by J. D. Chase
I come hard against his tongue before I allow him to draw breath.
‘Lick it. I want there to be no evidence of your transgression,’ I demand.
Immediately, I feel him lick and lap in earnest. I look down at the top of his busy head with pride.
Today was a good day for Dean’s journey. His mother issues are being tackled—I’ll continue to work on those. His confidence is growing by the second. And I found out more about his sexual preferences. Not to mention the impressive, if unplanned, beginning of his training.
I step back without warning and hold him roughly by his hair. His expression is one of utter bliss. I lift my foot, placing the sole of my shoe on his chest and push. Hard.
His dismissal is pure role-play but I catch another grin on his face as he falls onto his back. I step over him so that my feet are either side of his shoulders.
‘Take a good look, Dean. That’s your goal, your prize and your weakness. Make sure it doesn’t become your downfall. Today I put you to the test when you said you had a handle on your erection. I didn’t realise you meant that you could keep it going. I assumed you meant that you could get rid of it and hold it off. We’re going to start work imminently on orgasm denial. Your orgasms now belong to me. You only come when I tell you.’
‘You mean I can’t wank?’ he cries.
I shake my head firmly as my fingers creep between my legs. I slide them along the slippery slit and sink them inside. I fuck myself as I continue speaking.
‘It’s in your best interests to try to please me. Because every time you come without permission, I’ll deny you the opportunity to bury your fingers, your face or your cock in there. No matter how much you crave it. So take a good look. Memorise the taste. The wetness. The heat. Because it might be some time before you get to experience it again. But if you work hard and please me, you might even get to experience it from the inside. Can you imagine what it would feel like to thrust your hard cock into my heat? Can you imagine my muscles clamping down on your cock as I aim to milk your balls dry?’
Dean looks as though he wants to get started right away. I crouch and shove my fingers into his mouth. He sucks greedily as his eyes feast on my exposed pussy. I pull my fingers out and wipe them across his face. His eyes don’t move.
I clench my pussy a couple of times and watch his eyes flare wider.
I stand and step away from him laughing openly at his response. It’s exactly what I wanted. And what he needs.
He knows who is in charge, what he wants and what’s at stake. What more motivation could anybody need?
‘Get out. Be at Vouloir tomorrow at nine. No wanking. No excuses.’
He can’t keep that grin off his face, even as he sidles out of the door. I wait at my office door and, after he exits the flat, I dress then go in search of The Kid. I need fresh coffee and I need to see his handsome face.
WHAT AM I DOING here?
I’m parked outside the therapist’s flat. I could have been working this evening and cancelled seeing The Kid but when the call came this morning, I told them I was busy. I didn’t even think twice. But, since then, it’s been on my mind.
Why am I so keen to help this kid? I mean, blowing off work?
There’s something about him that intrigues me. I can’t figure him out. He’s not what I first thought—he doesn’t have a learning disability. He picks things up so fast . . . yet seems to know very little.
Unless . . . what if I get there today and he’s forgotten everything from yesterday? What if he’s like Drew Barrymore’s character in that film . . . where Adam Sandler discovers she forgets everything every night? I remember being dragged to the cinema to watch that by some girl when I’d returned from a tour in Afghanistan over ten years ago. I was horny enough to be dragged to watch some meaningless chick flick, hoping that the foreplay would begin inside the cinema and by the time I got her home, she’d be as horny as me.
That backfired badly. The idea of someone waking up to relive the same day over and over—without knowing that time was actually moving on, everything was moving on, except them . . . caught my imagination. It was plausible to me that the character could suffer a trauma that would fuck up their memory. I’ve seen grown men cry like babies. I’ve seen men who couldn’t tell you who they were.
I’ve seen some trauma-induced freakery . . . seeing your comrade, your friend, blown to smithereens by a roadside bomb or a suicide bomber can do that to you. Watching as they’re murdered in cold blood, and you can’t do anything about it because you’d risk the operation and all of your command, can do that to you. Being held captive, interrogated and tortured, threatened with death every day can do that to you.
