Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  Her smile grows wider and wider as I speak.

  Then, she just sits there, grinning at me. I couldn’t tell you what she’s thinking or feeling. I don’t feel that she’s undressing me . . . it’s like she’s taking away more than my clothes, stripping me bare, way past the level of my skin. It’s like time has stopped. The shoe doesn’t even move. All that moves is the blush that’s creeping up my neck and onto my face.

  ‘So you’re embarrassed when you look at me and you’re embarrassed when I look at you?’ she says eventually.

  ‘When you look at me like that, yes.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’ve got X-ray vision or something,’ I mutter, feeling mortified.

  She laughs. ‘You think I’m imagining you naked?’

  ‘No. It’s like you’re probing . . . getting inside me . . . getting inside my head.’

  She gives an exaggerated wink. ‘I’m your therapist; it’s kinda my job.’

  I can’t help but smile.

  ‘While you were busy getting embarrassed at me poking around your head, I was thinking about how far you’ve come already. You just opened up to me about thoughts that you’d been having . . . thoughts that most men in your shoes would deny having. Speaking of shoes, if these are distracting, I’ll remove them. And if this is distracting . . . ’

  She stands and kicks off her shoes. I feel an urge to crawl over and pick them up, just to hold them in my hands. I don’t have time to register the implications of that revelation because she pulls her jumper over her head and then sits back down. She crosses her legs again but I don’t look . . . I know what’s under there. My eyes won’t budge from the impressive feat of engineering that’s her bra. It’s black. A mixture of silk and lace. And somehow, it enables those giant, pendulous globes to defy gravity.

  I feel her eyes on me but I’m distracted. She’s wriggling her nylon clad toes and it’s as though they’re sending a coded message straight to my cock.

  I groan and, when I look up, there’s a ghost of a smile playing around her mouth.

  ‘Is that better?’ she says, in what could only be described as a purr.

  I quip, ‘Not exactly. You make me feel naked. I think you should remove some more clothes.’

  I don’t know who’s more shocked, her or me. But then a lazy smile winds its way across her face. ‘Well, I did deliberately provoke. And I think I deserve the consequences.’

  She stands and reaches behind her and then . . . oh my fucking God then, her tits swing free.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s better,’ she says and her skirt pools at her feet.

  Better is one word for it.

  My eyes had been entranced by those swinging tits so I hadn’t noticed her unfastening the skirt. She stands there in her stockings and suspender belt and fuck all else.

  I swallow. I want those shoes to be back on her feet. Then, if I was struck by lightning today, I would die a happy man. Or, from the way my heart is thudding in my chest, if she’d let me fuck her wearing only those stockings and heels, I think I’d expire without the need for any act of God.

  As if to demonstrate that she actually can read my mind, she slides her feet into her shoes and sits back down.

  A strangled noise fights its way out of my chest but, if she hears it, she chooses to ignore it.

  I, on the other hand, am fighting to ignore the pain in my groin, caused by the inevitable unfurling of my cock. I ask her whether it’s weird that I’m getting used to the feeling of pain when I get aroused and that I think I actually might like it.

  She almost pisses herself laughing.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, here we have a living, breathing demonstration of the pleasure/pain paradox.’ she says. ‘Right now, Dean Rogers, you are the embodiment of said paradox. You’re going to make a lucky key keeper very happy one day.’

  ‘Key keeper?’

  ‘Yeah, when your Domme locks your cock in a cage. There are a variety of cages. Some are purely that—a cage, others are a little wicked.’

  ‘Wicked? How?’

  ‘The size can add a little wickedness and so can features like spikes.’

  ‘Spikes? Digging into your cock?’ My voice has gone up about three octaves.

  ‘Only if you get an erection,’ she grins. ‘But if you’re a good boy and learn to control your erections—they belong to your Domme, after all—you have nothing to worry about. Unless your Domme feels that a punishment is warranted . . . or unless she’s a bit mean.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ I almost don’t want to know.

