Andrew yielded to her kisses at once, backed up by the sheer energy of her advances until the cupboard shelves dug in against his back. His hands went around her, pulling her in close, and he felt one thigh slide up the outside of his own, her foot curling around his leg to pull her eager, yielding body even closer to him.

He couldn’t believe how good this felt. If it was going to feel this good, he thought, it was amazing his uncle had ever been willing to give up the stone…

His arms tightened of their own accord and he lifted slightly without thinking about it.

She squealed excitedly. “Oh oui mon Dieu! Baise moi! Baise ton esclave!”

Andrew wasn’t at all sure what she was saying, but that didn’t seem like it was too important. Not compared to the way she was moving in his arms. He needed no translator for that.

He took a step forward, just intending to guide them both back out into the office where her leather chair would be a more comfortable backrest for him. The moment he moved forward with her lifted to her tiptoes, her other foot came off the ground and both thighs wrapped closely around him.

She broke the long kiss only to start peppering his lips with short, delighted, excited kisses. “J’ai tellement envie de toi. Je m’en fous.”

“Huh?” Andrew managed. It sounded like she envied him? Or was telling him not to envy Jamie Hawkins…

It had been hot when she was repeating her orders in French but this was getting a little too much like a lesson for his liking. He wanted the kind of French lesson you’d usually only get in a porno.

Either way, Madame Juliet made no direct answer, going back to long, slow kisses that promised a passionate but studied thoroughness in her lovemaking.

He staggered out of the cupboard, carrying her with as much care as someone could when there’s a beautiful woman completely blocking their vision and they don’t know the layout of the room. They bumped into at least one thing, but Andrew kept his balance; he reached out with one hand and found it to be one of the big armchairs Madam Juliet kept for her visitors.

He settled himself into it, with Madam Juliet straddling him from above, eyes gleaming, looking at him like he was the greatest thing in the world, the only thing in America that truly mattered to her. He reached out for the buttons of her blouse-

The phone rang.

Andrew’s head slammed backward against the chair back as he jerked his head back in frustration. How? How was there always something getting in the way?

Madam Juliet looked both surprised and disappointed at the interruption. She held up one finger on her hand as if to say ‘this will only take a second’, smiled, and swayed across to the desk.

Swayed. There really was no other way to put it. The louche roll of her hips as she walked would have tempted a saint. To Andrew, though, who knew he was her Master, it was less a temptation and more a promise, even an invitation.

“Allo?”

The phones in the staff offices were old, had probably been put in fifteen years or so ago, and most likely they hadn’t been state of the art at the time. They were old-fashioned landlines with short cords keeping the handset close to the cradle. And this one had been placed with the assumption that when Madam Juliet answered, she would be sitting in her chair, on her side of the desk. To reach it from where she was required her to lean forward over the desk, bent at the waist, one hand braced against the desk for support.

The way this tightened and stretched the fabric of her skirt over her ass gave Andrew his clearest picture of it yet. Already high on a giddy cocktail of power and arousal, he stared wordless for just a moment, then rose.

“Je comprends pas, monsieur.”

Andrew crossed the distance to that tempting backside in two quick strides. His mouth, he realised, was still open from staring; he closed it only with an effort.

It was how close he was to getting his wish, to doing for real what he’d only daydreamed about. He felt like he was moving in slow motion as his hand reached out to stroke that perfect-looking butt.

“Mais je parle toujours français,” Madam Juliet was saying, but Andrew wasn’t really listening. “Il ne s'agit pas d'un exercice pédagogique.”

Her attention might be partly on the call, but not entirely; feeling his hand on her buttock she’d shifted position slightly, pressing her buttock back against him. He squeezed, reflexively, and was impressed by how she turned the sudden groan of pleasure into a word. “Mmmmmmaintenant, j'ai un étudiant avec moi. Peux-tu m'excuser?”

Andrew put his other hand on the other buttock. Slid the first hand up to her waistband as the second hand squeezed in its turn, producing a very garbled version of “Au revoir, monsieur,” from Madam Juliet before she hung up the phone. He was looking for the skirt’s fastener; it took a few moments before he found the button high on her hip, then the zip which had been concealed beneath it.