But what of The Kid? What trauma could he have faced to cause his memory to be so fucked up, assuming that’s what his problem is? And why won’t he tell me his name? And that whole worry about being found using Google Maps . . . there’s something not right. And his mother is as jumpy as hell around me. Yet she struts around the club, drawing attention to herself with no worries, taking on strangers as clients to talk about their most intimate problems, sometimes necessitating her physical intervention. She isn’t a nervous person by nature. So why do I unnerve her?
So is that it? I’m here out of curiosity? Playing a game of real life Cluedo?
I could pull a few strings and find out both of their names and any history I liked. Medical, financial, legal . . . you name it, I could have the Intel within hours.
So why don’t I?
Because I want to unravel it first hand, that’s why. I want to know more than what’s printed in some files here and there. Even if half my own life story wasn’t classified and stored securely under some mind-fucking encryption somewhere, if people pulled up the ‘facts’ of my existence that are stored on less secure systems, what would they know about me?
I know, from countless ops, how the most useful Intel is gathered first hand, not what’s stored on a server or in a filing cabinet.
But that just brings me back to my original thought. Why?
I push open the car door and climb out. I’m fucked if I know why. But, with each step I take towards the door of the building, I’m looking forward to it that little bit more. I want to get inside The Kid’s head. And La Veuve Noire’s. The image of her in the bath yesterday floats before my eyes. I press the intercom button and adjust the position of my twitching cock as I wait for a reply. Her head’s not the only part of her I want to get inside.
She answers, sounding cheerful. As soon as I say my name, her tone hardens. Way to go, Veuve. You sure know how to make somebody feel welcome. If it wasn’t for The Kid, I’d turn and walk back to my car.
No, I wouldn’t. I’d be tempted, sure. But I see her as a challenge. A challenge I’m winning; the membership card for Vouloir that sits in my wallet is testament to that. She’s no pushover but I’m prepared to play the long game. For today, getting clues about The Kid is my aim. He’s more of a short-term goal.
He grins as soon as he sees me. He’s already got the laptop fired up, although I suspect he’s rarely been off it since yesterday. He’s like a kid with a new toy. I’ll bet Veuve doesn’t get a look in. I can’t ask her because by the time I’ve climbed the stairs, she’s left the door on the latch and vanished. When I knocked The Kid had called me inside.
Any inkling that he might be pulling a Drew Barrymore evaporate when he launches into a summary of the Royal Marine’s recent deployments, opening tabs in the browser to show me the locations of camps using Google Maps. I don’t know whether he’s genuinely interested or whether he’s trying to impress his teacher. It beats giving me an apple, I guess. However, at nineteen, I know that doing anything for someone else is a big ask—for most teenagers there has to be something in it for them. So maybe he is interested. He certainly seemed it last night.
It’s very warm inside the flat. It’s a hot, summer evening and by the time he’s finished telling me all the stuff I already know, I’m sweating like a sumo wrestler’s
armpit.
‘Kid, could I grab a glass of water, please? I’m sweating my knackers off.’
He looks confused but says, ‘Sure, help yourself.’ Then he turns his attention back to the laptop.
I smile my thanks. ‘Can I get you one?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he says, not looking up.
He doesn’t even look up when I place the two glasses on the coffee table. I’ve already gulped a whole glassful in the kitchen but it didn’t cool me down at all. I’m wearing a white tee but it’s thick, heavyweight cotton and it’s more than a little tight. If I were at home, I’d take it off. The air is humid and thunderstorms are forecast.
‘Kid, could I open the window or something? Or do you have a fan?’
He shakes his head. ‘The window won’t open. There’s a fan in the office but not in here.’
I debate going to see if Veuve is using it but she may be in there with a client. I wander over to the window and sure enough, it’s fitted with a standard window lock and there’s no key.
‘Do you know where the key for this is?’ I ask.
He shrugs, barely showing an interest.
Man, it’s hot in here. I need to get whatever it is that The Kid wants to do done so I can leave. I had been looking forward to visiting Vouloir for the first time as an official member and seeing exactly what perks were open to me now, but the appeal of a shady pub garden and a cold beer is more alluring. I have to wait for confirmation that I’m all clear on the STI front before I can get physical, I know that much. The results may or may not be in tonight.
I couldn’t believe that the club has a nurse in residence for a couple of hours, two evenings a week. It’s comforting to know that they take sexual health seriously, given the nature of the environment. If you aren’t clean, you don’t get to play. If you aren’t tested monthly, you don’t play until you are and get the all clear. The decision to use condoms is then down to personal preference—it’s recommended but not compulsory.
When Veuve said I’d have to give a swab (from my cock), urine and blood samples as well as having a visual examination, I’d thought she was going to be doing it. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not shy and I’m quite proud of my equipment—I’ve had quite a few compliments, but the thought of her swabbing my third eye and scrutinising the health of my tackle felt wrong. I’ve dreamt about getting physical with her but that wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured it. Thank fuck she meant the nurse would do it.
The nurse was a miserable cow. I got the distinct impression that she didn’t approve of the debauched nature of the club. In fact, I got the distinct impression that she didn’t approve of sex full stop. She was in her forties, took no pride in her appearance, wore no ring, had no personality to speak of and, if you ask me, was in need of a thorough fucking to remove the permanent scowl on her face. I might have told her but, bearing in mind she was about to shove a swab down the head of my cock, I figured my opinion was best kept to myself. When she swabbed and I almost shot out of the seat, my opinion that she needn’t be so heavy-handed, was expressed without hesitation. Christ, some people really should get a job that they enjoy.
I can feel my tee-shirt beginning to stick to my back. Time to get this done. It’s a shame though, I enjoy spending time with The Kid but I’ve spent enough time roasting my bollocks off over the years when I couldn’t move, for fear of blowing my cover or jeopardising a job, there’s no way I’m going to stay in here any longer than I have to. I ask him what he wants to look at today.
Five minutes later and I can feel my balls sticking to my thighs but my resolve to scarper is evaporating. The Kid wants me to show him how to get Intel on somebody and to track their movements using the laptop. Of course, he doesn’t explain it so succinctly—it takes the whole five minutes for me to grasp what he wants.
It’s complicated further when he won’t tell me for whom he wants to look or where they live. My interest is more than piqued.
‘Kid, it’s complicated. Yes, I have the skills to track someone down but most of that won’t be done on a laptop. These days, I have to ask friends for favours. They have access to far more information than I do. If you don’t tell me what all this is about, I can’t decide whether I can ask someone for help. I get the feeling that it’s important but you need to tell me more.’
He pierces me with his resentful stare. That’s obviously not the answer he wanted, nor the one he was expecting. He says nothing.
‘Kid, I’m sorry but that’s the best I can do. What you don’t realise is that I could get into trouble if I offer to help you and so could my friend. You’ve got to give me something and, please could you hurry up . . . it’s so fucking hot in here. I can’t believe you can sit in here all day with no fresh air. The sun’s been streaming in that window for hours and you can’t even open it to let the heat out and some fresh air in. Is there anywhere we could move to that has a window I can open? Your bedroom? The kitchen?’
His eyes don’t move from mine when he shakes his head. ‘No. All windows are locked. Better to be hot and safe than cool and unsafe.’
I’m about to retort that we’re on the second floor, that it’s safe to assume that it’s safe most of the time—especially when the flat is occupied but I stop myself. One person’s requirements for feeling safe can be very different to another’s. Our personality and our history dictates that. I’m sure he has reasons for feeling the way he does so I let it drop.
‘The only room that can open to outside is Veuve’s bedroom. She has doors that open. She sometimes sits outside,’ he says suddenly. ‘I’ll go and ask her.’
