Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  So I sit tight and say nothing, not wanting to give him any more cause to feel superior. I know it’s only an illusion. I doubt he does.

  By the time he pulls up in front of a respectable looking row of townhouses, I’m almost shaking with anger. He still hasn’t answered my questions and it looks like he’s brought me to his home. The nerve of the man.

  He gets out, still without saying a word and closes his door. He waits on the pavement but I stay put. I don’t want to go inside his home. It’s too personal and I want our relationship keeping . . . what exactly?

  Professional? He’s not my client.

  Distant, that’s the word. I want to keep my distance, physically and mentally.

  I just sat inches from him and he’s in my flat every day.

  Platonic then. I want to keep it platonic.

  Going into his house is hardly a guarantee that he’s going to try to jump your bones.

  A sharp knock on the window makes me jump.

  ‘You can stay in there if you like but I’ve got to get ready for work. And the air-conditioning’s off so it will get hot. Very hot. But it’s up to you. I thought I’d think over what it is you need help with while I get ready but, if you won’t tell me, that’s going to be difficult,’ he says loudly so I can hear him through the glass. ‘I’d get out now if I were you.’

  Fuck.

  I know what he’s doing. He’s got me on the back foot because I need his help and he knows I don’t like asking. He’s pressing his advantage, determined to come out on top. He’s sensed my reluctance and sees it as weakness.

  Because he’s a complete tosser.

  And I need to act fast—I don’t know how long Thierri has left.

  Bollocks.

  I turn to face him and put my hand on the door release handle. I see triumph and smugness in his eyes. I try to swallow my pride but I’m not so good at that sort of thing. I open the door a little more abruptly than he was expecting and, although he manages to whip his face out of the way, the door wallops against his knees.

  ‘Ah. Fuck.’

  ‘Sorry. You did say to get out now,’ I say sweetly as I slide my legs out.

  He smiles through gritted teeth as he steps back and waits for me to exit the vehicle.

  I follow him inside. He seems sufficiently chastened in that he’s keeping his mouth shut. I realise when we enter that the house is divided up into flats. His is on the top floor.

  I’m impressed. Kind of. The place is tasteful and understated. Nothing like the bachelor pad I’d expected but then, he was a Commando and I’d have thought they like everything in order. His place is spotless—in an OCD kind of way. Everything exactly so. Symmetry and minimalism are the backbone of the theme but the effect is softened so it’s not blank or sterile.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he says, opening the fridge and grabbing himself a bottle of water.

  ‘No, thanks. I’d just like to get on with this.’

  ‘Are you sure it can’t wait five minutes?’ he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  ‘No,’ I declare, following him out of the kitchen.

  He walks into the bathroom with me following blindly behind. ‘I need a shower. If you want to start now, you might have to shout.’

  He starts unbuttoning his jeans. I’m no prude and I know he’s shamelessly trying to provoke embarrassment. Do I take a stand or do I scuttle out and let him think he’s got one over me?

  So I’m standing, looking into those eyes that I hate so much, as I ask him whether he knows how to find out if someone has an active will. I can’t look elsewhere because he’s sliding his jeans down.

  ‘That’s tricky,’ is all he says and I’m not altogether sure he’s talking about my question.

  Keeping my eyes on his is proving a challenge, especially when he throws his jeans in the laundry basket and turns, giving me an eyeful of the back of his head . . . and maybe a sly peek at his arse.

  He turns on the shower. It’s basically a huge enclosure of clear glass with a rainwater style head coming out of the ceiling. He steps straight in, without waiting for the water to heat, giving me an unobscured view of him until the steam slowly begins to mist up the glass.

  ‘I guess it depends on the kind of man he is. Whether he’d have written the will himself or asked a solicitor or financial advisor to do it for him. My understanding is that a will has to be witnessed and that any witnesses cannot be beneficiaries,’ he says, as he lathers his hair with shampoo.

  Eyes closed, hair obscured . . . so just that bronzed, exercised and inked-to-perfection body, dripping wet . . . and . . . and . . . what was he saying?

