Exposed

by Jasinda Wilder

  "I worry for you, X," you repeat.

  "I know you do." I stand my ground, watch you pace. "Perhaps you don't need to. Not as much."

  "Of course I do," you insist. "Your understanding of the world beyond these walls is . . . limited."

  "And perhaps that is something I wish to rectify."

  "Why?" you ask. You cease pacing, stand inches from me, staring down at me, dark eyes icy with suspicion. "Why the sudden change?"

  "It's not sudden, Caleb--"

  "It's him, isn't it?" This from you sounds almost . . . petulant.

  Jealousy? It is unbecoming, Caleb. It does not suit you.

  "It isn't about Logan." I pause, blink, thinking, and then take a breath to nudge the seedling of courage to grow a little stronger. "Or, not entirely."

  "What does that mean, X? 'Not entirely'?"

  I hesitate, seeking a neutral but true answer. "It means . . . the brief time I spent with Logan did make me curious about the outside world. It didn't start with him, though, and it doesn't end with him." I try a placation. "You can't keep me locked in here forever, Caleb. I am not a possession. I am woman. A person."

  "I'm just trying to protect you." You are closer, your hard chest pressing against my breasts, your hands coming to rest on my hips.

  "I know."

  "You may not be a possession, X," you say, your voice a buzzing rumble, "but you are mine."

  This statement twists me up. Part of me knows it's true, and likes it. And part of me hates it. Part of me knows as long as I am yours, I will never be my own.

  My thoughts are smashed by your lips on mine, sudden and crushing. A little clumsy. Impulsive, even. Not with the usual mastery of your body over mine.

  As you kiss me, I am struck by a question: how often do you kiss me?

  The answer is immediate: not often. Almost never. Not your mouth on mine, not your lips against mine. Not like this, not with this intimacy. You kiss my body, my breasts, between my thighs, but my lips? Never.

  I do not know what that means.

  You kiss me slowly, and as you kiss, your skill grows.

  It isn't until your hands begin scouring my body, however, that my will is swept away as it usually is. It isn't until your hands are tugging at the zipper of my dress and nudging it off my shoulders that heat suffuses me, that my stomach tenses and my core tightens. When I am standing before you in nothing but lingerie--and yes, the lingerie is Carine Gilson, and you told me when you gave it to me that it was handmade by the designer herself specifically for me--that is when my heart rate spikes to a frantic hammering and my hands shake and I am weak in the knees.

  Your eyes rake over me. "You look ravishing, X. That set really suits you. Carine outdid herself when she made it for me."

  "For you?"

  A brief, uncharacteristic smile. "Well, yes. Lingerie, at the heart of it, is about the viewer rather than the wearer, isn't it?"

  This tolls within me, a truth I do not like. It is not just true for lingerie, I think. But for all of my clothes.

  It is true about me, as an entity.

  I would say "individual," but I fear I am not an individual so much as an entity. A possession. Like a fine vase, or an original painting.

  A piece in your collection.

  You somehow have placed me on a couch, sitting down on the edge. Your fingers are brushing across the delicate Lyon silk over my core. I cannot help but feel the rush of heat at your touch. I watch, and part of me feels disconnected. Impartial, somehow.

  As when you hauled me up here, I watched almost as if from above, as if I could see myself and you, see us. Me, on the black leather couch nearest the elevator. I am leaned back, my shoulders touching the upright part of the couch. My knees are splayed wide. Pale peach silk covers my core, Chantilly lace demi-cup bra over my breasts, propping them up, making what are already large appear even larger. For you.

  Not for me, but for you.

  You kneel on the glistening dark hardwood floor, broad shoulders between my knees. Still in your suit. Dark pinstripes stretched across perfect muscles, crisp white button-down, a thin gray tie. Two-tone oxford dress shoes. Your hands on the insides of my thighs, your mouth now brushing over my skin, over my hip, across my stomach. I watch as your hands tug down the silk, and I watch as my bottom lifts, allowing you to slide the underwear away, leaving me bare.

  I watch as your fingers brush over me. Thick fingers, strong. Hard. Not quite gentle as they stroke between my nether lips. Insistent, knowing. Familiar.

  My body is utterly known by you.

  The passive grammatical construction of my thoughts seems apropos.

  I am curious, in a strange way. My voice responds to your touch, my body rises and writhes as your tongue laps at me and sends thrills of pleasure through me. It feels good. Of course it does. You are a master of pleasure. I am curious, though. What will you do? What will you want from me? And will I give it to you?

  When I have spasmed, spine straight, backside lifting off the couch cushions, you finally reach to my back and unclasp the bra, set it aside, and I am, once again, naked while you are clothed.

  You will remain clothed until the last possible moment. I know this, from experience.

  But somehow I'm just now realizing it.

  You lift me in your arms and turn me so I face the back of the couch, kneeling upright. I feel your weight on the couch behind me. I feel you lower your zipper. You won't even disrobe for this. Just unbutton, unzip, lower your slacks and black Armani briefs.

  Slide into me.

  I gasp, of course. Because you fill me and strike within me just so, and know how to thrust so I feel it perfectly, so I cannot help but gasp, and your fingers pinch my nipples and reach around to touch my clitoris and I am undone. Undone.

  Watching, numb within.

  Gasping, aching, coming apart.

  But numb.

  How is this possible?

  What is happening to me?

  When you have finished, you step away. Button and zip. Presentable within seconds, unruffled. Not a hair out of place.

  You lean over me. I am still bent forward over the back of the couch, thighs quaking with the effort of holding myself upright while you take your pleasure in me. I felt it too, oh yes. I must give you your due: You do not take without giving as well. But now, finished, with your essence still inside me, still warm, you lean over me, chin brushing the top of my left shoulder, stubble scratching.

  Your voice is distant thunder in my ear. "Mine, X. Don't forget it."

  Ah. That's what this was about. Reminding me.

  Don't worry, Caleb. I am reminded.

  I think of Rachel then. Of the things you do to her. The things that should be degrading, but somehow aren't.

  And yet, I do not have the courage to ask you to do any of them to me.

  And then you're gone. Just like that.

  I shower, again. Scrub your touch and your essence away.

  I still feel as if I am outside myself, and I do not like it.

  I watch as I dress again, this time in the plainest lingerie I own--you own, really--and the least sexy, least revealing dress. Flat shoes, no jewelry. Hair in simple twist, pinned up.

  Once again, take the elevator down. I think I am going to the lobby, but for reasons I do not understand, I am on the third floor.

  Knocking on the door marked 3.

  THREE

  Madame X," Rachel says. "Come on in."

  "I didn't bring wine this time," I say.

  A shrug. "No problem. I shouldn't drink right now anyway. Caleb's been on me about my figure." Eyes flit to mine, assessing. "You're upset."

  I sweep through the doorway, cross the living room, rest my forehead against the glass of the window, stare down. "I feel lost, Rachel."

  "About what?"

  "Everything."

  A silence, as Rachel hunts for something to say to this. "He has that effect, sometimes."

  I shake my head. "No, it's not like that
. He's different with me than he is with you." I glance at Rachel. "Has he ever had sex with you while he was still clothed?"

  A shrug. "No, I don't think so."

  "He does with me. More often than he's naked."

  A frown. "That's kind of weird."

  "That's what I was wondering." A pause. I glance at Rachel: reddish-blond hair, lovely, heart-shaped face, expressive brown eyes full of conflicting emotion, hope, fear, despair, anger, defiance. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure. Of course."

  "I will apologize now if what I ask offends you, but . . . the things you've told me, that Caleb does to you, to the other girls on this floor . . . do you ever feel . . . ashamed of them? Or degraded by them? Do you do those things because you want to, or because he expects it?"

  "I ain't--I'm not offended. It's a reasonable question, I guess. No, I'm not ashamed of any of it. Degraded? I don't know. Not really. I don't mind it. Do I want it, like, do I like it? Does it make me feel good? No, not really. It's not for me. It's for him. He likes it. He says it's to teach me. But I know better. He's different with each of us. He ain't the same with me as he is with Five next door. He's rough with her. Not the way he is with me, though, because I like to feel a little pain. I told you this before. With Five it's . . . just rough. He shoves her around, pushes her where he wants her, jerks on her hair. Things like that. Never actually hurts her, though, just . . . acts rough." A glance at me. "You curious, X?"

