by Nikki Sex
“Because women are intuitive! They know their male lovers will take it personally and feel a sense of failure if they do not climax. A woman who loves her man will not wish to hurt his feelings. This is a matter difficult to discuss. Like all things in life, the problem observed is not the real problem. It is secrecy and an inability to talk openly about a subject that makes such things a problem. And why can this issue not be easily discussed?”
“The delicate male ego?” I cautiously suggest.
“Just so.” André flashes me a broad grin. “When a man’s feelings are hurt, it can be more damaging for him than it would be for a woman. Men despise weakness and vulnerability. Women are used to it, often experiencing such emotions—oh—many, many times! They have learned to endure such trials. But men? They are supposed to be big, strong and self-reliant. In this culture, they cannot be perceived as being emotional. Such is considered unmanly.”
“I see.”
“It is a great generalization and as such it is not a perfect truth, but I tell you—men are rarely in touch with their feelings. They put their faith in logic. Logic is most worthy, especially for those who need a firm grasp of control. Yet, the mind is a very poor substitute for the truth in one’s heart.”
I nod my agreement. It’s a stereotype that women are emotional, while men are logical. I think I’m both, but am often swept away by my feelings.
“When men feel inadequate in bed they have an urge to weep and speak about it—yet they do not know how to do so. Instead, they become enraged. They blame their partner, they blame their job. They strike out blindly. Such fury can quickly fall into a sense of failure and depression.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Mais oui! It is a very great secret. Women feel insecure, but they are aware of it. Men feel insecure but they deny such feelings. They become angry or give up, hiding their emotions—first from themselves.”
“But not all men.”
“Not all men, of course. But the men I will send to you? Their emotions will be underdeveloped. As a surrogate, your clients will need constant encouragement and reassurance. To give such requires finesse. Never lie. Never exaggerate. All must be sincere. Honesty is vital, as I have told you oh, many times before.”
I nod. André advises me to say nothing if a secret must be kept and never lie. I’m also beginning to think he intentionally got me to compliment his sexual prowess, either to see if I would or for some other reason.
When teaching me, André can be quite subtle. He’s only seven years older than I am, but he’s a million years wiser and more experienced.
“How did you train your cat?” he asks. “You did not focus on what was wrong when interacting with Mitten, did you?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t work. If I pointed out what he did wrong, he'd focus on that. It kind of broke his trust in me. I guess I just found it easier to notice and praise everything Mitten did right. It made him proud of himself. He wanted to please me.”
“Très bien! Make your surrogate partners feel special, but only if you find something truly special, comprenez-vous?”
“Of course. False flattery is merely another form of lying.”
André shoots me a warm smile. “I vow, you are a genius! A cat is much like a man in this way.” Cupping my head in his hand, he kisses me on the lips, a swift response. “You will be a most excellent therapist.”
“Merci.”
“Do not expose weakness directly. Try not to correct them. Let them learn naturally at their own pace. If you must speak—as an example, perhaps if they are too rough—do so in a manner that is easy for them to receive.”
“Right.”
“The first clients I send you will be extremely vulnerable. I trust you with them as you are naturally empathetic.”
“Merci encore.” Thank you again.
My cheeks heat at his praise. He gives me so much, and I feel unworthy.
André knows exactly why I blushed. He knows me so well. I’m inexplicably embarrassed by compliments, something I never had experience with until later in my life. Together, we continue working through my own brand of ‘crazy’ as best as we can.
“Now, I wish to speak of power games,” he says. “Most men will not wish for you to assert your dominance. Do you recall how you felt when you played the Mistress with me?”
“How can I forget?” I snicker. “It was only yesterday.”
“But how did you feel?”
“I liked being in control. It was great fun.”
André wanted to give me a taste of dominance and submission. I hated the idea, but I finally agreed to play the role of his Mistress. He responded to my direct orders in bed. It was strange at first, but then I began to get into the swing of bossing him around.
There were moments when I enjoyed the power I had over him. Times when I reveled in the heady sensation of total control.
André studies me, aware of my thoughts. His slow smile is warm and friendly, but his eyes are knowing.
“But of course, for you, it was only a game, no?”
“It was.”
“Perhaps we can continue, as long as you feel yourself to be playing a game. What did I tell you about submission?”
“If I give up control, in part it’s an illusion. I have the power to say ‘no.’ I can safeword at any time.”
“C'est très bien,” he murmurs. “That is very good, ma petite souris.”
André reaches over and trails a finger from my forehead, down my nose and past my lips. His firm palm is warm as he inches forward to cup my cheek.
“In life, there are always power dynamics. The supervisor is above you, yet there is a supervisor above him, no? The rich person has more power and confidence than one who is struggling with debts. When I look at the world, I see power and control. Vast power inequities are wrong, n'est-ce pas? Such create injustice. You have experienced this.”
My brows pull down as I recall my father, as well as the bullying I received at school. I was a child, under the control and mercy others—people who did not have my best interests at heart. People who callously hurt me.
“Yes, I know all about that,” I say.
“But you learned the wrong lesson!” he protests. “Not all control is bad control! Not all power is bad power! These are the truths you need to understand.”
I frown, trying to process what he’s telling me.
“Ma belle, decide to return to a state of helplessness—but this time, enjoy it! Become familiar with vulnerability by choice! These emotions are neither wrong nor right. They create sensations and feelings one can experience in life. Be at the mercy of someone you trust, someone who you know will only give you pleasure. Then your fear of such powerlessness will be banished.”
A moment of fresh panic washes through me.
Dread.
A stab of pain in my chest.
I blink and stare at him, but say nothing.
I don’t know what to say.
“I was pleased to have you as a Mistress,” he murmurs. “No harm would come to me by your hand, for you care for me, no?”
Nodding, I swallow nervously.
“When it comes to power, there are people who have it, people who want it and those who wish to relinquish it.” The sexy cadence in his voice beguiles me, distracting me from the disquiet in my heart.
André smiles. “Many find it exhilarating to simply let go.”
His easygoing manner changes completely. Suddenly, he’s in-charge. I gasp, giddy with sensation. The frightened mouse in me reads his intent.
“Dominance and submission are not about overpowering one’s will, ma petite. They are about having fun and satisfying needs.”
Raw power shines through him in every possible way. It's in his expression, in his manner and in how he holds himself.
Dominance.
Mastery.
His eyes are hard upon me as his solid male body
presses against mine. His hand leaves my face—one long finger trails down my neck and continues down along the valley between my breasts.
I bite my lip.
“To give up control can be rewarding,” he says, his accent is thick, sultry and seductive. “And empowering.”
He rests his palm casually between my breasts, a sign of both possession and ownership. Raw sexual heat radiates from him in palpable force, while his hand ignites my flesh with passionate fire. My breathing and heart rate speed up.
André’s entire demeanor is imposing. It excites me, yet it scares me, as well. I thought I was paying attention to him before.
He has all of my attention now.
“You have taken your pleasure in dominating me, ma petite. It is your turn to know and embrace the joy of submission. Spread your legs for me. Now!”
I can’t fight the almost harsh authority in his command. Instinctively, I do as he asks—but I don’t like it. Arousal and anticipation mix with fear and discomfort. It's confusing and unsettling, to say the least.
Drawing in a deep breath, my head spins with a kind of drunken lightheadedness. André says when BDSM is done correctly, it can be excellent therapy. We’ve discussed this so many times and in so many ways. If there was a university degree on BDSM, I’d probably be a PhD by now.
André won’t attempt to bind me or force me to do anything—he knows better than that. He wants to control me. I trust him. I know he won't hurt me.
Why then, am I so frightened? Do I really want to face this fear?
“Very nice,” he croons softly when I obey him. His voice rolls across my skin like a loving caress.
“Now put your hands above your head. I wish to see you open and exposed to my fingers, my teeth, my tongue and my cock,” he says in his firm voice of command.
I freeze. My arms remain firmly at my sides, my fists clenched. My heart skips a beat—I feel a large extra thump in my chest, then my pulse really begins to pound. A strange noise fills my head, a silent scream of panic.
I feel trapped, anxious and afraid.
I can’t do this.
I don’t like this feeling.
I don’t want to be ordered around or forced to do things that are not my choice.
André shifts upwards, his body above mine. He’s so much bigger than I am. So much stronger. Like my father. An intense urge to run and hide slams into me. I feel like a frightened child again as his piercing gaze locks upon mine.
“I… I… I don’t like this, André,” I stutter in protest, my voice raised high from nerves. “You… you want to take all my control away from me!”
His genuinely startled look stuns me.
“Mais non!” he says. “Je t'assure, I have no wish to take your power and control from you.” He inches away, giving me space. His striking features break into a broad grin, while his dark eyes sparkle with amusement.
“You don’t?” I ask timidly.
“Non,” he mutters, cursing under his breath rapidly in French. “Am I a thief? This is what you think of me?” He asks, clearly insulted. “That I would steal something so valuable through force or from a sly attack in the dark?”
André rubs his knuckles along my cheek, an intimate and loving gesture. “My petite souris, never. Never! I vow, I have no desire to take your power from you.” His features are beautiful, his expression angelic. “I wish for you to give it to me freely.”
Chapter 1.
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
― