

  ALICE DAUMIER WAS dressing for dinner. It was no mean feat: as she stood naked inside the vast walk-in wardrobe that was the envy of every woman in France, no, Europe, she was hugely spoilt for choice. She fingered a red silk sundress, but decided against it: it was a beach dress and tonight was for simple city chic. What about jeans and a sexy silk vest? Too casual, even for a dinner party at home. And she wanted to show Pierre that she could still dress to impress.

  From the kitchen the faint strains of classical music played: Pierre’s choice, she couldn’t have identified the composer if her life had depended on it. If it was up to her, she’d be playing pop music so loud that the nineteenth-century windows of her apartment rattled. But the kitchen was Pierre’s domain. Outside, the sounds of clinking glasses and the smell of cigarette smoke rose from the cafés and bars of the Latin Quarter. She tiptoed back into the bedroom, hid behind the voile that curtained the tall windows, and looked at life going on in the street beneath her. The newspaper seller directly underneath her apartment was shutting up shop for the day, piling up magazines and preparing to lock them inside his hut for the night. Alice peered at the glossy paper, trying to see if she was on the cover of any of them, but he was too far below.

  Her blonde hair, the colour of a field of wheat, hung across her creamy shoulders. It was freshly washed and blow dried into a loose curl, and tickled her skin. She liked the way it felt, and decided to wear a halterneck dress of beige silk that exposed her back and shoulders and would allow her hair to caress her skin all evening. She stepped into the dress, sliding the silk up her slender body. No room for underwear in this slinky little number, thought Alice, smoothing the fabric over her peachy arse and small, pointed breasts. She checked her reflection: a light tan meant she needed to wear no make-up, save for a slick of clear lipgloss and a single coat of mascara. No self-respecting French woman would eat dinner completely ungroomed.

  Dressed and ready for dinner, Alice followed the smell of garlic, wine and onions to the kitchen. Not for the first time, she said a silent prayer of thanks for the lifestyle she lived as she made her way through the breathtaking interior of the apartment.

  The high ceilings, the whitewashed walls and the marble and antique oak floors provided the perfect backdrop for an achingly fashionable mix of antique pieces, contemporary objets d’art and modern designer furniture. A grand piano dominated the living room. Alice smiled, recollecting the early days of their relationship when Pierre would play while she sang. It had been a long time since their impromptu duets. The corridor that ran along the middle of the apartment was lined with posters promoting some of the eleven films that she and Pierre had made together. It was strange, thought Alice, how quickly one got used to seeing one’s own image blown up larger than life.

  Pierre was in the kitchen, poring over his beloved cookery books. Piles of ingredients, meticulously measured out, were arranged in little white bowls in the precise order they were going to be added to the dish. They might only have been hosting an informal dinner party for a couple of friends, but Pierre’s perfectionist streak would not allow him to serve them anything less than restaurant-grade food.

  Alice poured her husband a glass of Merlot for him to drink while he added the onions, peppers and courgettes that would form the basis of their ratatouille. He took a sip of the wine and tipped a generous slosh of the dark red liquid into the simmering pan. She was touched by the way his pink tongue protruded slightly from between his lips, always a sign that he was concentrating hard, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. He was wearing the cologne she had bought him yesterday. Pierre was the cleanest man she had ever known, always clean-shaven, always smelling shower fresh and always immaculately dressed. Pierre had a timeless, smart-casual style which he’d learned from the pages of Vogue Homme. This evening he was dressed in a black poloneck jersey with faded blue jeans and red baseball boots. Alice took a step back and admired her husband objectively. His body was still as solid and firm as the day she had met him, and he still towered over her with a reassuring, masculine bulk. He was Alice’s senior by fifteen years, but his sandy-blond hair was still thick and if the grooves that ran from his nose to his lips had deepened a little in the past couple of years, it had only served him well: he could do with a little roughing up, Alice sometimes thought.

  The crackle of the intercom alerted Alice to the fact that her guests were arriving. She buzzed them in, and they, and all their neighbours, felt the whole building creak and shake as the ancient lift shuddered into action, carrying Delphine and Paul from the ground floor to the fifth in a series of violent jerks. Delphine was a friend from drama school who had realised soon in her first term that she was never going to make it as an actress, so had done the next best thing and become Alice’s agent and manager. She had also, over the course of the past ten years, become Alice’s closest friend and confidante. Her husband Paul did something complicated and well paid in a shiny office in Paris’s La Defense district, and was not remotely impressed by his friends’ stellar careers. Delphine and Paul were dark-haired and olive-skinned and given to passionate rows and even more passionate reunions. They made a refreshing contrast to Alice and Pierre’s cool, calm marriage. Alice enjoyed the evenings the four of them spent together more than any other.