Madam Juliet did not turn to face him now that her call was over, did not stand, but braced her other hand against the table a foot or so apart from her first and made a sound somewhere between a contented purr and a begging whine. He felt his cock twitch inside his pants in reaction.

She shifted her hips as he gripped the waistband and tugged it down, moving with his intent and almost squirming out. Like the bra she wore, the panties underneath were, to Andrew, sadly plain and practical white cotton, but it didn’t matter greatly to him - he was about to see what they covered, and he was delighted to learn her not-quite-sheer tights were in fact hold-ups, stopping just a couple of inches above the knees, where the skirt’s hemline would hide their grip around the thickening swell of her thighs.

Andrew heard a soft, almost musical giggle escape her lips and that was the first moment where he realised he’d been growling under his breath, that he hadn’t been able to keep himself quiet with the anticipation. Did he care?

She thrust her hips backward until her butt was pressed against his crotch and started to rock her hips from side to side, grinding the curve of her buttocks against his erection. “Tu veux pas me baiser?”

Andrew wasn’t sure what she’d said, but he knew the coy, faux-innocent tone she said it in well enough to be completely certain what she’d meant. And he wanted to fuck her. Right then he wanted it more than anything else, to the point that he fumbled on his first attempt to pull her panties down, that they tore a little on the second. He had his belt open and his pants around his ankles in what felt like two heartbeats, though it must have been longer.

The room already reeked of sex; Madam Juliet was clearly so excited that he could barely believe Jamie Hawkins hadn’t noticed, and now her wet panties coiled around her shoes and her eager pussy was open to the air, along with the musical sound of her excited murmurings and the soft, warm, welcoming sensation of her bare skin against his body, Andrew didn’t feel any more in control of himself than Madam Juliet actually was.

His cock was in her before he really knew what he was doing, certainly before he felt like he was making the decision. All the same it was the decision he would’ve made; his brain was just jumping ahead of his conscious decisions.

Madam Juliet cried out excitedly, but almost immediately she started humping back against him, her firm grip on her desk allowing her to thrust him deep inside her with every backward motion. She tilted her head down and Andrew could tell she was focusing now pretty much entirely on his cock.

It wasn’t the first time Andrew had had sex. It was definitely the best experience he’d had to that moment, and with the most attractive and most experienced partner he’d had. And, of course, thanks to the stone, she was completely devoted to his pleasure in a way his previous dates hadn’t been.

“Baise-moi, monsieur! Utilisez-moi pour vous plaire! Je veux traire tore bite.”

He wasn’t sure what she was saying, but he didn’t care; the tone, the adoring need, the high excitement reverberating through her voice was all he needed. And God, she was so good, her body incredibly responsive, the feel of her around him tight and welcoming and wonderful…

To think he’d once pitied his uncle. He hadn’t known. He should have known.

“Oui! Oui! OUIIIII!”

If there was anyone in either of the adjoining offices there’d be gossip at the least, a hammering on the door potentially, but time passed for them both in a feedback loop of desire and satiation without interruption, and when finally (and yet also too soon) he came, Madam Juliet sagged against her desk, then slumped, weak-kneed, until her knees were on the floor under the desk, her tits pillowed up on top, her head buried in her own cleavage and her short blonde crop plastered to her forehead with perspiration.

Andrew, almost as drained himself, found the chair he’d been in when the call came and let himself slump back into it. Both of them, for a time, said nothing but panted instead, exhaustedly gathering air back into their bodies.

“Fucking hell,” Andrew said eventually. “You’re amazing.”

“Pardon, monsieur. Je ne comprends pas. Pourriez-vous me commander en français?”

God, he thought resignedly. She was still on the French kick. “Speak English, will you?”

“Quelle est votre commande?” She had lifted her head from the voluptuous pillow that was her tits and was now looking over her shoulder toward him. There wasn’t anything in her face to say why she was disobeying.

Or perhaps she was just still trying to make this a French lesson?

“Look, I’m not doing that. You will answer me in English unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Désolé, monsieur, mais je ne comprends pas.”