  ‘Are you listening?’ he says, leaning forward unashamedly.

  ‘I’m trying. You were waffling,’ I say, straight-faced. Then, remembering his open ogling of my body when I was bathing, I take my eyes from his and allow them to roam down his body and back up to his face. I put a mildly disinterested expression on my face.

  He continues as though nothing happened but I see the slight flicker of his eyebrows when my eyes return to his. ‘So, the obvious places to check are his home, solicitors, banks, financial advisors and I’m pretty sure you can register the will with the courts for safe-keeping . . . of course, if he’s written it himself and got random witnesses to sign it too, then there’s going to be little or no record of it. Even if you find the witnesses, who’s to say whether he’s since torn it up or written a new one.’

  I pull a face. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be easy. But that’s why I’m here, asking for help.

  ‘But how do I check his home? Financial and legal institutions? I can ask Helene about witnesses—she might know.’

  ‘With difficulty,’ he says simply. ‘But the more I know, the easier it will be. When you ask Helene about witnesses, find out where he banks, who deals with his legal affairs. And anything else you think might give us clues. If I have to get inside the house to search for it, I’ll need information on layout, residents and so on but we’ll cross that bridge if and when.’

  He’s turned his back and is soaping his shoulders and his arse cheeks as he speaks—soaping lazily and thoroughly considering he’s supposed to be in a rush.

  ‘You know, it might be easier to get inside there and speak with him. Did you say he was having nursing staff come in?’

  ‘Yeah, but his health has continued to deteriorate and I’m not sure exactly what happens on a daily basis,’ I say, watching those strong hands massage his firm arse cheeks.

  He turns abruptly and begins to wash his genitals. So instead of surreptitiously watching him wash his arse, I’m openly ogling him stroking his soapy cock. And I can’t stop.

  ‘Do you fancy keeping watch?’ he says, and it’s the mirth in his voice that tells me it’s a deliberate double entendre.

  He’s attempting to embarrass me now. Fat chance. I keep my eyes where they are as I reply—what’s the point of denying myself the opportunity to perv when it’s only going to make him think he’s getting to me.

  ‘I’m not against the idea,’ I say, dismissively watching those strong fingers handle those heavy looking balls. ‘It depends whether it’s likely that I’ll see something worthwhile.’

  ‘You’d have to be prepared to give up hours of your time. These things can’t be rushed.’ One hand is gently squeezing his sack as the other strokes his now erect cock.

  ‘Hours of my time with no guarantee of a satisfying result? It would be worthwhile preparing myself for disappointment then,’ I say, flicking my eyes back to his face. ‘I think I’d better leave you to finish off in peace.’

  A grin of victory on my face, I strut out and find the living room.

  It’s like the rest of the flat that I’ve seen—fairly bare and utterly impersonal. Then my eyes land on a framed photograph, sitting on the window sill. There are no other photographs or ornaments . . . nothing. I can’t resist wandering over to study it.

  It’s a teenage girl. She looks a little like Jo
nes but she’s like a watered down version—unless the photograph is faded. Her hair’s not as blonde and her eyes aren’t as strikingly blue.

  She must be his daughter. He’s never mentioned her but maybe that’s why he’s so good with The Kid—he’s had practice. There’s no way a teenage girl lives here—she must live with her mother. I put it back on the sill. She’s pretty . . . I’ve seen The Kid ogling the girls in the garden. I’ll bet he’d like Jones’ daughter. I smile. I doubt that Jones would like that—most dads are protective of their daughters. Mine was. It’s ironic how I ended up protecting him.

  I pull my phone out and call Helene, figuring that it would be best to give Jones all the information I could now so he could decide what should be done. Now that he’s probably emptied his balls, he might be a little less distracted.

  ‘If you think of anything else that might be relevant, Helene, please let me know straight away,’ I say, preparing to end the call. Helene is upset and is in no rush to end the call—she’s seeking reassurance that I’ve no right to give her.

