by Alix Nichols
While I was in the hospital, Mom vowed she’d take her own life if I ever took mine. Dad pledged he’d toughen me up, if I let him. I promised him my full cooperation. Flo just cried. Roland made me swear on my parents’ and Flo’s lives—since I obviously didn’t hold my own in high regard—that I’d make Noemi pay.
And that’s what I’m doing now.
Noemi scoots closer to me on the couch and fingers a button on my shirt. I blink and glance at the TV screen. Her show is over.
“How about we make love on the sofa tonight?” she purrs.
I smile, as I try to drive away the image of eighteen-year-old me hovering between life and death in the intensive care unit with a breathing tube and an IV needle sticking out of me and a ligature mark still visible across my neck. “Sure.”
“I’d like to try something new,” she murmurs.
“Be my guest.”
Before I have time to guess what she has in mind, Noemi slides to the floor in front of me and unbuckles the belt of my jeans.
Really?
Princess Noemi intends to service her “knight” with a blowjob. How shockingly un-princesslike.
How… tantalizing.
I lean back and let her take control. In a moment, she’ll discover I’m not as hard as she’s used to finding me at the slightest mention of sex. Not my problem. She can use this rare opportunity to hone her seduction skills.
They’ll come in handy with her next man.
Noemi
I free Julien’s penis, which is only half-hard, and stroke it gently. He must have some worries he’s hiding from me because his shaft has never been anything but rock hard before. I suspected as much, what with the deep crease that had settled between his eyebrows at some point during the show and never left until I kneeled before him.
In the three months we’ve been dating, I’ve never gone down on Julien. He hasn’t gone down on me either. We’ve had lots of sex, to be sure, but it’s been… what some would describe as “plain vanilla.”
Not that I didn’t enjoy it. I loved it—loved Julien’s tenderness and the care he took with me. So gentle, so considerate. And yet… It’s starting to feel a little forced as if he feels kid gloves are in order because I’m such a delicate flower. And because I’m the woman he chose to be his wife.
The mother of his future children.
I say, screw that.
If only I had the guts to tell him the mother of his future children can be fucked harder and in many positions far less demure than the missionary! But it’s too difficult to utter those words. So I’m going to show him instead.
Sitting on my heels between his widespread knees, I shove my thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and push them down. He lifts his ass for a moment so I can pull them off, together with his boxers. I wrap both my hands around his flesh and pump him. With every stroke, his member grows bigger, harder, hotter. I shift one hand to his sac. My other hand continues to press and rub, and after a few moments, my thumb can no longer touch the tip of my middle finger.
My breath hitches as I gaze at his now fully erect shaft throbbing against my palm.
With a quick glance at his eager face, I bend down and take him in my mouth. Julien groans through clenched teeth, and his head falls back against the sofa. I push lower, feeling him bump against the roof of my mouth, the inside of my cheeks, the back of my throat. And then I push more.
Julien gasps loudly and threads his hands through my hair.
Spurred by his reaction, I give my caress everything I’ve got, moving up and down his length, my tongue circling him, my fingers pressing at the base. Faster, harder, greedier.
His breathing becomes shallow.
“Jesus, woman!”
He fists his hands in my hair, pulls me back until only the crown is inside, and then drives in. I’ve had oral sex before, but it’s never felt so erotic, so heady, empowering even. And when he comes, I drink him in.
I wonder how he’ll qualify my initiative once his orgasm has waned. Will he praise me and say I should do that again, or will he admit he’s disappointed to see how slutty his fiancée really is? But before I have time to envision the full implications of the latter scenario, Julien picks me up, lays me back on the couch, and spreads my legs.
“Need to taste you,” he explains, yanking off my skirt and panties.
Do I dare to interpret his remark as a sign that he doesn’t mind my sluttishness? Perhaps, he even approves of it. Should I ask him?
But there’s no time because in the next second, Julien buries his head between my thighs and presses an open-mouthed kiss to my center. My lids flutter shut.
Sweet Lord, I needed this.
“You taste like paradise for bad boys,” he mutters before his mouth comes down on me again.
As he tongues, kisses and sucks me, pressure builds. I begin to writhe and to buck up to his mouth. But suddenly it’s all too much. I use my hands push him away so I can get a respite.
“Don’t fight it, sweetie.” He captures my wrists. “Ride it.”
And so I do.
When I peak—shaking as if I were having a fit—Julien growls his approval and licks me clean.
I had no idea he could be like this.
Desire darkening his gaze, he yanks his shirt off, removes my sweater, and scoops me up. He carries me to the bedroom, but unlike previous times, he lowers me to the floor instead of the bed. Picking up a condom from the top of my night table, he sheathes himself.
And then he pushes me to the wall and cages me with his body.
I put my hands on his hard chest. “Kiss me.”
He doesn’t make me ask twice.
As he plunges his tongue between my parted lips, I suck it, tasting myself and Julien, the mixture of the two tastes is incredibly hot. My hand reaches down between us and I palm him, my body singing with desire.