Andrew’s French was appalling, but he wasn’t a stupid man and the chill that ran down his spine was from the confirmation, not the sudden suspicion, of an idea that he had wilfully ignored until he could do so no longer.

She didn’t speak English. Didn’t even understand it.

He wasn’t sure why. Was this the stone? He’d like to think so, because otherwise it was a mistake he’d made somewhere.

“Aw, fuck.”

He stood up from the chair, ran his hands through his hair like he often did when he was panicked. It didn’t escape him that now it was visible, Madam Juliet’s eyes had immediately snapped to his cock, that her puzzled expression had become something much more excited. But he didn’t give her a nod, didn’t offer an invitation. He was too busy mentally running through his options.

“Uh… tu comprend anglais.” There, a command. If he’d made her forget somehow, surely it was in his capacity to make her remember?

Madam Juliet looked back at him with wide eyes and shook her head slowly, regretfully. “J’ai bien peur que non.”

It didn’t sound like a yes. “Do you speak even a little English?”

He watched her bite her lip, look away ruefully, and could see she didn’t want to let him down. But whether she wanted to or not, she equally obviously didn’t understand enough of what he’d said to answer with confidence.

Maybe she’d taken what he said as meaning the only thing important about her time in America was him, he thought. If that was the way she’d interpreted him, the other things might have departed her mind.

But no. She’d recognised Jamie Hawkins; she’d used his name. So she hadn’t forgotten everything.

He needed to understand what had happened, he thought, and then kicked himself mentally. Of course he did. And he had an expert on the stone he could speak to. It should have been his first step.

He fumbled in the pants around his ankles for his phone and dialled his uncle.

*

The phone rang for about five seconds before Emmy scooped it up from where it rested. Her Master didn’t believe in taking calls for himself unless he had to, but he also didn’t believe in automated call screening.

His phone therefore stayed near Emmy at all times, and if she was not completely focused on some other task, she would answer it as quickly as she could. In this instance, she had been washing the dishes. (Her Master hadn’t been interested in paying to repair the dishwasher when it failed, as it would never be his turn to wash up.)

Emmy registered mild surprise at the name on the caller ID. She had been the property of her Master for a long time now, and had known the caller since the first Thanksgiving following her encounter with the stone. This was the first time they’d called.

“Good afternoon, Andrew,” she said. “Emmy speaking. Can I help you?”

There was an awkward pause. Emmy waited placidly to see what answer he would eventually give; her Master had, after a misunderstanding nearly a decade ago, forbidden her to give any callers leading questions. This was occasionally complicated.

“Uh. Can I speak to Uncle Greg?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Tell me what your call concerns, and I will find out from him whether he wishes to be disturbed.”

There was another long pause. “I really need to speak to him.”

“I understand, Andrew,” she said, “but what I have to ascertain is whether he needs to speak to you.” It didn’t occur to her that Andrew might consider this rude or dismissive; Emmy saw her Master as the most important being in the world, so obviously his mere wishes were more important than the needs of anyone else. She rarely remembered that other people might view this differently.

“Tell him… tell him I think I fucked up. With the stone, I mean.”

Emmy hadn’t really thought her Master should give Andrew the stone in any case. After all, that would mean he couldn’t show other people they were slaves, and where would he be if something happened to Emmy and Jae?

Of course, she hadn’t given her Master her opinion. That wasn’t something she had a right to do, and in any case, at any time he might give her a new opinion. However, this was definitely something that merited her attention. “One moment, Andrew.”

She set the phone down and undid the strings of the apron she wore for her chores, then took it off and set it aside. Her Master only liked to see her wearing it when he passed through the kitchen. The yellow rubber gloves she was wearing were likewise discarded. Now topless, she collected the phone and went through to her Master’s den.

He had set up the big TV on the same wall as the door so that when his slave or slave-wife entered he’d be aware immediately, and so that when passing the door, if the other was present, his slave or slave-wife would see them in service to their Master and the arousal programming would begin. With Jae out at her job, Emmy wouldn’t have to focus past that to deliver her message.