  The dinner party was a success, the way only dinner parties with old trusted friends can be. Even a taste of fame brings unwanted attention, a
nd Alice had lost count of the times she had been plied with champagne and tricked into talking to journalists at parties. But in this select, intimate gathering, everything was off the record. The conversation flowed as freely as the wine and the laughter. There was the usual low-voltage sexual charge that always filled the air whenever the foursome got together, too: the way that you can flirt when you’re with trusted friends and you know that nothing will ever go any further. Although she knew she would never make a move on her best friend’s husband, Alice enjoyed the secret knowledge that Paul nursed a crush on her. At one point, she slung an arm over Pierre’s shoulder and her slinky dress rode sideways to reveal a breast and a nipple to Paul. Only Alice noticed his discomfort, and the thought of him struggling to hide his hard-on underneath the dinner table and wrestling with his guilt at his arousal made her nipple firm and erect with a private, wicked excitement.

  Delphine and Paul left at 1 a.m., taking the stairs so that the creaking elevator would not wake the building’s sleeping residents. Dutifully Alice helped Pierre load the dishwasher and took care to wash their precious crystal glasses by hand. She was tired, she was a little drunk and she wanted to go to bed, but it was Saturday night, and she and Pierre always made love on a Saturday night.

  Once he was satisfied that the kitchen was clean, Pierre extended his hand and looked into Alice’s eyes. She knew that was her cue to follow him to the bedroom, and let him lead her back down the corridor decorated with her own image and through the large French doors that gave on to their bedroom. Pierre pulled her towards him and kissed her deeply, his tongue gently and tenderly exploring her mouth. He ran a broad hand across her arse, making a murmur of appreciation at her lack of bra or panties. His other hand softly caressed Alice’s shoulders and collarbone, smoothing down the silk of her dress so that it clung to her body. Alice felt her nipples stiffen and the first seepings of warmth and wetness between her legs. Taking a step back, she raised her slender arms above her head and tugged at the ribbon that was tied in a bow at the nape of her neck. The two triangles of silk which had covered her body floated away, exposing her breasts and shoulders. Slowly, seductively, Alice let the featherlight dress slide away from her body, caressing her milky skin as it collapsed into a puddle around her ankles. Pierre began his own more hurried disrobing, not taking his eyes off his wife as he tugged off his clothes. She allowed him a few seconds to admire her body and watched as he visibly grew hard in front of her. She smiled: even when she thought she wasn’t in the mood for Pierre, she couldn’t help but delight in his obvious desire for her.

  Naked apart from her jewellery and a pair of diamante slingbacks, Alice smoothed her hair over her shoulders, making sure her hands travelled beyond the blonde tendrils and brushed her breasts. Slowly, deliberately, she walked over to where her husband stood trembling with lust.

  As their bodies came together, Alice waited for the thrill of arousal to evolve into uncontrollable passion, but the transformation wasn’t happening that night; perhaps it was all the wine. Even when Pierre took her nipple between his teeth and sucked gently, a move that usually made her wild, she felt only gentle and vague desire. But she was wet enough for him to penetrate her and his cock, when he slid it between her legs, was large and hard enough to fill her up. The problem, thought Alice, as Pierre thrust deep inside her, banging the tip of his prick on her cervix and sliding his finger in between their bodies to tickle her clitoris, is that my husband makes love like he cooks. Diligently, methodically, and by the book. And while sometimes, thought Alice, he does make me come, I know in my heart of hearts that tonight is not going to be one of those nights.

  After fifteen minutes of perfectly executed moves which lacked the animal passion she craved, Alice faked an orgasm, making all the right noises, squeezing her pussy around his dick in an imitation of the contractions of orgasm and massaging him to his own climax. Her prowess as an actress was not solely confined to her performances before the camera, Alice reflected, as Pierre buried his face in her shoulder and grunted his way to sweet relief. He was asleep within two minutes, obviously deeply satiated.

  Alice, on the other hand, was frustrated and confused: nights like this were becoming more and more frequent, with Alice’s disappointment providing a marked contrast to Pierre’s obvious satisfaction.