Julien dips two fingers into me, then out, only to be replaced by his shaft as he lifts me against the wall. Sweet pleasure shoots through every part, every cell of my body. I shut my eyes, my whole being focused on Julien thrusting deeper and deeper into me. I can’t move. I’m filled and pinned to the wall with my feet not even reaching the floor. There’s nothing I can do to regain a measure of control, nothing I can hold on to, except the man who’s impaling me.
I grip his neck and wrap my legs around him, allowing him to drive into me deeper still.
My muscles clench and throb around him, the pleasure building, building, building. He squeezes my ass, pushing up. I push down, meeting him. Our flesh slaps together with every pump.
Julien’s face contorts into a mask of pleasure and pain, sweat breaking on his forehead. He dips his head and sucks on the side of my neck, just above the arch of my collarbone.
I moan his name.
He slams into me with more force, his breaths jerky and his eyes blind. “Come… for me.”
Whether it’s his words or the frantic tempo of his thrusts, I come.
A few thrusts later, he does, too.
Afterward as we cuddle under the covers, I wonder if what happened tonight will change things between us. I wonder if the change will be for better or for worse.
Will he still admire and respect me, knowing this about me, knowing how much I enjoyed the rougher, rawer sex we had tonight? I didn’t just enjoy it—I freaking loved every hot, sultry moment of it. All the orgasms I’ve ever had before pale compared to the ones he wrung from me tonight.
As if reading my thoughts, Julien pulls me to him and kisses my lips.
I grow dizzy as his tongue caresses mine in slow, powerful strokes. His hand tight on my nape, he devours my mouth in a way that’s new, more passionate, and more demanding than before. But there’s something else to his kiss, an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint… Then it suddenly hits me.
Desperation.
Julien
Someone, please tell me how a mean, spoiled brat can make herself as vulnerable as Noemi did tonight.
She gave he
rself to me completely, and it was genuine. I’m sure of it. She couldn’t have faked the flush on her cheeks, the red blotches on her breasts, or her engorged, stiff nipples. Nor could she force her pupils to dilate like that, turning her hazel eyes black when she looked up at me with her lips around my cock. And how could she have produced all that creamy, delicious nectar I licked off her?
Has she truly changed?
Or has she always been this person, underneath the bitch? It would explain why I’d fallen for her in the first place.
I must know. It’s vital that I know.
“You seemed to enjoy yourself more than usual tonight,” I say.
She stares at my mouth for a long moment and then shifts her gaze to my eyes. “I did.”
I peer at her.
“I’m going to be brave and make a confession,” Noemi says. “You deserve it.”
I wait.
She takes a ragged breath. “Once, years back, you took a huge risk when you showed up at my birthday party with a love declaration tattooed on your back and a letter in your hands. And you took an even bigger risk two weeks ago when you proposed on the boat.”
“Please, you shouldn’t feel you owe me—”
She cups my cheek. “But I do.”
I shut my mouth.
“It isn’t just to reward your courage,” Noemi says. “It’s also because for the first time in my life, I’m starting to understand who I really am.”
A sense of foreboding washes over me. In my gut, in my heart, I know she’s being honest now. She’s pushing herself to open up and tell me things she might regret later—things that I might use against her.
I should be gleeful. But instead, my hand burns to cover her mouth to stop her from saying more. I don’t want her to. I can’t let her. Given my plans for her, how will I live with myself if I do?
“So, here’s the weird thing,” she says. “I’ve always gone out of my way to be what my parents, my so-called friends, and now my boss expect of me.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Being guarded and calculating.”
She peers into my eyes as if trying to gauge my reaction.
I hold her gaze.
“I’m through with that.” She nods to reinforce her words. “Starting tonight, I’m brave enough to tell them they can shove their guidance.”
A glimmer of hope illuminates the abyss I’ve been sinking into. Maybe Noemi’s confession has nothing to do with me, or with her feelings for me. Maybe it’s just about her finally growing up and emancipating herself from the dictates of others.
“I’m happy to hear that,” I say, forcing a smile. “Nobody bosses my Noemi around!”
“You mistook my meaning. What I really want to say is…” She shuts her eyes for a moment. “God, it’s hard!”
“Then don’t say it,” I murmur. “I don’t expect you to strip your soul bare. I don’t need it, Noemi.”
Her eyes fly open. “But I do.”
She rolls on her back, then on her side, and faces the wall.
“Noemi?” I touch her shoulder. “Are you OK?”
“Yes. It’s just… It’s hard to say these things facing you, so…”
“Please, baby—” I begin in a last attempt to stop her.
“I’ve always played a part,” she says. “The part of a woman without vulnerabilities, beyond reproach, a woman who would never do anything weird, unbefitting, or anything to be ridiculed for. Both in bed and out of it.”
Something strange happens as she says this.
I no longer want her to stop talking. Tough shit if I won’t be able to live with myself afterward. What she’s saying is too important to walk away from.
It’s impossible to walk away from.
“I think that’s why you never dared to push me harder before,” she says. “Why you never really claimed me, despite the ring. But tonight, you did. And I loved it. For the first time, I feel I am truly yours—and you, mine—without holding anything back. It was amazing.”
