Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  “But he knows I’m not Nicki, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course. He’s the one who sends you your checks twice a year. And speaking of that, how’s the new book. Any progress?”

  “Some,” Fran said, bluffing. “This whole experience will really add to the ideas I already have.”

  “You should really strike while the iron’s hot. If you can put together something while you’re here, I can get Sandy to give it a quick read.”

  Carla said, “How about my life story? You can call it Housewife to Hooker in Thirty Days.”

  Fran stared at Carla. “That’s not a bad idea at all.” Carla would make a wonderful character for a book, she thought. And what an opportunity for sexy scenes. “I do have a few ideas that might work out.”

  Eileen grabbed her coat. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

  The three women had lunch at a little Italian restaurant near Eileen’s office. At Carla’s insistence, Fran told Eileen all about both Clark and O’Malley. “Way to go,” Eileen said, toasting Fran with a glass of club soda.

  Raising her glass, Fran said, “Yeah. Way to go.”

  When Eileen returned to work, Carla and Fran headed for a Victoria’s Secret on Second Avenue. The items in the window display walked a thin line between overtly sexy and practical. Inside, Carla made a beeline for the bras. “What size?” When Fran told her, she grabbed several off the rack. “Try these on,” she snapped. When Fran hesitated, she all but dragged her to a fitting room. “Do it.”

  Fran pulled off her top and tried on something called a Wonderbra in a shade of deep rose. “Wow,” she sighed. The bra pushed her breasts up and together so, for the first time in her life she had cleavage. Real cleavage. “Wow.”

  Carla’s voice came from right outside the door. “Can I come in?”

  “I guess,” Fran said. “But I don’t believe it.”

  Carla burst into the tiny fitting room, several more colorful garments in her hands. “Shit, woman, you look really sexy.”

  Fran’s eyes were wide. “I do, don’t I?”

  “Okay, that’s only a beginning. Here’s more.”

  For almost an hour Carla shuttled between the racks and the fitting room while Fran tried on bras, panties, garter belts and camisoles. When Carla arrived with a black satin teddy, Fran giggled. “Nah. I’m really not the slinky black type.”

  “You never know till you try. You don’t have to buy it, but put it on. I want to see how it looks.”

  Now totally unself-conscious about undressing and dressing in front of Carla, Fran put on the black teddy. From behind her, Carla drove her fingers into Fran’s hair and pushed it forward and up, until it was a wild golden mane. Then she took a black stocking and wrapped it around Fran’s neck like a wide choker collar. “Oh baby,” Carla said. “I have a customer who would love this look.”

  “You think so?”

  “All you need is a small whip and he’d love you. Then he’d kneel at your feet and be your slave for life, if you’d let him.” Fran could see Carla’s gaze drop to her bush, now outlined by the black satin. “God, he’d go crazy. And he’s got the most talented mouth….”

  Fran was amazed to feel her nipples harden and her pussy moisten. The idea actually appealed to her. She shook her head and quickly dressed in her street clothes. She bought three bras, several pairs of panties, a slip and a camisole, a garter belt with half a dozen pair of hose in assorted colors and, of course, the teddy.

  The two women emerged from the store, and Carla kissed Fran on the cheek. “Nicki,” she said, “have a wonderful evening. Wear the earrings, and the underwear, and have fun. You’re a consenting adult and I know you’re ready for this.”

  Fran took in and released a deep breath. “You know, I really think I am.”

  “I’m running home,” Carla said. “BJ’s got a hot date and, for the moment, Mom has to drive him and the lucky girl to the mall.”

  “Have a nice evening,” Fran said.

  “Not as nice as yours,” Carla said. Then she looked both ways then crossed the street in the middle of the block.

  Fran looked at her watch. Four-thirty. She was meeting O’Malley at seven. Two and a half hours to get ready. Two and a half hours to get Nicki ready. At a brisk pace, Fran walked back to her apartment.

  By six-thirty she was bathed, dressed and made up. She had on the outfit she and Carla had agreed on, with a wide belt she had picked up in a little store near Victoria’s Secret. And she was wearing the wonderful rose bra that made the soft cranberry blouse look ever so much better. There was actually a shadow between her breasts. She reached down and slid her hands up the silky black hose which were held up by a black garter belt. She looked at herself again and, as she reached for her coat, she unbuttoned one extra button of her blouse, then tapped one gold hoop earring and watched it swing.

  A few minutes stalling in front of the building, and a fifteen minute crosstown cab ride, and she arrived at Cafe des Artistes at exactly seven. She climbed out of the cab, straightened her back and pulled the door to the restaurant open.

  She looked around at the sizable but strangely intimate restaurant. The walls were covered with paintings of nudes and nymphs. Vases and potted plants were cleverly placed to create smaller, more intimate areas in the several larger rooms.

  “Madame?”

  “Yes,” Fran said to the tuxedoed maitre d’, “I’m meeting Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Of course, madame. This way.” He weaved between closely packed chairs and tables. As she crossed the room she looked over the men sitting alone. Where was he? she wondered. As she approached a table in the quiet rear of the restaurant a man stood up and smiled at her. She panicked. That was all you could call it, panic. What the hell was she doing here? And what would that gorgeous man want with her? A friend of Carla’s? He’d never had to pay for sex in his life.