  ‘Then she doesn’t play fair. She sets about turning you on so much that you can’t keep a lid on your erection.’

  ‘That is mean,’ I say with conviction.

  La Veuve Noire just laughs. I notice there’s a wicked gleam in her eye and that her nipples are standing to attention as surely as though someone were giving them a good tweaking.

  My gaze drops, coming to rest at the junction of her thighs. If she’s getting turned on then . . .

  I hear her laugh. It’s deep and throaty. Another indicator of her arousal.

  ‘Steady, tiger. If you’re having thoughts about burying your face in there, you can think again. Wrong session.’

  I grin back. ‘You could reward me for my honesty.’

  She laughs again. ‘That’s why I’m almost naked . . . you’ve been rewarded. Anything else would just be an indulgent distraction. Don’t make me have to begin caging you already. That’s one way of stopping your frequent . . . distractions.’

  ‘I don’t think a spiky cage could hurt more than my cock already does, thanks to that psycho bitch, Elaine. Plus I couldn’t be more distracted than I am right now and I have it under control,’ I say with genuine confidence.

  She grins and uncrosses her legs, leaving them wide open. I force myself not to look down. She licks two fingers, her gaze holding mine. Then she pushes her fingers between her thighs, sliding down her seat to afford herself better access. And me a better view. Because there’s no fucking way I can stop myself from looking.

  I mean . . . come on!

  ‘Have it under control, do you?’ she says, as she begins to rub herself a little faster.

  I nod, unable to speak.

  ‘Come here,’ she says.

  Oh my God. She’s going to let me fuck her. She’ll be lucky if I haven’t come in my pants.

  ‘Now,’ she demands in a voice that few men would disobey. I find myself moving forward.

  She hefts one of those incredible tits in her free hand and says, ‘Suck it. Suck it hard. And don’t be afraid to let me feel your teeth.’

  I close my mouth around her proffered nipple and graze my teeth along the firm, puckered tip. My brain seems to think there’s an erection competition and pumps most of my blood supply to my cock. I gasp in discomfort, her tit falling from my mouth.

  La Veuve Noire laughs and pushes me backwards. ‘Sit,’ she says. ‘Sit between my legs. I want you to watch me come. And I want you to focus on stopping the pain you’re feeling.’

  Immediately, I comply. Sitting cross-legged so as not to crush my aching cock and balls. She beckons me closer so that I’m sat with my head inches away from her pussy that’s slid to the edge of her seat. She dips her fingers inside herself and moans softly.

  Fuck! How the hell am I supposed to focus on getting rid of my hard-on?

  She slides her fingers out and I can hear how wet she is before I see the evidence of her glistening fingers. She begins to rub again—I think she has one fingertip either side of her clit and she rubs it between them. Her moans increase in frequency and volume. Then her other hand starts to pinch and twist her nipples. Her eyes lock onto mine. They’re dark and hooded and her face is flushed. Her lips are parted, just a little to allow her shallow breaths to escape, along with the husky moans that make my bell end weep.

  I can smell her arousal now. It’s making my cock ache so badly—the bruises that decorate it don’t appreciate b
eing stretched. I’m getting used to it. The pain seems to make the fact that I have a hard-on even more inescapable. It cuts through my conscience, demanding me to take note that I’m hard and horny and urging me to do something about it. It makes it more urgent. More intense.

  I watch her, willing myself to concentrate on her and forget about my cock. My mouth begins to water, confirmation of how I long to taste her again. I lick my lips in anticipation but I know she’ll deny me if I request it.

  I know why she’s doing this . . . it isn’t Veuve giving in to her own lustful thoughts, this is a challenge. She’s setting me up to fail, just to make a point. I know I’ll fail so I don’t bother trying—it’s utterly pointless. And though I’m usually competitive, not to mention shy, being around this woman makes me want to shed my inhibitions and face up to my failings. I know that she has my best interests at heart and I know that I have to be honest if I’m to make the most of all she can teach me.