“Your nephew Andrew is on the line, Master,” Emmy said. She didn’t realise Andrew could hear her, but she wouldn’t have cared if she had. “He instructed me to tell you he thinks he fucked up with the stone.”

Her Master frowned, set down the Playstation controller, and waved her across; she was glad to be close to him, and stood almost to attention by his chair, the only exception being an outstretched arm offering the phone.

He took the phone and put it to his ear, his other hand reaching out to stroke her thigh idly. Emmy was required to stay perfectly silent as he teased her whenever he was on the phone, so that she wouldn’t embarrass him; her Master enjoyed this game a lot.

“Andrew, my boy,” her Master said. “What can I do for you?”

He listened attentively, then laughed. “She’s forgotten what?”

“Oh. Fuck! Who is this, again? Some coed?” Her Master laughed again. “Oh my boy, your reached too high for your first time. And it’s backfired.”

Some more listening, as his thumb ground against her pussy through her leggings and Emmy gazed straight ahead, willing herself silent. “Well, she might remember. It might be in there somewhere. But you have to remember, the stone isn’t some special form of psychological manipulation. It’s magic.”

He chuckled. “Whether you believe it or not - and you clearly charged it up, so I think you must - it’s magic. The rules are different. If she believes she never learned English, for whatever reason, just telling her to remember won’t change anything.”

Emmy was aware he was pushing her to react harder than he usually did. It probably meant he would be entertained if she caved and moaned where his nephew could hear, but Emmy didn’t really approve of Andrew and didn’t want to give that young man the satisfaction.

“Look, with something like this, you need to think short term, then medium term,” her Master was saying. “In my experience the long term will look after itself.

“Good luck, my boy - and let me know how you sort it out, OK?” Her Master hung up the phone, looked up at Emmy with a satisfied smirk, and told her, “Cum.”

Emmy obeyed.

*

Andrew put his phone back in his pocket slowly and, with an effort of will, suppressed the urge to scream in frustration.

Madam Juliet laid a tender hand on his arm. “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? La personne au téléphone vous a énervé?”

“Huh?” There were enough words in there he kind of recognised that after a moment to process, her likely meaning sank in. “Oh. No. Just… ah, fuck.”

He sighed. Right, he told himself. Think short term. That meant he had to get her out of here. So… what was the first step, and how did he get it across to her?

He picked up her skirt and panties and tossed them to her. “Get dressed,” he instructed, and Madam Juliet looked at him quietly.

“Vous voulez que je les mette? Allons-nous quelque part?”

He nodded, reasonably sure that was a yes. Allons was something to do with going places, they’d covered that early. She’d want to be dressed for that. “Yeah,” he said, then shook his head, irritated with himself. “Oui, I mean.”

Already dressing, her face lit up just because he’d used one word in French, a shining hope in her eyes, and Andrew realised that he’d never felt worse about not knowing the language - not even when he’d been panicking about flunking out, and that had been - Christ. It had been less than two hours ago.

It felt like a lifetime. Certainly he’d panicked enough for a lifetime. “Nous allons a, uh… nous allons a ton home,” he essayed.

“Vous voulez qu’on vas chez moi?”

Andrew nodded hopefully. He recognised chez and was pretty sure of moi, so it seemed likely.

He was pretty sure he’d actually have understood that sentence when he was keeping up his Duolingo. It seemed oddly familiar. And besides, they’d have to use her place. Taking her back where his roommate would see her was definitely not going to help.

“Cela vous plairait-il que je conduise, monsieur?”

Andrew looked helplessly at her, not at all sure what she was asking. Still, her skirt was in place; she was smiling at him as she tucked her panties into her purse. The wink she gave him would have turned a monk from his vows.

Silence reigned for a short while, and Madam Juliet tried again. “Ma voiture est à votre disposition, monsieur.”

Voiture was car. Andrew was 90% sure voiture was car. “Oui, bien,” he said. “You drive. Let’s go.”

“Allons-y?”

“Oui.”

*

It was a modest home tucked away in the suburbs, unassuming and just like all the others on the same street. It didn’t feel much like the Madam Juliet he had pictured, who had seemed from all the times he’d spoken to her to be much more vibrant and interesting.

