Masochist

by Nadia Aidan

  The Queen of Sex should be dethroned is how it started before continuing in vivid detail about how she wouldn’t know what a butt plug looked like even if it was staring her in the face.

  She frowned. Now that was harsh. She would recognise a butt plug. After all, she was the reigning Queen of Sex, also known as the Sex Doctor or, her personal favourite, Doctor Kink. As the foremost expert in women’s sexuality, she was bigger than Dr. Ruth, with her own radio talk show, a thriving chain of sex toy stores, and dozens of sex help books to her name. Yes, at thirty-seven Elena had made a solid career out of selling nothing but sex. Her business was to sell sex, so she knew what a butt plug was, even if she’d never used one.

  According to the article, there were many things she hadn’t used, and just as many things she hadn’t done, even though the entire world thought she was an expert on those matters, considering the daily advice she doled out. But she knew the truth, and the email said it best—she was a fraud, a phony, a fake.

  She hadn’t had sex in almost two years, although the world believed otherwise. Many of her fans were convinced she had sex every day, every two minutes, according to some. She wished.

  No, she was not quite as prolific as many thought, and apparently her secret was out, at least it was to a Mr…Julien Bond.

  She closed one browser page and opened another, her fingers skimming over the keys as she Googled his name. Why did she know that name?

  It took her just a second to answer her own question, and she leant back in her chair, her lips twisting into an angry scowl.

  Julien Bond. The same Julien Bond who worked for that trashy, smut magazine, Rake. He was also the reporter who kept haranguing her for an interview, who she’d brushed off more times than she could count. Her business may be sex, but there was a certain clientele she catered to, and horny, young frat boys wasn’t it.

  She blew out a long, jagged breath, her hand tunnelling through her hair. His email said to call him. Well, he needn’t have worried about that. Besides her best-friend Cordelia, no one knew she wasn’t the expert she claimed to be, and Cordelia would never tell her secret. So, she was left to question the source of Mr. Julien Bond’s information, because if it ever got out that she was more the queen of masturbation, or worse yet, the queen of the rabbit, rather than queen of sex, then all those adoring fans seeking advice wouldn’t be interested in anything she had to say ever again.

  She reached for her phone and dialled his number, her hands shaking at the thought of what he wanted from her, and how the hell he’d found her out.

  When he wasn’t on an interview, Julien’s world was a maze of mauve cubicles, his own space just as tiny and nondescript as all the rest. For the last three years, he’d steadily climbed his way out of the mail room. His next step? Senior reporter, but that promotion hinged on a scoop, a big story, news so scandalous it would put his name in lights. For two years, he’d been trying to get that story, and her name was Dr. Elena Boucher, the celebrated and notorious queen of sex—the world’s legendary and leading Lolita. An interview with Dr. Boucher would easily sky-rocket his career, probably faster than sitting down on Oprah’s couch, but for a year, he hadn’t even been able to get past her assistant.

  Her assistant always replied to his emails with polite form letters, which pretty much said get lost. At least those messages fared better than the ones he’d sent directly to her, which were always ignored. But not this one. The one he’d sent off early that morning with the bogus article had been opened. His return receipt message confirmed it. So when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, he wasn’t at all alarmed or puzzled by the blocked number that flashed across his screen. His email had undoubtedly come as a surprise to her, but he was sure her shock didn’t compare to how he’d felt when he’d discovered Elena Boucher’s very, very naughty little secret.

  Grabbing his coat, he rushed from his cubicle to take the call.

  “Hold on,” he barked into the receiver as he navigated the corridors of the bustling office until he was outside.

  He rounded the corner of Connecticut Ave, heading into the heart of DuPont Circle which was crowded with people, as everyone scurried to work. As soon as he found a quiet corner, he ducked between the two buildings and lifted his phone to his ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Julien Bond?”

  “Yes, and to whom am I speaking?” he said politely, just in case it wasn’t who he suspected it was.

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the other line, before her soft voice floated across the receiver.

  “This is Elena Boucher. I—I received, um—”

  He smiled at her discomfiture. “You received my article,” he finished for her. “And did you like it?”

  He imagined her golden cheeks glowing a fiery red as her hazelnut eyes flashed with anger. He was certain she hadn’t liked it at all.

  “What do you think, Mr. Bond?” she snapped. “You sent me an email full of lies with that hoax of an article, and now you expect me to do what? Give you that interview you keep begging me for?”

  Her words jolted him, as he shrugged off the wall, standing to his full height.

  “Lies, Dr. Boucher? Did you even read my article? Because if you did, then you would know nothing that is written in there is a lie,” he said softly.

  “What do you want, Mr. Bond?”

  A single eyebrow lifted. Want? He hadn’t really thought that far ahead, although the obvious answer was, of course, an interview, but Julien hadn’t been raised that way. If she was going to give him an interview, or anyone else for that matter, then he was going to earn it. Besides, he was more interested in knowing why she’d been sexless for two years. Now that’s what he really wanted to know.

  “Aren’t you curious as to how I know everything in my article is true?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, and he knew she was debating with herself on the wisdom of admitting the truth. Thus far, she hadn’t confirmed or denied the words contained in the article he’d sent, and he knew that was a careful strategy on her part.