  "No," I immediately protest. Then think better of the lie. "Yes. I don't know."

  A knowing grin. "You are. But you're afraid of it. Ain'tcha?"

  I shrug. "A little, yes." A breath. "That's a lie. I'm very afraid. Today, just now, actually, I went outside. I met someone I used to know, and Caleb was jealous." I find myself telling the story, and feeling lighter as each word leaves my lips. "He stripped me naked, and he performed cunnilingus on me--"

  Rachel laughs. "Jesus, you're so fucking uptight and formal. Just say he went down on you. Ate you out."

  I try it. "He . . . he went down on me. And then he put me on my knees on a couch and knelt behind me and--and fucked me. And he never even took his pants off. Just left them partway down. And then he just left."

  Rachel blinks. "That's harsh. He just . . . left? Like, he didn't say anything?"

  "He reminded me that I was his."

  "Marking his territory, I guess." Rachel glances at the ceiling. "I think it'd be hot to have him fuck me like that, still clothed. Like it's . . . illicit. Is that the right word? Like we ain't supposed to be doing it?"

  "Like he's ashamed of me." That's how it feels.

  A shake of the head. "Nah, I don't think that's it. He ain't the type to be ashamed. Not of himself or anything he does, or of anyone he's with."

  "Then what could it be? Why would he be that way with me? That's how it's always been with us. In the dead of the night, sometimes he'll take his clothes off, but he always puts them back on as soon as he's done. And he always leaves right after."

  "I don't know. I really don't. It's weird. He's not that way with any of us. He always leaves after, yeah, but he's busy."

  "Is he, though? Busy doing what? Us, that's what."

  "You're not one of us. I don't say that to, like, exclude you. It's just that you're not what we are. You're not like us, either. You're better." A duck of the head, eyes down.

  "I'm not, Rachel. Different, perhaps, but better? No. I'm still just one of ten for Caleb. And he doesn't even bother to take off his clothes with me."

  "Try asking him, sometime? Try to take the initiative. See what he does."

  I don't address the suggestion, but I do file it away to think about later. "Does it bother you, knowing you're just one of many for him?"

  Another careless shrug. "No. No way. I don't give a shit. I hear him with the others all the time. Five's a screamer, so I can't exactly ignore it. Plus, I used to be a hooker. I guess I just don't think about sex like normal people do. It ain't no big thing for me. And I'll be out of this program soon. About to make the next level, which is just one step closer to becoming a Bride, becoming someone who matters."

  There's a fallacy somewhere in Rachel's statement, a heartbreaking assumption, but I'm not sure I want to dwell on it. I have my own problems.

  "I should go," I say.

  "All right." A grin as Rachel opens the door for me. "And you know, you ever want to hide under my bed again and listen, just let me know. Could be fun."

  I think of this as I board the elevator. Do I want to listen to that, again?

  I think maybe I do. Morbidly, perhaps.

  *

  I'm in Rachel's closet.

  I should be working, I have a client in fifteen minutes. I am finding I do not care about clients anymore.

  Rachel's closet is sparse, so there is plenty of room for me. The door is cracked just slightly, allowing me to see out. I am nervous. Scared. Excited. Worried that what I'm about to do is going to backfire.

  I'm not just going to listen, I'm going to watch.

  Am I a fool?

  Yes. Undoubtedly.

  I hear the door open, and soft leather soles pad across hardwood. I hear voices.

  Rachel's. "Caleb. Hi. How are you?"

  "Well enough, thank you." A pause, sounds of movement. "You are due for an examination soon, yes?"

  "Yeah. Yes. For Companion."

  "Lisa says you've been doing excellently in your assignments as an Escort. She has been receiving requests for you specifically."

  "I'm trying hard. I want to make Bride."

  A pause. "I confess, Rachel, that I will be a little unhappy to see you enter the Bride pool. I enjoy our time together."

  "Me too."

  "Do you?" This is delivered sharply.

  "Of course!" Rachel protests. "I never enjoyed sex until you. It was just something I did to survive. With you, it feels good."

  He rarely just talks to me, the way he does with her.

  Oh yes, I am jealous.

