THE STORY CONTINUES... A few weeks after my return to Avignon, the equilibrium was still holding. I had let my three-day stubble grow back, adopted more angular postures, and made more abrupt gestures. At home, I had become the husband my wife recognized again. The absences had become less frequent. Charlotte's messages were limited to work. Yet, at night, alone in the bathroom, I would sometimes run my hand over my skin, which was beginning to be covered with a fine down, and the emptiness would return. Théa hadn't disappeared. She was waiting. One Thursday evening, when the agency was almost empty, I knocked on Charlotte's office door. She looked up from her screen. "Come in." I closed the door behind me, approached, and sat down opposite her. "I need to talk to you." She closed her laptop. Her gaze was calm, attentive. "I'm listening." I inhaled. The words I had prepared suddenly seemed too heavy. “I want one last weekend. Just one. A complete one. Like in Toulon, but worse. Or better. I don't know anymore. Then we stop. Really. I'm going back to my life. You stay in yours. No more hotel rooms, no more parking, no more necklaces. Just… one last time. So Théa can go out one last time. And then I'll close the door.” Charlotte didn't answer right away. She looked at me for a long moment. “Are you sure? ” “Yes. My wife mustn't know anything. Nothing. We're leaving Friday night, coming back Sunday night. I'll invent a client seminar.” A slow, almost sad smile stretched across her lips. “Okay. One last run. And then we stop.” She stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of me. Her fingers brushed my cheek. “So let's do this properly. Friday, 8 p.m. I'll pick you up. You'll have your suitcase packed.” Everything Théa needs. And this time… we're not holding back. On Friday evening, at 8:07 p.m., Charlotte's car pulled up in front of the house. I'd made up an excuse about an urgent weekend business trip with a Parisian client. My wife kissed me on the doorstep, still a little distant, but without asking too many questions. I'd taken the suitcase that had been packed in the trunk for weeks. In the car, Charlotte said almost nothing. She was driving south, toward a rented villa by the sea, between Hyères and Le Lavandou. A large, secluded house, with a swimming pool, a sea view, and above all… no neighbors within 300 meters. By the time we arrived, night had already fallen. Charlotte kept the headlights on while I got out. She opened the trunk and took out two large bags. "Go get changed. The master bedroom is upstairs. Everything's ready."I went upstairs. On the bed, laid out with almost ceremonial care, were the clothes I had brought, but also those Charlotte had added: an ultra-short black latex dress, another in blood-red leather, several sets of extreme lingerie, stockings, six-inch heels, heavier prosthetics, a steel collar with a padlock, several plugs of different sizes, and a strap-on dildo already in place. I undressed. The transformation took almost an hour. When I came back downstairs, Théa was there. The black latex dress clung to every curve. The neckline plunged to mid-abdomen. The E-cup prosthetics gave her breasts a heavy, bouncy appearance. The black fishnet stockings rode high under the dress. The stilettos clicked on the tiled floor. The collar was already locked. The largest of the plugs was in place. Charlotte, in a black silk negligee, was waiting for me in the living room, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She looked me up and down slowly. “This is my Théa. The real one. The one I knew in Toulon.” She approached, slipped a finger under the collar, and pulled gently. “This weekend, you’re no longer Théo. You’re no longer my colleague. You’re my Slave. My whore. My toy. You obey. You submit. You come when I allow it. And Sunday night, we’re done. Understood? ” “Yes, Mistress.” Charlotte smiled. The smile was the one from Toulon. The first night was pure depravity. Charlotte wasted no time. She made me kneel in the middle of the living room, lifted the latex dress, and pulled down the thong. The metal plug gleamed in the light. “Open your mouth.” She took out her own strap-on dildo, already in place under the nightgown, and shoved it down my throat. I immediately started drooling. Charlotte grabbed my hair and pounded my mouth with precise, almost clinical violence. "You missed out on that, didn't you? Missed out on being a real slut." When she pulled out, a long strand of saliva still connected the dildo to my lips. She threw me onto the sofa, spread me apart, and thrust into me with a sharp movement. The plug was still in place; the dildo pushed it deeper. I screamed. Charlotte fucked me mercilessly, one hand on my throat, the other pinching a prosthetic nipple until I cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. "Come. Now." I came with a scream, my semen soaking my already dripping thong. Charlotte continued until her own orgasm, then withdrew, leaving me trembling, legs spread, ass gaping. This was only the beginning.She led me back to the bedroom. She handcuffed me to the bed, face down on the mattress, and took out the larger of the two tunnel plugs. After a long, brutal preparation—fingers, dildo, saliva—she shoved it in. I screamed. Charlotte left me like that for an hour, the collar pulled back by a leash attached to the headboard, while she smoked a cigarette and drank her whiskey, watching me writhe. Then she came back. She removed the plug, replaced it with her dildo, and sodomized me until I could no longer form coherent words. When she was finished, she sat on my face and let me lick her until I came, urinating lightly in my mouth without apologizing. "Swallow. It's the taste of your last weekend." I swallowed. We slept little. Around four in the morning, Charlotte woke me by shoving three fingers into my still-dilated ass. "Again." And we started again. Saturday was the day of public humiliation. Charlotte had thought of everything. Around three o'clock, she dressed me in a black leather miniskirt that barely covered anything, a sheer fishnet top that left my implants completely visible, stockings, and six-inch heels. No thong. The collar was clearly visible. The largest plug was in place. "Let's go out." We drove to a somewhat isolated highway rest area, known for its nighttime activity. Even in the middle of the afternoon, there were already trucks. Charlotte parked, lit a cigarette, and looked at me. "Get out. Walk to the truck parking lot. Offer yourself. Say you're a transient prostitute. Pay what you want. You agree to any ...

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