When she let him inside through the inner garage door, however, her hands gently caressing his shoulders through his tee shirt, he saw evidence of a lively, engaged mind; beautiful art next to heaving shelves of books both in French and English, a kitchen which had clearly had a lot of money spent on it, and much more.

“J’ai une idée. Puis-je vous plaire?”

That sounded like please. He liked the idea of that. “Oui.” He wasn’t sure where the impulse came from, but he reached out and slapped her ass, the spank echoing in the living room.

With an encouraged and delighted giggle she swayed off deeper into the house, taking the stairs at a speed that seemed to Andrew to be far too fast on heels, but her balance never wavered.

He drifted over to the bookshelves, fascinated by the mix. Here was a woman reading both Proust and Faulkner in the original - though he supposed she wouldn’t be doing one of those for a while.

His hand, in his pocket, rubbed the edge of the stone. Maybe he could speed her recovery of the language up when he could recharge it, even if his uncle had said that wasn’t recommended.

That was still a week or more away, though, and a week or more in which she was helpless.

He heard a creak on the stairs and turned around to face them. Madam Juliet stood there, just a few steps from level, her hand on the banister. She was, quite clearly, posing for him.

Gone was the tight-fitting-but-professional skirtsuit that had been driving him mad. The thigh-high holdup stockings had been replaced with others that were sheerer and had purple lace decorations mid-thigh, and her legs were otherwise bare except for a pair of lacy panties obviously made from the same near-transparent material and decorated with trim of the same bright purple.

Her smooth belly was exposed, but she had on a loose gown that was clearly part of the same set, and which she had only fastened in one place, between the breasts that strained the fabric enough that it was more transparent there than anywhere else.

Her head was tilted slightly forward, guileless eyes looking at him over the rim of her classes. And - wonder of wonders - Andrew took in the way she was biting her lip and realised she was nervous, that she wanted to impress him.

Her having that outfit in her wardrobe told Andrew more about her than the bookshelf had, but he was in no position to think about it. Slowly, swallowing, careful suddenly not to embarrass himself in front of her, he raised a hand and beckoned her closer.

She came willingly. As she did, the hand that had rested behind her came forwards. “Voulez-vous me baiser, monsieur?” she asked, and a moment later, the phone in her hand, in a mechanical female voice, asked “Will you - fuck - me, sir?”

As her soft body melted into his arms, Andrew closed his eyes. “I’m a fucking moron,” he murmured, but with that body so close to his own, it didn’t seem to matter. Why hadn’t he thought about translation apps at any point?

*

“Man, I thought you just disappeared.”

Andrew met the eyes of his roommate and smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t been gone that long.”

“Like a week and a half.” His nose wrinkled. “Have you been wearing those clothes the entire time?”

The answer was technically no, but this was because he’d spent the entire weekend indoors with Madam Juliet and he’d spent it naked. Rather than try and clarify Andrew decided to breeze past it. “I’ve just walked like four miles,” he said, which was true. “Sorry. Anyway, I need to get some more of my stuff.”

“Are you dropping out?”

Andrew had just hauled his suitcase out from under the bed. He stopped and turned back to his roommate, his expression betraying so many different thoughts that it looped back round to become unreadable.

“No,” he said. “Not yet. Hopefully not in general. But, uh… you might get some more nights to yourself.”

The other student squinted at him. “Ohhhh,” he said, then sighed. “Right. That explains it. You’re getting lucky, huh?”

“Nobody on campus is luckier, buddy.” Andrew had finished shoving handfuls of clothing into his suitcase and headed for the door. “Don’t worry about it.”

His roommate just laughed. “See you once you’ve fucked it up,” he called, which Andrew didn’t feel was exactly a supportive attitude.

*

“Tout va bien?” Madam Juliet asked as he let himself back into her house.

“Uhh… oui, bien.” Andrew smiled gently. “Uh. I think. Did I get that right?”

“Parfait.” She smiled. “Je veux dire, perfect.”

“Better.” He set his bag down and crossed to her. “You need to speak English more than I need to speak French.”

Madam Juliet pulled a face. “Je sais que tu as dit que je parlais anglais et je te crois, mais je ne m'en souviens vraiment pas. Désolé.”