  “Indulge me, Mr. Bond,” she said on a long sigh, as if their conversation was tiresome to her. Well, he certainly knew what could inject some life into it.

  “So, you still want to pretend that my article is somehow false—”

  “I said indulge me.”

  “All right, doc-tor. How is this? When was the last time a man has kissed you between your thighs, at the heart of your femininity, tasted the essence of you as you came against his lips.” He ignored her gasp of shock, imagining her entire face was now red with embarrassment. “Oh, that’s right. Never. No man has ever eaten your pussy, has he?

  “I didn’t think so,” he added, when there was nothing but silence on the other end. “Don’t you think it’s a shame that you’re the queen of sex, and yet you’ve never been treated to the very intimate pleasure of oral sex?”

  “How do you know these things about me?” she demanded.

  “Your diary, Dr. Boucher. A woman will reveal her entire soul within the pages of her diary.”

  “You stole my diary?”

  “No. You dropped it in your haste to get away from me last week when I tried to talk to you outside your building. You were in such a hurry you didn’t even notice it was gone.”

  “Well, you should have given it back,” she snapped, as she called him a series of choice names that he couldn’t repeat aloud, her anger finding its way across the receiver to singe his ear.

  “I tried to give it back,” he said, when she was done with her cursing tirade. “But you never returned my calls or emails.”

  She snorted. “You’re full of shit. You could have sent it in the mail, without ever having opened it, especially once you discovered those were personal, intimate details of my life.”

  He sighed. Yes, he could have. He’d almost made it a full five days without cracking it open, but on the fifth day he’d caved in—hey, he was only human—and once he
’d opened her diary, it was hard to put down. Ms. Boucher had quite a vivid imagination, if the scintillating pages of her diary were any evidence.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have read it, which is why I’m trying to make amends now by giving it back.”

  “And that article? Is that your way of saying you’re sorry too?”

  He smiled at the sarcasm dripping from her voice. No, there was nothing apologetic about that article, not in the least, but there was something to be said for shock value, which is why he’d written it. No doubt his email had stood out from all the rest.

  “No, I wrote that to get your attention.”

  “Well then, you succeeded, Mr. Bond because you now have my full attention. So what is it that you want?”

  He frowned. That was the second time she’d asked that, and he knew they both lived in a world where people never did anything for nothing, so it wasn’t surprising that she was suspicious of his motives.

  “I don’t want—”

  “Anything?” She chuckled softly, her mocking laugh grating against his ears. “Everyone wants something, and I can’t imagine you would just hand over my diary and walk away, not after everything you’ve done to get my attention. So, what’s your deal? Money? An interview? What do I need to give you to keep you from printing that article?”

  He stilled at the insult she’d just delivered him. She didn’t know he was a man of his word, but if he said there were no motives, no hidden agendas, then there weren’t. He had no intention of printing that article. He’d got her attention so he could return her diary, and it was as simple as that. Although, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that the words on the pages of her diary had intrigued him. Actually, intrigued was far too subtle a word.

  Elena made her living selling sex, because she was sex personified with her lush, sensual figure and captivating allure. There was a mysteriousness about her—the subtle promise of pleasure in the curve of her full lips when she smiled, the teasing sparkle in her eyes when she laughed. It puzzled him that there were a series of men out there who’d obviously neglected their duties by ignoring her most wanton desires, her most erotic fantasies. The pages of her diary left no doubt that she was a passionate woman. If he were her man, he’d never ignore her desires, her needs

  He realised then that he was probably guilty of having a crush on Dr. Boucher. After all, why not return her diary in the mail as she’d suggested? He knew the answer to that—because he wanted to see her. He wanted to unravel the mystery that was Dr. Elena Boucher, sex queen.

  His desire to probe beneath Elena’s façade was what drove him to push the envelope just a bit. He knew his next question was highly inappropriate, would probably scare her away, but he had to ask. He had to know.

  “The things in your diary. Are they just fantasies, or do you hope to experience them at some point? I mean I know you fantasise about being tied up, having two men take you at the same time, making love in public. Are those things you just dream about or…?”

  “Or? Or what, Mr. Bond?”

  Yes, Mr. Bond. Or what? He wanted her to answer that she wanted to actually do those things and more, but he didn’t have the nerve to push any further. He’d already gone far enough. It was clear she didn’t want to answer the question, so he wasn’t going to force it.

  “Or nothing,” he said, trying to back his way out of it as he shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have to answer that. I was just jok—”

  “Are you propositioning me?”

  She tried to play her words off with a nervous chuckle, but there was something behind them, just a tiny catch of her voice that convinced him she was curious, even if just a little bit, but curious nonetheless.

  He guessed he was propositioning her, but that hadn’t been his intent, and he certainly wasn’t about to do it over the phone. He glanced at his watch. Besides, he needed to get back to his desk. He had a meeting in fifteen minutes.