  ‘Helene, when you think you’ve lost everything, you still have hope. Even in the darkest hour, there’s still hope. Never give up hope, Helene.’

  She has something to tell me. I can hear in her voice that she’s unsure about how I’m going to take it. I listen, my grip tightening around my phone.

  My legs feel shaky. I need to sit. I tell her I’m fine before I hang up. We both know it’s a lie.

  FUCK ME. STANDING NAKED before her and seeing how she can’t take her eyes off my body is making me horny. I can feel my cock getting hard under my hand. When I soaped it up, I thought she’d move so she can’t see or at least avert her eyes. To be honest, I didn’t think she’d stand there, once I made it clear I was getting in the shower. I have no doubt that she won’t leave the bathroom—she’s the type to insist on making a point. But I thought she’d stand to one side or turn her back before I got naked; I knew she’d keep the conversation going.

  I know she’s used to getting her own way. In her profession—and in the club—people look to her to take control. She dictates what happens and takes the lead in making sure it goes to plan. Very much like my own professional life. And, to some extent, my personal life. But it intrigues me. She took against me the first time we spoke—when all I was trying to do was help Dean escape a good kicking from the bouncers at Vouloir. The second time we spoke, I was helping him again before helping her to try to find that poor kid before he topped himself.

  I saw her another side to her that night and, if she hadn’t already been pissy with me, I’d have assumed that’s why she distances herself from me. I’ve tried standing up to her, giving her the treatment she gives me. Mostly, it has no effect. But just occasionally, like insisting upon entering the club and being made a member, it works. I’m not sure why. I don’t get the feeling that she respects me. She seems unhappy about asking me for help with this will business yet she is happy for me to spend time with The Kid, but she makes sure she keeps her distance. The only thing I can tell for sure is that she likes my body—especially my ink. Yet her body is entirely free from decoration.

  Now, as my soapy hand slides back and forth over my erect cock, she looks mesmerised. I start to massage my ball sack with my other hand. I can’t resist dropping a blatant double entendre into the conversation—she’s not been able to take the bait whenever I’ve done that before and this time’s no different. Fortunately, I’m a sarcastic bastard so it takes little brain power to think of a suitable retort . . . the rest of my little grey cells are trying to guess what it would feel like if it were her hands on me. Soaping. Washing. Stroking. Squeezing. Wanking. Teasing. Denying. Controlling.

  I feel my balls start to tighten, despite the fact that I’m managing to restrain my hand to slow, soft, measured movements. Just the thought of her shower gel lubricated hand effortlessly sliding back and forth is enough to make my balls impatient. I move my hand so the pad of my thumb can touch the head. I circle it around the tip and watch her eyes follow the movement like a hunter eyeballing its prey. It emboldens me and I’m considering taking it to the next step when she apparently decides that she’s won the double entendre battle and stalks off haughtily before I can challenge her.

  Man, she makes my cock so hard when she stands up to me. I think I’ve been getting it wrong all these years. I’ve never had trouble finding someone attractive and eager enough to take me back to their place and beg me to fuck them senseless—any way I like. Saying that, half of them don’t have much holding their ears apart—too concerned with how they look and how much things cost for my liking. Occasionally, I’ll find one who is hot enough to make my cock twitch and intelligent enough to have a decent conversation with. They may make it past the one-night-stand stage but invariably, I get bored. Quickly.

  Since leaving the Corps, I find that I need the challenges I used to get in my work in my day to day life. If I’m called in to do something off the record, that’s fine—although it has a habit of fucking up relationships because you can’t tell them why you didn’t reply to their texts for several days. Or why you had to break off your plans to meet them for dinner and barely had time to notify them. But mostly, I do jobs for a security company, Orion Security. Occasionally, there’ll be something of interest but mostly it’s mind-numbingly boring.

  I’ve found myself looking for challenges in the most mundane of tasks. Including women. Just how kinky can a little vanilla get? Just how many times can I make her come? Will she send me sneaky photos when I’ve asked her to masturbate at work? Can I get her to agree to fuck me in public? Either I’m a fucking deviant or there’s something missing. Or I’m a deviant and there’s still something missing—I’m fucked if I know.