My blood pounds in my ears.
“I trust you with my body and soul.” Noemi reaches behind her and finds my hand, which she brings to her lips. “And I won’t let my insecurities and overblown fear of ridicule undermine our relationship.”
We remain in that position for the longest time, until Noemi’s breathing becomes deeper.
She’s fallen asleep.
But me, I’m reeling too hard to sack out.
Did she mean what she said?
Is it possible she’s no longer the devious bitch who humiliates people for fun? Can you wake up one day and decide to be good?
Bam! Just like that.
Or is it yet another brilliant scheme in which savvy Noemi plays loser Julien like a fiddle?
Need a cig.
In the seven years since I quit smoking, I haven’t craved a cigarette more than I do now.
Noemi
Once Melissa and I are on the rooftop, we unwrap our sandwiches and spend a few moments eating. The view over the mainly five- and six-storied buildings of Paris from up here would’ve been breathtaking if other high-rise office buildings did not obstruct it.
You can’t have everything, as they say.
Like this rooftop, for instance. It would’ve been a perfect lunch break terrace if it had a few chairs and tables, and a scattering of potted plants to offset its slate-gray functionality. But the powers that be don’t want that or don’t care.
Which suits me fine today because the rooftop’s stark barrenness ensures that I can have a tête-à-tête with Melissa.
“You wanted to have a chat,” she says, apprehension making her avoid eye contact.
With all the shit she’s endured over the last few months, the poor thing has learned to expect the worst.
I pull my cell phone from my bag. “Have a look.”
While Melissa watches the video of Bertrand swiping a document from her desk, I watch her face. At first, her expression is bleak, then her jaw slackens, and then her eyes narrow in anger.
She looks at me. “How did you come by this?”
“Recorded it myself,” I say not without pride.
She blinks.
I smile. “Remember the fake cactus I put on your shelf last week?”
“The one you said would bring me luck?”
“The very same.” My smile widens. “It’s a nanny cam.”
“What?”
“I’ve had it for a long time, and I must confess that once, long ago, I used it in a way I’m still ashamed of. But now I got a chance to use it for a good cause.”
And my residual inner bitch got a chance to redeem herself.
Hope flickers in her eyes but gives way to doubt. “Is it legal?”
“No.” I shrug. “But who cares? Which option do you think Bertrand would choose: sue me, after I send this vid to everyone in the firm, including clients, or stop the funny business and let you do your job?”
Melissa’s hands begin to shake. “I don’t have the guts to confront him. I’ll faint the moment I step into his office with that video.”
“I don’t expect you to confront him,” I say. “Recording him was my decision. It’s up to me to do the confronting.”
“You’re taking a huge risk.”
I shrug. “No big deal.”
“Noemi, listen to me.” She grabs my arm. “What you just offered means the world to me. It really does. But I refuse to let you ruin your career for me.”
I drop the phone back into my bag. “And I refuse to look the other way while that scumbag ruins your life.”
She lets go of my arm and begins to chew her nails.
“It’s simple,” I say. “Do you need this job or not?”
“Of course, I do!”
“I’ll make sure you keep it.”
We finish our sandwiches and take the elevator back to our floor.
As soon as Bertrand returns from lunch, I invite myself into his offi
ce and show him the video.
“Melissa and I have copies tucked away safely,” I say.
He gives me a black look. “What do you want?”
“Justice.”
Bertrand smirks. “As a lawyer, you should know that justice is a myth.”
“Can I use that in my signature? I’ll attribute the quote, of course.”
His eyes become slits. “Little bitch.”
Coming from him, the insult feels like a compliment. An acknowledgment that he’s dealing with a worthy adversary who is a force to be reckoned with.
I’m OK with being that sort of bitch.
“What do you want?” Bertrand asks again.
“You stop harassing Melissa immediately and irrevocably.”
“Is that all?” His gaze bores into my eyes. “How do I know you won’t come back next week asking for a promotion?”
“I won’t. But you’re right, you can’t know that.”
Blackmailing Bertrand for a promotion hadn’t even occurred to me. What did occur, many times, is to take on more cases as a public defender and apply for a job in a legal aid center. My salary would nose-dive, but I think I’d be happier.
In time, I might even start my own nonprofit. It would be called “Bitches for Social Justice.”
“OK,” Bertrand says. “I’ll leave Melissa in peace. But you’d better uphold your end of the deal.”
I nod and march out. As I pass Melissa, she looks like she’s about to faint with anxiety, so I grin and give her the V sign.
She slides down in her chair with relief.
When Bertrand leaves—and something tells me he won’t linger tonight—I know she’ll rush to my cubicle for details. There won’t be much to tell, but I’ll take pleasure in describing every sweet second of Bertrand’s inglorious retreat and capitulation.
I’ll squeeze the scene for more joy when I reenact it for Julien next week. He’ll be proud of me, and I’m sure he won’t mind that I used the same nanny cam from my birthday party eight years ago. He’s completely over that silly episode. I have it from the horse’s mouth.
