Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  I have a million questions as I watch the relationship unfold in front of me. He indicates for her to get onto the bed and then takes both of her hands in one of his. He pins them above her head before nudging his knee between her legs to open them slightly. He blows across her skin, making her shiver. It’s a tiny movement and I only just catch it. Her nipples instantly form two peaks. He tells her to hold the wooden headboard until he tells her to let go and to keep her eyes closed. Then, he tells her not to move a muscle. She is like a puppet and he is the one pulling her strings. But it’s not how it sounds. I can’t explain it. I’m taken aback by the respect that I feel. For both of them. For the respect and adoration that radiates from both of them. It’s definitely a two-way street.

  I watch as he lovingly teases and caresses her body whilst maintaining his authoritative stance. They are so in tune with each other. His every move, no matter how seemingly insignificant or innocent even, has visible consequences for her. I watch her fight against herself, never against him as he wreaks havoc on her body, with carefully orchestrated and experienced hands. No whips, handcuffs or specialised equipment required.

  Several times, La Veuve Noire attempts to direct my attention elsewhere but I’m spellbound. I’ve counted four orgasms and yet he’s barely touched her. This is a man who knows how to pleasure a woman. I can’t help but compare the dignified nature of the woman before me with the crude, vocal demands of my boss that night.

  I’m fascinated. And weirdly, I’m jealous. I can barely begin to acknowledge half the thoughts that are swirling around my head. Not all of them make sense.

  I’m distracted from my bewildering thoughts when he flips her on to her knees, pushes her breasts down into the mattress and starts to fuck her. Her hands are clasped behind her back and her head is turned to the side. She appears to be staring straight at me but, as her soft moans and sighs escalate into cries, it’s apparent that she’s not really seeing anything. She’s just feeling. Everything.

  She begins to beg. He slaps her arse in between his thrusts. Every sound of flesh hitting flesh makes my cock flex. Then I see him lean over her and his hand dive underneath her. Her cries tell me that he’s being none too gentle with her tits. She begs him again. I can hear her shouting ‘please’ over and over. Her moans reach fever pitch then, just as her body begins to tremble, he flings himself upright, drags her up by her hair and sinks his teeth into the soft skin in the crook of her neck. His timing is impeccable. I find myself sneering: of course it would be. This man is everything I’m not. Her last cry is almost deafening. He holds her upright as his thrusts become restrained and gentle as she comes back down from her powerful orgasm.

  I blink as he throws her back down and barks at her to clasp her hands behind her back—which she does without hesitation. He grabs them in one of his and pulls on them as he ploughs into her. I’d assumed he’d come when she did. I mean . . . how could he not when she was convulsing around him?

  I’m staring, gobsmacked. I was already in awe of what I’m witnessing. Now it’s like he’s showing off and I start to wonder whether this is now all about him and his pleasure. But, within no time at all, her pleasure-filled cries ring out. Louder. More desperate. Once more she begs. This time, I can hear him taunting her—calling her his good little slut. Asking her what she wants and how much she wants it. She tells him in no uncertain terms before his free hand shoots down between her legs. She cries out. Again and again and again. I don’t think he’s being at all gentle on her clit.

  Abruptly, he stops and flips her over, pushing her legs up so that her feet are over her shoulders. He barks at her to hold the headboard. He grabs her tits roughly as he rides her hard. Every so often, he leans down and bites her. Initially, I almost cry out, fearing that he’s going to hurt her. But I’m so spellbound that I can’t. Thank fuck because it quickly becomes apparent that she loves it. I realise that she’s not only begging him to let her come, she’s begging him to inflict pain too. It’s clearly what gets her off.

  By the time he’s coming, he’s got her in what I can only describe as a choke hold. His large, strong hand is encasing her throat and he looks to be holding her fast. I can’t tell if he’s squeezing. She’s not showing any signs of distress. In fact, if anything, she comes harder than the last time. He starts to grunt. I recognise the signs—he’s on the verge of coming. Although she’s only just come, she starts to beg him. Surely she’s not expecting him to stop so he can pinch or slap her?