  But Veuve . . . she’s a challenge from the off. Nothing like my usual type yet my cock salutes her every time she’s near. She’s way too complicated. Way too controlling.

  Nowadays, when I’m faced by a challenge, I tackle it head on. In the field, I had to tread carefully—a whole mission could go down the shitter so easily if you dropped your concentration or your guard. She makes me feel like that. She makes me rein myself in. Not by doing anything deliberate, it just happens. Being near her is enough. I don’t want to grab her, bend her over and fuck her senseless, just to make me feel good. There’s no ego trip; this isn’t about bedding the big, bad Domme.

  Sure, I want to fuck her senseless. But I want to pleasure her. Somehow I know that pleasuring her will bring me greater pleasure and satisfaction that the meaningless fucks I’m used to. I don’t want to use her body . . . I want her to use mine.

  That realisation makes my head spin. I let go of my cock and stumble out of the shower. Gripping the edge of the hand basin, I stare unseeing into the steamed up mirror.

  I’d known I wanted to explore more. And that I’d wanted to do it with her—as her client. Let her get inside my head and figure out why sex for me was nothing more that emptying my balls—a short-term satisfaction that meant little. I’d spoken about it to a shrink when I left the Corps but all they were concerned about was my lack of desire for a long-term relationship. Attachment issues or something. I didn’t give a flying fuck about that but they seemed to think the two matters were related.

  That’s what makes Veuve so special. She’s got a handle on the fact that sex doesn’t have to equal a relationship. And that there’s a wide spectrum of sexual acts . . . just like relationships. I’d had close relationships with guys in my troop—you had to put your life in each other’s hands—but I hadn’t wanted to sleep with them. Of course, I’d been a little detached because I’d been an officer—I had to be. I had to retain my authority by keeping a respectable distance—emotionally and physically.

  But it’s a lot closer than any relationship I’ve had with a woman. I like sleeping with women who don’t expect me to call the next day—that way they’re never disappointed. I don’t do the hearts and flowers shit. My answer to the question ‘does my bum
look big in this?’ would be ‘no, go and put something on that makes it look bigger.’ What the hell is wrong with flaunting a shapely body?

  My head begins to clear. I know that Veuve likes my body . . . and I know that matching her in attitude and verbal ripostes, without trying to dominate her, seems to engage her best. I grab my phone from the window sill and call in a favour. I have work to do here with a greater possible payback. The chance is too unexpected and rare to walk away from.

  So I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist, not bothering to dry my wet skin and walk towards it with determination. I’ll give her something to look at while my brain engages hers.

  I hear her voice from the hallway. She’s on the phone to Helene from the sound of it. I hear her waffling on about hope like some sort of New Age mantra, so I head into the kitchen instead to give her privacy, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. It doesn’t sound like her on the phone—she’s too straight-talking for that bullshit. Ah, but the only time I’ve seen her in work mode was when she cradled that poor kid’s body in her arms with such tenderness. I could feel her grief intermingled with guilt and frustration. She feels too much for these clients of hers—that’s her weakness. And I’m not sure it will work for me. I don’t want to be her weakness. I want to be her strength.

  One day, when the shit hits the fan—which it inevitably will, all the crap that she stores up inside her and never releases will come pouring out. She’s there for these kids. Who is there for her?

  I think of The Kid. I’d thought he was her son. Now I know better. She took him before the authorities could, knowing that she could give him better care. Maybe it’s just the kids that are her weakness.

  Maybe I could be there for her?

  I throw the apple core into the bin and pad down to the living room, pausing just before the threshold. All is quiet; she must have finished her call. I’m hopeful that she’s got more information about Thierri’s will so we have more to discuss. I untuck the corner of my towel and re-tuck it so that it won’t take much for it to come undone. When the stakes are high, I’m prepared to fight dirty.