  She stared. He was tall, although everyone looked tall to her, even in her high heels. On closer inspection, he was probably only about five eight or nine, well built with broad shoulders that filled out his jacket without any padding. His hair was midnight brown, cut in a soft wave and obviously carefully blown dry. He had a kind of rugged good looks, not handsome but entirely masculine, with an angular chin with a deep Kirk Douglas cleft. His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen, surrounded by long, extremely dark curling eyelashes that women would kill for. His smile was broad and his hands—his hands were soft with long fingers. Fran flashed on a quick picture of his hands on her breasts. She felt the color rise in her cheeks.

  Aware that she had been standing, rooted to the spot while the maitre d’ held her chair, she mentally shook herself and took the final step toward the table. “You must be O’Malley,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

  “I’m delighted to finally meet you,” the man said, extending his hand.

  Fran took it, held it momentarily, then sat down. She suddenly became aware that he had been staring at her almost as intently as she had been gazing at him. Suddenly she found the entire situation funny and laughed out loud.

  O’Malley sat down and joined her laughter. When they finally quieted, he poured her a glass of deep ruby wine and said, “I’m so sorry for staring. You’re not what I expected at all.”

  “Neither are you,” Fran said. “You go first. What did you expect?”

  “It’s not too flattering, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine. Go for it.”

  “When Carla explained that you were a writer from the Midwest who needed a bit of education on the ways of the ‘worldly wise’ I expected someone plain, glasses, sensible shoes. You know.”

  “I expected a cop-type. Big man with flaming red hair, gigantic mustache, a bit of a beer belly and big hands.”

  “And what did you find?” he asked softly.

  “You’re gorgeous,” she blurted out, then almost choked. “I mean…”

  “Leave it at that and I’ll just sit here and bask. Actually I was thinking t
he same about you.”

  Not used to being totally flustered, Fran picked up her wine, being careful to hold the glass by the stem. She recalled having seen a video on wine appreciation so she carefully tipped the glass and held it over the white tablecloth as the film had shown. She looked down through the wine, then put the glass to her nose and inhaled.

  “It’s very young,” O’Malley said. “It’s light and very fruity. I thought you’d have very unsophisticated tastes so I picked something simple. I can see you’re more well educated than I expected.”

  Unable to continue the fraud, she laughed again. “I have no real clue what I’m doing. Carla taught me how to hold the glass and I watched a video on wine appreciation. I remember the images, but not anything about the reason for all this rigamaroll.”

  “Ah. An honest woman. I think I’m in love.”

  Fran felt herself blushing again. “I’ll bet you say that to all the women.”

  “Only the ones I like. Let me tell you about the wine. You look through it to appreciate its color. If it’s quite purple, like this one is, it’s very young. If it looks almost orange or brown, like the color of bricks, it’s past its prime and might not taste good at all.”

  “Oh,” Fran said, looking at the wine in her glass. It was purple, almost like watery grape juice.

  “You smell it because it smells good and because most of what we think of as taste is really smell. Take a small sip.”

  When she did, he said, “Now try to inhale through your nose while you sip.”

  She inhaled and noticed that the wine tasted…she didn’t know exactly how to describe it. It tasted more. “That’s amazing. Despite the film, I never understood all the smelling and tasting.”

  His eyes softened and he looked into hers. “It seems there’s quite a bit I can teach you.”

  The double entendre wasn’t lost on Fran and she felt herself flush yet again.

  “I’m sorry,” O’Malley said, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “Actually I find this entire situation embarrassing.”

  “And as intriguing as I find it, I hope.” When she hesitated, he continued, “Don’t answer that. Let’s think about dinner.”

  Yes. Dinner. A splendid idea.

  Chapter

  5

  Dinner went surprisingly well. Over a delicious salad of mixed greens, a chicken breast in a sauce of dill and capers, rice and broccoli with slivered almonds, they chatted like new friends. They shared an interest in old western movies, Indian food and TV cop shows and disagreed on the facts surrounding the Cuban Missile Crisis. They had different tastes in music—he liking country and she soft jazz—but they agreed on Frank Sinatra and big bands. He explained the rudiments of buying and selling foreign currency, and complimented her when he called her a good listener. Fran also learned a bit about O’Malley’s two daughters, who were the same ages as her niece and nephew, and they discussed how children now weren’t as social as children had been when they were young.

  “It’s all those computer games and the inevitable head phones,” Fran said over a raspberry tart. “Kids don’t have to interact with the world anymore.”

  “And school? My ex-wife is forever going to the principal, complaining about some teacher who picked on Denise or Michelle. There’s no discipline anymore. I’m big on discipline. Not beating kids up, but insisting on some kind of standards.”

  “I know just what you mean. If I came home and told my mother that I had been yelled at, her reaction was, ‘What did you do, you bum?’”

  They shared more laughter. “You know, here we sit, sounding like old married folks arguing about the upbringing of their children.” O’Malley reached out and took Fran’s hand. “That’s not how I want this evening to progress at all.”

