S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel

by L. Marie Adeline

  “I bet you’re good at it,” he said, opening eyes heavy with pleasure. “I bet you can make a man die a little with that mouth of yours.”

  I stopped what I was doing. So far all my fantasies had involved me receiving pleasure, not giving any back. Now I wanted very badly to give, to be generous, as the Step demanded, but I didn’t know a whole lot about how.

  “I want to do something for you,” I said.

  “What’s that, Cassie?” he asked, biting his bottom lip in agony as I closed my mouth around his index finger this time.

  I gazed up into his eyes, my mouth closed around his finger for a second. Then with all the boldness I could muster, I said, “I want you in … my mouth. All of you.”

  The air gathered in my lungs but wouldn’t release. I had actually said that. I had actually told a man, a very famous one, that I wanted to … give him a blowjob. Now what? I had given exactly one blowjob in high school. I’d tried it with Scott a few times when he was drunk and demanded it, but it had been a horrible experience, ending in a sore jaw for me and Scott falling asleep. I didn’t enjoy it. The prospect of trying this now—and failing—made me nervous. But as long as I was living out a sexual fantasy with a famous person, I decided to let the famous person do what famous people are good at: he would have to demand a certain level of service.

  “I want you to show me how to … please you,” I said.

  He trailed his wet finger down my neck, and then, cupping my chin in his hand, he said, “I think I can do that.”

  This godly man wanted me to give him a blowjob!

  “It’s just … I don’t know if I’m any good at it. I mean, if this is your fantasy, then it’s going to suck, I’m afraid.” It took me a second to realize what I had said that had made him laugh out loud. “I mean, suck in a bad way. That’s what I mean.”

  He stopped laughing and I swear I felt that I could have fallen into his deep, black eyes, they were so intense. I could see why he was famous, without even being familiar with his music. He had charisma, presence, confidence.

  At my request for lessons, he began.

  “Let’s start with getting you naked.”

  I stood and took a step back. As he watched, I slipped off the rest of my clothes, kicking off the sneakers, then sliding down the yoga pants, then my panties. He watched me. He wanted this. He wanted me. Me! I could feel it. In my mind I kept saying, Go with it, go with this, he will show you, you will be okay. My nerves were on my side as I fell under his delicious spell. He turned and pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and took a seat.

  “You can’t really screw up, Cassie, unless you bring your teeth into the mix. They’re not invited. Anything else and you’re going to make me a happy man. Come here.”

  I took a step towards him. Then another one. I was standing directly over him, naked. Taking my wrists in his large hands, he tugged me down to my knees in front of him. He smelled warm and spicy, or maybe it was the stew and the bread, but we were both getting hotter. He took my hands and placed them on his chest, then dragged them over his impossibly taut stomach.

  “Undo my pants, Cassie.”

  Something inside me melted, and I reached down and unfastened his belt. He shuffled his pants to the floor. He was hard and big. And thick.

  “Jesus,” I whispered, wrapping my hands around him, feeling his soft skin. How could he be so … hard and so soft at the same time?

  “Now lean in and kiss the tip,” he said. “That’s it, go slow at first. Like that, yeah. Kiss it. That’s right.”

  I took him in my mouth and licked from the top to the base of his shaft, feeling his body rock as my mouth and hands developed a steady rhythm.

  “That’s right, just a little faster.”

  I quickened the pace as he gently moved one of my hands around him and left it there. I took him deep into my mouth even as my other hand reached under him.

  “Yeah,” he said, moving his fingers tenderly through my hair. “You got it. That’s right.”

  My hands met my lips and I formed a vacuum around him, my whole mouth consuming him. I released him then, licking just his tip with the end of my tongue. He looked down at me as I looked up, and our eyes met. His face was blissful and relaxed, which sent a surge of power through my body. I had him. He was mine. I took him in my mouth again, sucking and pulling him into me, and felt a vibration in his pelvis. This made me even bolder, and I took more of him in my mouth. I could feel him pressing into me, yet at the same time, I felt him weakening, melting. I was doing this to him. I was in control, in charge. Any minute now, I was going to make this man come … in my mouth.