Andrew looked back at her steadily. After a moment’s effort, she said, “I… don’t remember my English… sir. I know you told me, but… I believe you but I don’t remember.”

He nodded. “I know. I keep telling you, don’t worry about it.”

But as much as she nodded, he could tell she didn’t entirely understand it, and that seemed to mean his order wasn’t as impactful.

He definitely needed to speed up his learning French.

“How did today go?” he asked, and off her questioning look, “Comment… uh… aujord’hui… va?”

The look on her face was almost pained as she tried to decode his words. “Ah, tu veux dire ce qui s'est passé avec le directeur?”

She shrugged. “C'était difficile. Surtout après que tu m'as ordonné de ne pas expliquer ce que tu m'as fait.”

Andrew wasn’t sure of much of that but difficile sounded like he could tell what it meant. “Go on.”

“Monsieur le directeur ne semble pas comprendre pourquoi je refuse de parler anglais.” Madam Juliet paused. “He, ah… he does not understand… why I am not…”

“Speaking English.” Andrew nodded. “Did you try our cover story?”

He watched her brow wrinkle cutely as she worked through the question he’d asked in her mind, translating it slowly.

He was very glad that she was a quicker learner than he was.

“C'est difficile de mentir dans une langue qu'on ne parle pas, monsieur.” She sounded apologetic. “J'ai reçu un avertissement. Des procédures disciplinaires pourraient suivre.”

Andrew looked back at her and sighed. “Shit,” he said. He didn’t know exactly what she’d been saying, but certainly there was trouble ahead. “We’ll figure something out,” he assured her.

Madam Juliet’s face was serious as she agreed. “Nous trouverons une solution.”

Andrew’s promise had, however, not been entirely truthful. He already had a solution. It was just one he’d been trying to avoid, one he’d convinced himself his slave would be able to bluff her way past him needing even when she barely had any English words to bluff with.

If Jamie Hawkins had taken her speaking French naturally, if the guy who called her office had assumed it was just a language teacher being a language teacher, he’d persuaded himself that the Dean would do the same.

Not because that was the best solution, nor the most likely to work, but purely because now he had Madam Juliet - had the run of her house and her body - he didn’t want to take the obvious way out, and how he would have to.

The Dean would change his mind almost as soon as the stone was charged. It was that simple - Andrew couldn’t support them both financially, and Madam Juliet’s work visa was at stake anyway, so it was vital she kept her job. This was the way to do it.

But it meant seven days where he didn’t cum, seven nights with the stone below his pillow, as well as the ritual on the eighth day. Hard enough when he’d first charged it, when he’d only had to forgo his hand. Much harder when he had her soft, quivering, eager body ready to please him whenever he wished.

It was almost enough that he didn’t spring his surprise on her, that instead he waited for another week to see her reaction.

But Andrew was never very good at deferring gratification. He handed her the slim plastic bag he’d picked up while he was out, then the credit card with her name on it that he’d been carrying.

“You really would think someone would check ID when you spend on these,” he said with a smile. “Go change. Uh… porte ces vêtements.”

“Oui, monsieur.” She took the bag and stepped around the corner with a smile. He debated raising his voice to tell her to change in front of him, but decided against it. This way his first sight of her with them would be the whole costume.

The excited squeal was close enough to tell him she’d barely moved out of sight, just stepping clear for modesty rather than anything else. He smiled, setting down his own bag of clothes, and settled down to wait.

He should absolutely have made his errand run earlier, he reminded himself.

“Je n'avais pas réalisé que mon accent était ce qui vous attirait, monsieur.”

She stepped back into view slowly, almost teasingly, her thigh-high fishnets this time supported by suspenders rather than the hold-up grip, the tops visible above the black, white-laced hemline of her dress, the dress black, low-cut, and compact but accented by the white lace hemline and the trim white apron.

Around her throat and her wrists were thin black bands decorated with white lace on both sides, and in her close-cropped blonde hair she wore a confection of white lace.

She smiled lopsidedly. “Peut-être que votre bite a besoin d'attention, monsieur?”