  So right now, I’m not sitting back enjoying the feel of my aching cock as it yearns to be inside that hot, wet pussy . . . I’m not revelling in the voyeuristic vision of my sex therapist frigging herself off like mad . . . I’m learning. I’m studying where she likes to be touched. And how. I’m predicting how close she’s getting to coming, from listening to her moans and watching her muscles tense. And I’m determined that I’m going to be able to do that to her, just as quickly, just as enjoyably and soon. Very soon.

  SEEING SUCH A HANDSOME, submissive face watch me getting myself off makes me delay coming. I put it off repeatedly, bringing myself close and then backing off each time. I’ve had a shit morning so I think about the frustrations of those clients to help me hold my orgasm at bay, although I continue to rub my clit. Occasionally I focus on those rum-coloured puppy dog eyes: so earnest, so sincere and so fucking aroused. I hadn’t intended to get physical today but I was so tense. A release seems reasonable.

  It was his attention to my feet that started this . . . then his cocky insistence that he couldn’t be more distracted—and that he could handle it. Wait till he starts his training . . . he has no idea what it means to have a handle on it. I wasn’t joking about the cock cage.

  My first client of the day was Lucy, a married lady whose husband objects to the way her body has changed since they met over ten years ago. He makes jibes about her weight gain—all fifteen pounds of it, her sagging tits (they’re pert compared with my monsters) and—this is what really makes me want to strangle the guy if I ever meet him—the silver lines that are barely visible on her slightly soft stomach. Faded stretch marks. The evidence of his children growing safely inside her until they were ready to face the world. He’s even begun to drop hints that her face is giving in to the signs of aging. She’s a stunning looking woman with the odd laughter line, that’s all.

  I work on her self-esteem and her self-image. She came to me after he’d brutally rejected her advances in bed. He rarely pays her any positive attention and she freely admits that he wasn’t anything special in bed . . . far from it, even in her limited experience. But nowadays, he seems too busy making her feel bad about herself to even touch her. I strongly suspect that he’s a) projecting his self-worth issues onto her and b) fucking around.

  She strongly suspects he’s fucking around too but I’ve kept my opinion on that to myself. She doesn’t want to end the marriage—the children are happy. Her only worry there is that her boys will think his treatment of her is normal, setting them up for issues later in life. She has been tempted to give in to the attention she receives from men in the office where she works. She admits to flirting but the option of going any further is off the table. Not because she respects her marriage vows, but because she’s terrified of getting naked. Her husband’s comments have wormed their way into her very being. She’s convinced that any man will be repulsed by her naked form.

  I can’t even get her to show me her body yet. I will. But it’s not time yet. I don’t want to overwhelm her. She already has to face up to something else. She’s bi. I know from the way she looks at me. I don’t know whether she even knows it yet. She may think it’s just a consequence of being starved of sexual attention. And the fact that I’m a sex therapist. But it’s more than that. She sits there wondering what it would be like to feel my fingers and tongue on her skin, I’m sure of that. I doubt that she allows herself to wonder what I taste like. What I feel like. What it would be like to make another woman come. But sooner or later she won’t be able to hold those musings back.

  By the end of her consultation, I was angry, frustrated and horny.

  Then it was Sarah’s session. A lovely kid from a loving home. Talented and high achieving. Straight. No boyfriend. No issues with her sexuality. So why does she need to come and see me? Because her loving family is made up of two mothers. Two mothers who got a male friend drunk enough to agree to wank into a bowl. Then bingo . . . one lesbian pregnancy coming up . . . coming up a turkey baster.

  Needs must and all that. But then, once the pregnancy is confirmed, the guy claims it wasn’t consensual. He didn’t want to father a child. He says there was no mention of conception. He was just drunk and it was a party game that went too far. He doesn’t want his name on a birth certificate. He doesn’t want to pay child support. He wants the mother to have a termination.