  Alice heard Pierre’s breath deepen into a snore and knew from experience that nothing would awaken him from this deep sleep. She also knew that sleep would not come to her unless she released the tension that was beginning to build in her limbs and her pelvis. With a sigh, she got out of bed. A streetlight shone through the slatted blinds, bathing the room in bands of light. Alice could make out the contours of her body in the full-length mirror at the foot of her bed, zebra stripes of light and shade decorating her skin. Stretching her arms above her head and sticking her arse out, she had to admit that she could see what it was about her that drove Pierre so wild. Slender without being scrawny, pale without being pallid, Alice was blessed with the kind of alabaster skin that never blotches and never seemed to age. Although she was twenty-six, her tits were as pert as they had been when she was fourteen. The soft rosy nipples still pointed proudly whenever she was excited.

  And despite Pierre’s best efforts, Alice was still excited. She ran her manicured left hand, heavy with the weight of her diamond wedding ring, over her breasts, down past her navel, until she reached the soft down of her pubic hair. Her bush was neatly waxed into a soft, pale blonde goatee and sat on top of a pair of fat, juicy labia. As Alice used her forefingers to part her pussy lips and gently stroked her clitoris, she let her mind wander to another man who had praised every inch of her body with his words, with his tongue and with his hands, a man who had once used her body as a blank canvas for the pearly decorations of his cum, who had loved her flaxen bush and the pale pink shell of her pussy. Another man, another life … Alice parted her legs wider so that her feet splayed out, as though about to attempt a yoga pose. She could see her moist pussy glistening by the streetlamp’s dappled light, and the musky smell of her own arousal filled her nostrils, increasing her excitement.

  She slid her middle finger inside her pussy and used her own juices to lubricate the fingers that were working at her clitoris. She rubbed furiously, building up a steady rhythm and rocking to and fro as the orgasm built up within her body. She heard the floorboards squeaking beneath her rocking feet but knew that Pierre would remain asleep. As her orgasm grew nearer, she barely cared whether he awoke or not. All that mattered was unleashing this hot bubbling tide of sexual energy that had been brewing in her since the beginning of the evening; the energy that Pierre had failed to tap into. She remembered the way Paul had looked at her exposed breast earlier that evening, and imagined him comparing her own small breasts with Delphine’s round, full tits. Disloyalty to her friend was eclipsed by excitement, and with her right hand, Alice feverishly felt for that breast and tugged hard at the nipple. She licked her fingers, slid them over the erect bud and imagined that they were Paul’s lips, clamped and sucking on the tit. This image was all she needed to tip her over the edge into a wonderful orgasm that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up and made her clit so swollen and sensitive that she had to whip her hand away.

  After masturbating, Alice often felt thirsty or hungry. Her pussy lips still so swollen that she had to walk with her legs splayed, like a rider without a horse, Alice made her way to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, pulled out a green bottle of sparkling mineral water and drank greedily, letting the icy liquid spill down between her breasts, over her belly, and between her legs. The bubbles bursting on her skin were invigorating and cooled her hot flesh.

  In the bathroom, Alice removed what little make-up remained on her face. She was aware that without the camouflage of her mascara she looked far younger than her years, and was reminded of the girl she used to be. As ever, the last thing Alice did before slipping between the sheets and wrapping her arms around her sleeping husband was to
remove her jewellery. Slowly she unhooked the 12-carat diamonds that hung from her ear lobes and placed them on the bedside table. Finally she removed the heavy rings which she wore on her left finger every day, bands decorated with glinting precious metal and shimmering priceless stones.

  The expensive wedding and engagement rings sparkled even in the dark and were the last things Alice saw before she closed her eyes and went to sleep, dreaming of a prison made of gold and diamonds, and a man with Mediterranean-blue eyes who came to liberate her from it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WAITER WHO refreshed Alice’s glass was just the kind of young man she found captivating: barely in his twenties, dark and dirty and dishevelled despite the smart white and gold of his uniform blazer. She smiled at him as he poured the champagne and watched his high, round arse in tight black trousers as he walked away from their table.

  ‘So we’ve got an offer for a contract to advertise this new shampoo,’ Delphine was saying. ‘The money’s great, but the really good news is that you’ll be on television in England and America as well as in France.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Alice vaguely.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ said Delphine, piqued. ‘I take you out to lunch and tell you I’m going to make you even richer than you already are, and you’re not even listening to me.’

  Alice snapped back into the real world. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said to her friend. ‘I’m feeling a bit odd today. I get the feeling someone’s watching me. Staring at me.’

  ‘You’re Alice Daumier,’ laughed Delphine. ‘Someone stares at you every time you leave the house.’

  Alice smiled, but that wasn’t what she had meant. Lately, she’d had a feeling that someone was close to her, watching from the shadows. She’d felt it that morning on the short walk from her apartment to the restaurant where she was now consuming overpriced champagne and oysters with Delphine. She wished that the place did not have such huge plate-glass windows and that the maitre d’ had not sat them so near to them.