  ‘Do you want it?’ he roars, his hand loosing her throat.

  ‘Please. Please,’ she begs.

  Suddenly, he pulls out of her and I watch as his come sprays all across her breasts and her face. I can barely comprehend what I’m seeing. That’s what she was begging for?

  I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. I have so many questions. I make to turn away but the sight of him, picking her up and cradling her in his arms is an image too powerful to ignore. Again, I feel envy pumping through my veins. I’m jealous of their closeness. Their undeniable bond. And, of course, their mutually satisfying sex.

  I’m being prodded.

  ‘Turn around,’ La Veuve Noire insists, herself spinning around to face the other way.

  There’s an empty bed. Suddenly, I find it more appealing than the couple who’ve got everything I want. Well, maybe not everything . . . I’m so confused.

  Suddenly, the barman is in front of me again. He’s holding a tray with more drinks. I look at La Veuve Noire in confusion but she simply smiles and nods. I take the pint of beer, muttering my thanks before holding it to my mouth. I sip gratefully, revelling in the smooth, cold liquid coating the inside of my mouth and my throat as I swallow. I close my eyes. Man, I needed that.

  ‘So?’ La Veuve Noire asks.

  I frown at her in confusion as I take another sip.

  ‘Any comments on what you’ve seen? Have you seen enough?’

  I can’t begin to comment on what I’ve just witnessed. It’s akin to observing aliens landing and reproducing right in front of you. How the hell do you begin to comment on something like that?

  As for whether I’ve seen enough . . . how the hell do I know? I had no idea what I was going to see or what it’s possible to see, never mind whether I want to see it.

  I just stare at her dumbly. She nods and I think she understands how overwhelmed I’m feeling.

  With a smile, she says, ‘There’s so much more to sex than man shoves cock inside woman and thrusts for all he’s worth. It takes some people a long time to realise that. Mostly, it goes some way to being cured when they meet a more experienced partner. If they’re lucky, their partner will have a lot of experience—or they’ll have lots of partners, each bringing new experiences. But I believe that few people get to experience enough to know exactly what sex could be for them. I do believe that we learn and evolve to some degree with each new partner. What’s right with one partner isn’t necessarily right with another.

  ‘I mean, we are who we are but there are subtle differences caused by different preferences, experiences, talents, physical differences and so on. So take advantage of what you see here. I don’t mean to be condescending when I say that so far, your experiences have been . . . shall we say, limited? Of course, it doesn’t mean that you’re destined to get your kink on. I’m not suggesting that BDSM is for everyone. But most of us are predisposed to a bit of kink. Some of us—a whole lot of kink. One size most definitely does not fit all.’

  I nod. I understand what she’s saying. I think she’s trying to help me make sense of the mass of confusing thoughts in my head. I can’t deny that my eyes have been opened up to a whole new world of possibilities when it comes to sex in the past few days. I’ve seen other things here in Vouloir—some people obviously like fucking with an audience and not just in this room. But I can’t deny the frustration that’s bubbling up inside me.

  All of the sexual activity in the room is concluded with satisfaction to both partners. The w
hole room reeks of sex and satiation. I can’t see how rubbing my nose in it is going to make me a better lover. I thought she was going to teach me. Like proper hands-on lessons. I’d aim to make her come and she’d guide me to achieve it—as well as teach me some new tricks. I can’t deny that I have a much greater appreciation for differing sexual preferences now but, if I were to trade places with any of the men in this room, I’d still be an epic failure.

  I sip my beer as I continue to ponder my shitty circumstances until a woman, wearing a similar outfit to La Veuve Noire walks to the empty bed a short distance away. She might be wearing clothes like the woman next to me but, apart from the fact that they both have long black hair, that’s where the similarity ends. She’s not tall—probably about five feet and she’s waif thin. She’s carrying a black leather holdall which she places next to the bed. She sits, shooting us a haughty smile and then appears to wait.