  Before Sarah was born it was front page news on the tabloids, her mothers proudly posing for photographs. She’d even made the front pages. Several times. Against her wishes. And from the moment she’d started school, the playground gossips had followed her. Through nursery, primary school and now secondary school. Now, at the age of thirteen, she was being bullied almost constantly by her peers and the school was doing nothing to stop it.

  Her parents (as in her two mothers—her ‘sperm donor father’ had left the country before she was born) were defiant. How could she be being bullied? The children were telling the truth about the turkey baster. Sarah should hold her chin up and be proud of who she is. She should agree with everything that they say. She was a walking, talking advocate of lesbian rights. Easy for them to say.

  Not easy for Sarah to hear. She was drowning in a sea of piss-taking, condemnation and ignorance. So much so that eventually she felt numb. She went through the motions every day, accepting that this was her life and there was nothing she could do about it. Going to school, taking the abuse, sitting in lessons, taking more abuse, coming home, going to her room, some days thinking about ending it all but feeling too numb. Unfeeling. Drowning.

  Until she could bear it no more. She needed to feel. She needed something to cut through the numbness. She used the blade from a pencil sharpener the first time. Then she used a pair of scissors. She graduated to a craft knife she stole from the tech block at school. When that snapped, she progressed to a razor blade.

  And nobody knew. Nobody questioned why she was quiet. Withdrawn. Why she wore long sleeves, even in summer time. Or why she always wore jeans or tracksuit bottoms, whatever the weather. Why she would always forget her swimming kit. Why she spoke to no one unless she had to. Why she raced up to her room after school and only came down to shove her food down her throat and do her chores of loading the dishwasher and taking the recycling out before racing back up again. Her mothers didn’t question where all the sticking plasters went out of the medicine cupboard. They just kept replacing the empty boxes.

  Until one day, a drunk driver mounted the kerb and hit Sarah. The nurses noticed the scars and the fresh wounds. Bernie was called in but Sarah wasn’t talking, except for asking them not to tell her parents. Bernie took one look at her file and called me. I’ve been seeing Sarah ever since. I can’t undo the past. I can’t rewind time to that night when her mothers got their friend drunk. A pre-meditated act that got them what they wanted and fuck anyone else’s rights. Not the father’s. Not the child’s.

  Sarah refuses to join a support group. She doesn’t want to be surrounded by other ‘turkey baster bastards’—her words, not mine. She just wants
to be normal. It’s my job to convince her that she is. That she has no need to feel numb so she has no need to self-harm. That the situation that led to her existence was abnormal. Not her. That everyone’s reactions and judgements are abnormal. Not her.

  I can’t give her the new identity that she’d like. She’s even considered requesting to be taken into care. I can’t transfer her to another school. I can’t even speak with her parents or her current school—Sarah forbids it. I’m working with such tight constraints, just as she’s still working with the blade. But she’s doing it less and less.

  I bring my thoughts back to the present. Dean is still staring intently at my fingers as though entranced. He hasn’t made any advances (you’d be amazed how many men would) and he hasn’t got his cock out and started stroking. I smile when I see that his boner is still in evidence. Under normal circumstances I’d have no concerns on that score but, considering the maiming of his cock and balls, I would have expected it to subside because of the pain.

  Hmm, it seems that Dean doesn’t object to a bit of pain. Interesting.

  That opens up the options for his training considerably. For now, I won’t let on that I know. Sometimes, the carrot and stick approach works . . . sometimes, motivation doesn’t have to be so blatant. It’s always useful to have options. So, for now, I’ll reward him for managing to control his erection . . . under the guise of him managing to maintain it whilst in such discomfort.

  I stand and step up to him. I grasp his hair with my hands and slam his face into my pussy. I expect to see shock on his face when I grab him, I’m prepared to be gentle with him. But when I catch sight of a grin before his face is buried, a thrill runs through me. I’m at risk of underestimating him. I begin to grind my pelvis against his face, using his nose to continue the onslaught on my clit.