  Fran was suddenly speechless. “How do you want the evening to progress?”

  “I want to seduce you. I want to introduce you to new and different ways to make love.”

  Fran pulled her hand back. She had almost forgotten the reason for the dinner. “O’Malley, I don’t know exactly what Carla told you…”

  “Carla has nothing to do with this. You’re a beautiful sexy woman who’s only going to be in town a few weeks and I don’t want to waste time.”

  “Come on, don’t tell me that Carla didn’t tell you that wine wasn’t the only thing I needed education about.”

  O’Malley’s grin was infectious. “Busted. She knows how much I enjoy introducing women to the varied pleasures of the bedroom and she mentioned that you might be a willing student.”

  Fran cleared her throat. “I don’t think so. But thanks for the offer.”

  O’Malley retook her hand and held it tightly against the snowy white tablecloth. She should probably have snatched it back, but since she didn’t want to cause a scene, she allowed it to remain. “Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to take you back to my apartment and light several candles. I know you’d look wonderful in candlelight. Then I’d take off that blouse, slowly opening one button at a time, brushing my fingers over your skin. I know how soft it will be.” Without releasing her hand, he reached across the table with the other and ran the tip of his index finger from the hollow of her throat down to the valley between her breasts.

  He continued, “Then I’ll kiss you. You will be a bit afraid, but eventually you will open your mouth and let my tongue explore. We will taste each other, getting to know one of the more intimate parts of our bodies.” He paused, then said, “I think I will hold one of your hands behind your back so you will feel powerless to resist me. I will like that, and I’m pretty sure you will, too. I’m very good at ascertaining the naughty things that will give unexpected pleasure.”

  Fran took a shuddering breath. His words and the feel of his hand lightly restraining hers was filling her with an incredible heat. She felt his thumb slide under her hand and scratch her palm and it made her tingle between her legs. She stared at his hot, sexy mouth, the words ‘naughty things’ echoing through her head.

  Without releasing her hand, O’Malley moved to the chair beside her. “You excite me.” He released her hand and, in a lightning-fast move, slipped one hand between her thighs and found the crotch of her panties. Then the hand was gone.

  “Your heat is enormous.” When she started to protest, he placed one finger against her lips. “That’s a pro forma protest and you want to make it because you think you should. You’re a nice woman and nice women don’t do the things I’m suggesting, the ones you’re thinking about, picturing in your mind even now.” Her lips moved against his finger but he didn’t allow her to speak. “But they do. And you want them. You’re curious and excited. You’re a grown woman, free to do anything you choose. And you do choose. You just don’t know how to agree and still be the woman you’d like to think you are.”

  He released her hand and moved back to his seat. “It’s the age old war between what you think you should be and what you want. Now’s your opportunity. You’re under no obligation to me, but maybe you are to yourself. You deserve this, but it’s your choice.”

  O’Malley signaled for the check, then stood. “I’m going to excuse myself for a moment. Think about what I said. And think about the unusual things you’ve read about, maybe even written about, that you’re dying to try, but never thought you’d have the nerve.”

  Fran watched his back as he walked toward the men’s room. He was graceful and moved like a dancer. He was right about the war inside of her and he was also right about what she deserved. She was free, over twenty-one and capable of making her own decisions. And, as she sorted out all the pros and cons, it was really a no-brainer. She allowed a small smile to lift the corner of her mouth and sipped her herb tea.

  And what unusual things did she want to try? Almost everything, she admitted.

  O’Malley returned as the waiter put the check on the table. He glanced at it, then dropped his credit card on top. As the waiter hustled away, he lay his hand on the table, pal
m up, inviting Fran to take it. She looked at the proffered hand, then looked into his eyes. She smiled and placed her tiny hand into his large one. “Oh yes,” he sighed, his index finger dancing over her palm. “Now, can you tell me what leaped into your mind when I said I wanted to play naughty games?”

  Fran took a deep breath and trembled. “I can’t,” she admitted. “I can read and enjoy stories about just about everything, but the thought of actually doing any of them is terrifying.”

  “Some of the things you’ve read about would be fun to do, some only fun to fantasize about. I love to ‘force myself’ on willing women and I often pretend that I’m actually raping them. But committing real rape? Never.”

  Being forced. She tried to still the shaking in her knees.

  “You know, you’re very easy to read, my love. Very easy.” He squeezed her hand tightly. Silently they sat that way until the waiter returned with the charge slip. O’Malley signed it and they rose. He placed his palm against Fran’s back and guided her to the check room where they got their wraps. He helped her on with her coat and, as he settled the garment on her shoulders, he placed a light kiss on the nape of her neck. Without giving her time to react to the rush of warmth that invaded her body, O’Malley placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the outside door. The evening was frosty, but even through her heavy coat, Fran could still feel the heat of his hand.

  On the sidewalk, O’Malley caught her hand and drew it beneath his arm and held it against his forearm. “My apartment is only a few blocks. Are you cold?”

  Fran exhaled and watched her steamy breath. “I’m not cold at all,” she said truthfully.

  “Then it’s faster to walk,” he said, striding toward the corner.

  She pulled on her imprisoned arm. “Remember, I have very short legs,” she said.