  “Girl, you don’t need my help.”

  The more I pleased him, the wetter I seemed to get, something that had never happened to me before. Why had I once seen this as a chore? My hand reached around behind him to clutch at his back, while my mouth pulled him deeper and deeper. Then, reading his body, I felt him hitting a tipping point and I slowed my rhythm.

  “Ah, yeah, it’s perfect. Don’t stop!”

  His words fueled my hunger. I took him deeper into my mouth, which made him clutch the counter for stability. When I looked up at his face and saw he was on the verge of coming on my command, I felt more empowered and even sexier.

  “Oh, Cassie,” he pleaded, my hair entwined in one of his hands, the other keeping his balance on the stool above me. “Mother of God,” he whispered, as I felt myself pulling the orgasm right out of him. He drew a sharp breath and stiffened. Then he went beautifully silent. After a few moments I felt him receding, and eventually sliding out of my mouth. I kissed that lovely place where his torso met his thighs. Then I grabbed my T-shirt from the floor and gently wiped my mouth. A feeling of triumph surged through me, and I smiled up at him.

  “Man alive, girl,” he gasped, stepping back from me. “You didn’t need any instructions. That was … amazing.”

  “Really?” I said, stepping up to him. We were chest to chest, and I could feel the muscles of his chest against me.

  “Really,” he said, touching his forehead to mine. “A. Maze. Ing.”

  He had an astonished look on his face, and he was still breathing heavily. I was totally naked and standing on my clothes. I looked down.

  “Pretty fucking adorable. There’s a washroom behind the pantry there,” he said, pointing.

  I gathered my soccer mom uniform from the floor and began to walk away.

  “Wait.”

  I turned, and he stepped towards me and planted a long, firm kiss on my mouth. “That was exactly what I needed,” he said.

  In the washroom I shut the door behind me. Even this small room off the pantry was lush and ornate, with gold taps and gold-velvet embossed wallpaper with burgundy paisley. The sink’s pedestal was a woman’s arms flowering out into hands that became the basin. I splashed cold water on my face and around the back of my neck. I took a mouthful of water and swallowed. Water dripped down my chest and into my cleavage. I traced it with my fingers. I had given someone pleasure, been generous, for the sake of doing it—and for no other reason.

  I had begun to dress, when I heard a gentle knock on the door.

  “It’s me, open up.”

  Maybe unlike the masseur, Shawn wanted to say goodbye. I opened the door a crack. He eased his body into the washroom, and I felt my pulse speed up. He turned me around so that I was facing the mirror and he was behind me. Then he buried his head in the crook of my neck as he had done in the kitchen.

  “This is for you,” he said.

  He had put his jeans back on, but I could feel him hard again behind me. And as I reached my arms up and around the back of his neck, I felt his pelvis press against me, the cool ceramic rim of the vanity on my thighs. I was wet in an instant. He bit into my neck gently and then slipped one arm forward and between my thighs. My back arched into his hand. I bent forward, closer to the mirror, and watched his reflection, his eyes closed, his hands moving down across my breasts, my stomach, his fingers f
anning out. Even this had a rhythm for him, like he was finding a strain of music in my body. He was playing me, pulling me closer and closer, his fingers pulsing intensely inside me. To feel wanted, to be taken and touched like this, it was like coming to life from the inside out. My eyes met his in the mirror. The next thing I knew, everything was a blur of color and rhythm, and I felt myself explode into his hands, the heat rushing through me, and then the flood of relief.

  “There it is, there it is,” he cooed, and without realizing it, I was pushing back on him until we both reached the wall behind us, leaning against it to stay upright. Then, for no real reason, I began to laugh.

  “Thank you,” I said, still out of breath. I remembered my clothes, the reason I’d come to the washroom to begin with. My soccer mom apparel was in a little pile on the floor in front of the vanity.

  “Guess you have to put those back on,” he said.

  “I think so.”

  And after planting one more kiss on my neck, he backed out the door and shut it behind himself. My face in the mirror was flushed with air and life. I finished dressing, then splashed more water on my face.