He sets the laptop down as I realise he must be talking about a balcony. He’s almost at the door before I realise he’s going to ask her. Instinctively, good manners dictate that I should stop him. It’s her bedroom; her private space. But, like him, she’s such an enigma. A glimpse of her sleeping quarters might provide a glimpse into the psyche of the lady herself.
From nowhere, an image of her reclining on a balcony, sunning her scantily clad body swims into my mind’s eye. I don’t hurry to clear it. I surrender to it and let The Kid go, hoping that I will get to see the reality of the vision that’s filling my mind and making my cock stir. And with any luck, she’ll have her hand between her legs once more, but this time, maybe she won’t look so furious when she finds me watching. Maybe she’ll let me exacerbate the waves of pleasure that she’s created.
Yeah, and maybe hell will freeze over.
It seems that she thinks so too. She follows The Kid back into the living room and, there’s no mistake about it, she looks pissed off.
‘You want to use my bedroom?’ is all she says. Her expression tells me everything else.
I look questioningly at The Kid but I guess, technically, she’s right. ‘It’s roasting in here. It’s thirty degrees out there and the sun’s been streaming through that window all afternoon. I asked to open a window but The Kid said I can’t because it’s locked and there’s no key. I asked whether there was a room that had an opening window and he said no, but that your bedroom had opening doors. Before I knew it, he’d gone off to ask you.’
She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe that’s all there was to it. I wonder if my libidinous thoughts are written on my face.
‘Are you going to be long?’ she asks, the question clearly directed at me.
I shrug and look to The Kid.
‘It’s complicated,’ he says. ‘Maybe.’
She looks from him to me. ‘Okay then.’ She holds out her hand to me. There’s a key in her palm. I take it, assuming it’s the key to the window in here. I’m wrong.
‘While you’re on my balcony, I’m going to have a shower so if anybody wants to use the bathroom, please do so now. Oh and Jones, for future reference, if the bathroom door is closed, it means the room is occupied so don’t enter.’
I don’t believe this. I’m blushing. Me! Fucking blushing like a schoolgirl!
‘Give me five minute
s to grab some clean clothes and stuff and I’ll be done in my room. Okay?’ She’s addressing both of us now. We both nod.
I feel a tiny frisson of excitement. I’m going to see her bedroom. Albeit minus her lying naked on the balcony with her fingers pressed to her clit, but all the same, it feels like a victory. A female’s bedroom often says a lot about them. La Veuve Noire is bold, brash and shameless. What I’ve seen of the flat is tasteful, neutral and unremarkable. I have a feeling that her bedroom is going to be either completely stark and minimalist (don’t ask me why, I just have a feeling) or it’s going to be as bold, lively and in your face as the woman herself.
Well, blow me with a grapefruit! It’s neither. Wow! I couldn’t have been more wrong, or more surprised.
The room is . . . how to describe it?
Feminine.
Girly.
Pink.
Frilly.
It’s like a room straight out of a Laura Ashley advert. I manage not to trip over my jaw when it slams to the floor, right in front of me, as my eyes are assaulted by a statement of femininity. It even smells feminine . . . all flowery and perfumery.
A large, white, wrought iron bed sits against one wall. The doors to the balcony are on the other. The carpet is white and so are the wardrobes, chests of drawers and bedside tables. A delicate looking white wicker chair stands in a corner. I doubt that it would take Veuve’s weight. Closer inspection shows that it holds a teddy bear and a heart shaped cushion. The walls are pale pink, as is the bedding, patterned with a delicate white design. The lightshade is the cherry on top of a very pink iced cake: a crystal chandelier. Not a little tasteful design. No, a huge, full blown chandelier that hangs halfway down into the room.
The Kid’s trotted over to the door and is waiting impatiently for me to get over there. But I just can’t take this in. If it wasn’t for the little touches . . . the teddy, the almost overwhelming floral scent and the bedding, I’d assume the room was like this when she moved in. And that the place must be rented fully furnished.