  All I see through the crack in the door is the doorway to Rachel's room, and a slice of the bed. If I pivot to the side, I can see the rest of the bed. Watching through the crack now, I see Rachel precede you through the door. She is fully dressed, in a pair of jeans, a pink flowery blouse, bare feet. You lift your chin, and Rachel peels the blouse off, baring pale, slight breasts, pink areolae and darker nipples. No bra. And then something shocking: Rachel reaches with both hands and unbuttons your shirt. Leaves it open but still on. Unfastens your slacks, lowers the zipper. You are not wearing underwear. Stranger yet.

  Your erection sways free.

  My heart hammers in my chest and I worry you can hear it, it beats so loudly. I am utterly still and not breathing.

  You step out of your trousers and shrug the shirt off, and you are naked. It is broad daylight and the blinds are open. You tug Rachel's jeans off, and she too is not wearing underwear. I cannot fathom that, how it would feel to not wear panties or a bra.

  You are both naked.

  Together.

  Standing in the sun, facing each other.

  Rachel grasps your erection, fingers sliding down, and your lips tighten, your eyes narrow, your nostrils flare. You remain still as a pale hand pumps down your erection and back up. Faster, and faster.

  You begin breathing heavily.

  "Enough." You pull away abruptly, and I watch your abs tighten. You are holding back, I realize.

  I am turned on, and disgusted with myself.

  But fascinated.

  Rapt.

  You reach out, slide your hand into Rachel's hair, pull, and then the kiss becomes a wild and stormy thing. I am never kissed by you this way, with such heat. It is brief, and then you push Rachel down. Kneeling, eyes up on yours. A smile. That smile, is it real? The hunger, the eagerness? The way lips part, eyes remaining on yours, fingers around your base, bringing your erection between those pale, plump lips.

  You sigh, and your eyes close. I watch you, more than
Rachel. You urge for more, pulling Rachel toward you, thrusting your hips forward. A gagging sound as your long erection reaches the back of Rachel's throat. Leaning forward, taking more. Eyes water, nostrils flare, and you do not see. Rachel's hands are busy, cupping your testicles, gripping your erection as you pull back. Clutching at your backside as you thrust roughly.

  "Take it on your face," you order.

  Rachel pulls back and lets your erection pop free, a string of saliva connecting lip to shaft. Rachel sinks down lower, grips your erection in both hands, pumps hard and fast. At the end, you take your own erection in your hands and Rachel just waits, mouth open, eyes on yours, eager.

  You come, streams of white semen spurting out of you and splashing onto Rachel's face. Between parted lips, onto blinking eyes. Rachel sweeps out her tongue and tastes it, licks it away, and you keep coming.

  I watch, equal parts horrified and aroused, as you orgasm onto Rachel's face, over and over and over, jets of thick seed dripping onto pale skin. And through it all, Rachel's expression is seductive, aroused, pleased with the glops of thick come sliding down her face.

  What would that feel like?

  This, then, becomes the strangest part of the scene: you vanish into the en suite bathroom, return with a washcloth, and oh-so-gently wipe away your semen.

  I am expected to clean myself when you're done with me.

  And then . . . ?

  And then you press Rachel to the bed and bury your face between those thin white thighs, and I do know how this feels, how your tongue feels against my labia, against my clitoris, and I throb thinking of it. I throb, watching your dark head move between thin creamy white thighs so unlike my thick, muscular, darkly complected ones. Watching you eat Rachel out, to use a newly acquired phrase. It is an apropos phrase, too. It looks like you are attempting to devour something hidden in her cleft, head moving side to side, up and down, in circles, and then I watch you slide your fingers under your chin and move them in thrusting motions over and over. Rachel gasps, arches, cries out, and you reach up with your free hand and twist Rachel's small rosebud nipple so hard I cringe in sympathy.

  Rachel screams then, a cry of raw pleasure.

  You elicit screams for long minutes more, and then straighten, and you are erect once more. You grip Rachel's slim hips and roughly twist her belly-down so you are standing with those hips in your hands, and you do not show any mercy at all as you thrust in, hard. Flesh slaps against flesh, and Rachel cries out. Your hand flashes--crack!--and smacks hard, so hard. White flesh pinks rosy, and then you do the same to the other buttock, and now you alternate. Thrust, smack, thrust, smack.