  I’ve almost forgotten all about her—too busy nursing my beer, when a guy comes walking along. He’s a big boy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t play rugby. He’s a man mountain. He’s striding along confidently, not being distracted by the immoral acts surrounding him. He walks straight up to the little woman who has, I realise, stood up to await him.

  Although I listen carefully, I don’t hear any words exchanged but, before I know it, the guy is prostrating himself at her feet. I look from him to her. She may only be a short woman but she’s now giving off an aura of power. I realise I’m frowning. This guy . . . he’s a giant of a man . . . has just practically thrown himself at her feet. I mean, men don’t do that . . . well, you know . . . not manly men. Everything about it is wrong. It’s like watching a play that’s gone badly off script.

  I sneak a look at La Veuve Noire, longing to see what she makes of it. She’s watching intently. A ghost of a smile plays at her lips. I look back at the couple. She nudges him with the toe of her boot and he sits back on his haunches, but he continues to bow his head respectfully, keeping his eyes downcast. The stark similarity between them and the naked couple I’d not long witnessed is only too evident. It’s just that the sexes have reversed roles. I look over my shoulder but all that remains of their presence is the lead, discarded carelessly onto the crumpled sheet.

  Not wanting to miss a second, I look back just in time to see her grasp his face roughly and kiss him. It’s a fiercely passionate kiss. She winds her fingers into his hair but his hands remain on his thighs. I feel my cock beginning to sit up and take note. And so the confusion begins again.

  FINALLY, THE MOMENT I’VE been waiting for. Dean’s true test . . . or should I say the test that I’m hoping will reveal Dean’s true colours. I’ve chosen the sub carefully. Dean’s old fashioned. I needed to ensure that the sub was incredibly manly. I sense that he’s going to struggle enough when confronted by the truth. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of putting this particular sub through his paces. I wouldn’t mind though, although I can’t recall his name. I’ve kept my distance, lest I be tempted.

  Just watching him striding through the playroom, all six feet five of him, and seeing him morph into a prostrating sub is giving me tingles. Somehow, I don’t think it will be long before I give him the pleasure. I find myself licking my lips, and silently chastise myself. Tonight is for Dean, I mustn’t lose my focus. Although there’s nothing stopping me from enjoying the show—even if it does send me home horny and frustrated. Sadly, since The Kid’s arrival, I was getting used to that.

  I can feel energy vibrating from Dean. I’m not surprised—watching that kiss would be enough to make most men hard. I grin. I’d asked Elaine to put on a show . . . she was not going to disappoint. Lucky bitch.

  I watch her recline on the bed and instruct him to strip for her. By the time he’s finished, my throat’s dry and I find myself sipping my JD in earnest as I watch his firm muscles ripple, silently cursing that I’ve only got a rear view as he faces her on the bed. Those hard as steel glutes almost make it worthwhile. Almost. And don’t get me started on the triangle of hard muscle that forms his back, narrowing to a trim waist. It’s not worth mentioning those long, firm legs. I can’t see any ink. Not necessarily a downside—uninked skin shows off my marks better. But, when I’m window shopping, it’s always a pleasure. I start as sharp pain intrudes my open ogling. I’ve bitten my lip. Unintentionally. Never a good sign.

  Patience, I tell myself. Good things come inside those who wait.

  I adjust my position, nothing to do with the soft throb that’s emanating from between my thighs—I just want to be more comfortable as I prepare to enjoy the show. I don’t have much time for Elaine. She’s not wronged me in any way but she’s always struck me as sly. I don’t know, there’s something about her that irks me. She’s too caught up with her own self-image and self-importance for my liking. She’s not been a Domme for that long—although she omitted to mention that on her membership form. I check up on any new Dominants though. She’s never mentored another Dom/me and she’s never trained an inexperienced sub. But to hear her talk, she’s the fucking bee’s knees.