  “Can you meet me at the Soho Café on Ninth Street tonight at seven? I can return your diary then.” He wanted to add, and talk more about his vague proposition, but held his tongue because he knew how ridiculous that would sound. If Elena Boucher ever decided to act out her fantasies, he was sure she wouldn’t pick him.

  “Yes, that works for me.”

  He’d expected her to argue, demand that he just FedEx it to her office, but she didn’t. Her voice was simply polite, ringing with cool authority, and there were absolutely no traces of the woman from her diary, which was why he couldn’t wait to see her tonight. He wanted to discover where this Elena ended, and the other one began. He wanted to know how many layers he’d have to peel back just to catch a glimpse of the temptress in the diary.

  “Alright. Seven o’clock at Soho. I’ll see you then.”

  He disconnected the call and returned to his office, but it was hard to focus. He wore a silly grin for the rest of the day, as he fantasised about all the naughty lessons he was eager to teach the good doctor.

  * * * *

  “Are you propositioning me?” she muttered under her breath as she made her way down Ninth Street towards the café. Uhhh, what had made her say that? She’d come off as a desperate seductress, who was so hard up for sex that she’d practically thrown herself at the man over the phone.

  After that he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough, and she didn’t blame him. She’d probably made him so uncomfortable that he’d had no choice. She’d sounded so arrogant, as if he could never get a date, so his next big idea was to settle for her. The sexpert who didn’t have sex. She knew Julien Bond certainly did not have to settle. Actually, quite the opposite. With his dark good looks and charming smile, Julien Bond was probably fighting women off. The fact that he was so breathtakingly handsome was what made this entire situation that much worse. He didn’t have to waste his time fulfilling some lonely woman’s fantasies, and yet he’d asked about hers. He’d opened the door with his question, which she’d pondered all day, to the point that she couldn’t focus on anything else.

  The things in her diaries weren’t just fantasies. She wanted to experience them, explore her hidden desires until they were all the way out there in the open, but the men she dated weren’t exactly into those types of things. She wondered what things Julien was into. If there was a thought for the day, that would certainly be it. She was curious about his curiosity. Was Julien turned on by her fantasies or was he simply curious?

  That thought alone sent a fresh wave of heat straight to her cheeks. The fact that he’d read the intimate details of her fantasies was humiliating. She didn’t know what she would say when she finally faced him. She really just wanted to turn around and race back home, where she could bury her head in her pillow and hide for the rest of her life. She glanced down the street. Nearly there. It was just better to go inside, get her diary then run home, disappear into her pillow, and forget all about how every single detail of her darkest, most secret desires had been read by a stranger, a man she barely knew.

  As if her thoughts conjured him into existence, Julien seemingly stepped from the shadows, the fluorescent light of the lamp bathing him in its harsh glow. Dressed in a casual dress shirt and faded jeans, he propped himself against the lamppost and waited for her.

  She quickened her steps as soon as she saw him. With the Fourth of July holiday just a couple of weeks away, the temperature had skyrocketed and a heat wave had swamped the city, so she knew he had to be sweating beneath his short-sleeved shirt.

  “You didn’t have to wait outside for me. You must be burning up.”

  He shrugged as he stood to his full height, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “It’s fine. I was only outside for a few minutes,” he said, as he ushered her towards the door, holding it open so she could enter first. “Besides, I figured you didn’t remember what I looked like, and with it being so crowded in here, I would hate for you to think I didn’t show.”

  Forget what he looked like? Not likely. Sometimes she forgot na
mes, sometimes she forgot the names that went with faces, but she never forgot a face, and certainly not Julien’s. His was quite memorable. Even now as he trailed behind her towards a small table tucked in the corner, she was aware of him, the faint warmth of his body, the spice of his aftershave. If for some reason, one happened to forget his face, there were subtle nuances about him that left an impression—small things that were impossible to forget.

  He sat down across from her, the chiselled muscles in his torso strained against his crisp, white shirt. She stifled a low groan as heat swirled in her belly. This was why going for marathon stretches without sex was never a good idea. The guy was there to return her diary, but all she could think about was how she could somehow make the fantasies in her diary a reality with him.

  “I’m a huge fan, have been for a long time.”

  “Huh?”

  Had he been saying something? She really needed to get her head out of the gutter long enough to focus.

  “I would consider myself a fan. I mean I read your column, even have a couple of your books, and a lot of days I check out your show, so I guess I really just want to know how do you say all that stuff without having actually experienced it. Some of the things you say are quite in-depth and explicit, so I’m curious about how you’re able to offer such insight.”

  She narrowed her eyes, her gaze searching his face for even the tiniest bit of deception. He was a reporter after all. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him.

  “Dr. Boucher, if I wanted to expose you, don’t you think I would have done it by now?”

  She gasped in shock. It was as if he’d read her mind.

  “Your face. It gave you away,” he said with a grin, but his eyes were serious. “I’m not going to force a story out of this, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I was curious.”

  It took her a moment, but a grin slowly tugged at the corners of her lips, and she returned his smile as she gradually relaxed. He was right. If he wanted the story, he could have gone to print, armed with the evidence in her diary, but he hadn’t. He seemed genuine in his curiosity, which she could understand completely.