  “You are doing this,” I whispered, smiling at myself in the mirror. “You did this. You just gave a blowjob to a musical heartthrob, billboard topper, Grammy winner. And then he just made you come in a bathroom.” At that thought, I quietly squealed into my fists. Ahhh!

  Fully dressed once again, my hair a sex-tossed mess, I reentered the dim kitchen. The music was off. The pot was gone. So was the man. On the edge of the island was a small Tupperware container with warm gumbo, a gold charm perched on top. I sat down on the bar stool and just breathed and thought about what had happened.

  A few moments later, Claudette came through the door.

  “Cassie, your limo’s waiting. I hope you had a lovely stay with us,” she said with a slight New Orleans drawl.

  “Thank you, I did.” I clutched the charm to my chest, grabbed my Tupperware container and was whisked out the side door of the Mansion and into the plush leather seat of the limo.

  As we drove along Magazine Street, I took in the scenery outside but was really looking inward. I gripped the gold charm in the palm of my hand. Why had I always been afraid of giving? What was my fear about? Feeling used, probably. Feeling like giving would deplete me. But giving actually gave me satisfaction; it gave me pleasure to please. I rolled down the window and let the wind cool my face while the gumbo warmed my lap. This was the point of S.E.C.R.E.T., to get us to surrender the body to its needs entirely, and to help others surrender too. Why had that seemed so difficult before? I opened my palm and looked at the glowing gold charm, the word Generosity, engraved in elegant script.

  “Indeed,” I said out loud, as I secured the fourth charm to my bracelet.

  Summer covered the city like a thick wool blanket. And since the Café’s air-conditioning was always challenged, the only relief from the heat was a brief visit to the walk-in refrigerator. Tracina, Dell and I covered for each other as we did it, careful not to let Will see us waste the cold air.

  “Just move slower,” Will advised one day. “That’s what they did in the olden days.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem for Dell,” Tracina snarked, while unloading a bin of dirty dishes next to me.

  I wanted to blame the heat for her mood, but there was no real correlation. A track by my new favorite hip-hop artist came on the radio and I turned up the volume, sending Tracina into a tizzy.

  “Why’s a white girl listening to this beautiful black man’s music?” she asked, turning the volume down.

  “I’m a fan.”

  “A fan? You?”

  “Actually, I’m quite familiar with his work,” I said, barely concealing a smile. Tracina shook her head and walked away. I cheerfully turned up the volume and continued bleaching the cutting boards. Though I could never imagine myself in a sea of fans at his feet, the thrill of that fantasy had lingered. I’d get a memory flash of my skin against his, his face tightened in ecstasy, and a shiver of arousal would snake up my spine. It was one thing to use a fantasy to trigger that feeling, and an entirely different thing when that fantasy was realized, stored and then recalled. This was what made S.E.C.R.E.T. so marvelous. These fantasies were creating sense memories that I could store for life and have at the ready whenever I needed a boost. I was not a voyeur. I was a participant.

  But despite these thrilling scenarios, I had begun to fantasize about a certain kind of sex that had so far eluded me. I wanted … well, I wanted a man inside me. There. Admitting to myself that I wanted something was getting easier.

  The hard part was admitting it out loud to Matilda, who later that day sat across from me at Tracey’s on Magazine Street. It had become our regular place, and not just because it was down the street from the Mansion. Its raucous sports bar atmosphere made it easier to talk without anyone overhearing.

  I told myself today was the day I would ask her why none of the men had wanted to do it with me. My brain, of course, had interpreted it as rejection, leftover fears from my days with Scott. He had a knack for making me feel unwanted. And because I was beginning to understand the weird reciprocity at work with the fantasies, I started to worry that perhaps I was not fulfilling the men I was with—that I was, in a word, undesirable.

  “Nonsense, Cassie! You are very desirable!” Matilda said a little too loudly during a sudden gap in the music. In a whisper, she added, “Are you saying you’re unhappy with your scenarios?”

  “No! I have zero complaints about the fantasies so far,” I said. “In fact, they amaze me. But why has no one wanted to … you know?”

  “Cassie, there’s a reason these fantasies haven’t involved full-on sex,” she said. “Sometimes sex has a way of turning into love for some women. Their emotions get caught up with the ecstasy and they forget that physical pleasure and love can be two separate things. We’re not trying to help you fall in love with a man. You clearly don’t need help doing that. We want you to fall in love with yourself first. After that, you’ll be in a much better position to choose a partner, the right one. A real one.”

  “So you’re saying I can’t have sex in my fantasies because you’re afraid I’ll fall in love?”

  “No. What I mean is we need to wait until you understand the tricks your body will play on your mind. Sex creates chemicals that can be mistaken for love. Not understanding that about our bodies creates a lot of misunderstanding and unnecessary suffering.”

  “I see,” I said, looking around the bar, one mostly filled with men having beers with other men. Fat, short, young or old, I used to wonder how they did it, how some men could have sex and then so easily disengage. I guess it wasn’t their fault. It was chemical. Still, Matilda was right. I got attached easily. I ended up marrying the first man I had sex with because my entire body said it was the right thing, the only thing to do, even though my mind knew it was completely wrong. In fact, I almost got off the train at the Jesse stop because he talked to me, made me laugh and was an amazing kisser.

  “Cassie, please don’t worry so much. But believe me when I say to you that this is about sex. Pleasure and sex. Love, my dear, is a whole other thing.”

  My next fantasy card arrived almost six excruciating weeks later, after the heat wave had been replaced by a storm watch, the weather perfectly mirroring my frustration. The fantasies would take place over the course of a year, I was reminded. And though the Committee tried to space them out evenly, even Matilda admitted in a quick phone call that six weeks was unusual. “Patience, Cassie. You can’t rush some things.”

  A few days later, at night, a courier rang the buzzer downstairs. I practically ran down the stairs to sign for what he had. I was so excited I almost kissed him on the mouth.

  “I saw that you were up,” he said, pointing to the dormers on the third floor of the Spinster Hotel. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of body only the most aggressive of bike couriers can achieve in a city this flat. But
he was so damn cute that inviting him up crossed my mind.

  “Thank you,” I said, snatching the envelope from his sinewy hands. The wind whipped my hair around my face and sent my robe flapping up my legs.

  “Oh, there’s this too,” he said, handing me a cushioned envelope the size of a small pillow. “Storm’s coming. Dress appropriately,” he added, taking one bold look at my legs and spinning away with a wave.

  I took the stairs in twos, ripping open the card as I ran. It said: Step Five, Fearlessness, which sent a little chill down my spine. The card also said a limo was fetching me first thing in the morning, and that “appropriate attire is included.”

  As the wind rattled my windows that evening, I felt grateful that Scott and I had arrived a year after Hurricane Katrina and her sisters, Wilma and Rita, ravaged the city. Except for Isaac and a couple of other tropical storms that bent the trees and shattered some glass, there hadn’t been a huge disaster on the scale of those hurricanes since, something this Michigan girl was grateful for. I was prepared for wet weather, but not the dangerous kind that sometimes happened down here.

  I sliced open the pillowed envelope and spilled its contents on my bed. An outfit for tomorrow had been selected for me: a pair of tight white capris, a pale blue silken tunic cut low, a white scarf, black Jackie O–style glasses, and heeled espadrilles, all of which of course fit beautifully.

  The next morning, I kept the limo waiting as I tried knotting the scarf different ways around my neck, eventually settling on wearing it as a kerchief. A glance in the mirror and I had to admit I looked a bit aristocratic. Even Dixie, who stretched out at my feet, seemed to give her approval. But I’ll never forget the look on Anna’s face, a Bayou woman born and bred, as I plucked a collapsible black umbrella from the stand in the foyer.

  “If it storms, you’d be better off using an umbrella that comes on a fancy drink,” she huffed.

  I wondered if I should say something to her, make up a rich boyfriend, just to stop the curiosity about the limo from brewing into something bigger and less benign. Not today, I decided. No time.