  It doesn’t help that I’m a man’s woman, preferring male company to the tense bitchiness that seems to go hand in hand with female gatherings. And honestly? Given the choice, I’d have chosen another Domme but, since we’re in short supply around here—unlike the seemingly never-ending stream of Doms, I didn’t have a choice. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t get on brilliantly with all the Doms—some of them are far too interested in their own self-importance for my liking. But they are all genuine. Fake Doms—abusers by another name—are not tolerated here.

  My eyes are drawn back to her sub. He stands naked and proud, awaiting further instructions. Once received, he kneels at the foot of the bed. She holds out a booted foot. He clasps it gently and kisses the toe with due reverence. I gasp. He’s a foot worshipper. Oh, be still, my beating heart.

  Then I remember that this is solely for Dean’s benefit and I silently urge things along. And determinedly ignore the demanding clenches that are taking place between my legs.

  My eyebrows raise as he begins to unthread the laces of her boot. That isn’t in the script. I frown, suspecting foul play. I narrow my eyes and silently implore her to look my way. She doesn’t. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Fucking bitch!

  I can feel my pulse beating in my jugular as he slides the long boot from her leg and foot. Oh so slowly. Then the other. I’m not sure this is doing anything for Dean but I’m less than impressed. She stands on the bed and permits him to roll the thigh highs down her legs.

  Her short, little legs . . . Okay, okay so that’s just me returning the bitchcraft.

  She grazes his chest with the ball of her foot, her brightly polished toenails glinting. She then trails it down lower. And lower. I almost curse that I can’t see. As if reading my mind, she calls him up onto his knees. Then she proceeds to massage his genitals with her foot. When she ceases. I almost gasp out loud. I swallow, knowing that my eyes must be on stalks.

  He’s not even hard.

  Now, from the way I saw him kiss her boot so reverently, I know he’s a foot worshipper. He’ll be enjoying the foot caressing. So that tells me something. Something big. Something to give my vaginal walls a workout and make me oh so wet.

  This guy, this man mountain of manly subbiness, is practised in the art of erection control.

  I shudder as a thrill passes through me. It’s increasingly rare to stumble upon such a fine specimen. I feel like hissing in envious frustration at Elaine. Worse still, I feel like calling a halt to proceedings. I want to have him. I want to put him through his paces for myself—not see the evidence second-hand. I’m tempted to leave. To tell Dean that we’re done for today. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. And that’s the reason we’re here, I tell myself.

  I also tell myself that I’ll be having fucking words with Elaine. I should have known that she’d take the opportunity to try to get one up on me. She, like some of the others, are jealous of the p
rivileged position I hold here at Vouloir. Of course, they don’t know the reasoning behind it—or what I went through before getting it. They don’t know because I don’t want them to.

  She looks at me now and I feign indifference. I see her annoyance. It’s etched on her face. Yeah, being such a good actress is useful sometimes. I yawn, none too subtly.

  Thankfully, she moves things on a pace by pushing her groin into his face as she taunts him. How much does he want it? I feel like catcalling, ‘Not much judging from his flaccid penis,’ but I’d never be so disrespectful, nor so crass. Besides, for all I know, he’s gagging for it. She’s not unattractive. She’s not a bad Domme. She’s just not in my league. But then, so few are.

  Her stupid one-upmanship attempt speaks volumes. I’m old school. I’d never lower myself in public. If I had a problem with another Dom/me, I’d tackle it respectfully and honestly. In private.

  Something almost occurs to me . . . like a memory I can’t quite grasp. I search for it inside my head but I can’t get it. So I concentrate on admiring his body and his obvious talents and ignore her.

  Within moments, she has him cuffed to the bed. She makes a meal out of queening . . . I’m bored to tears but Dean is another matter entirely. I can feel the tension radiating from him and I can see the constant bulge in his jeans. By the time the face-sitting is over, I know Dean’s thinking it’s a wonder the sub hasn’t asphyxiated and that his own jeans haven’t split. I don’t bother to be impressed by the sub’s ability to breathe—something tells me it would be easier to attempt to find his weaknesses than count his strengths.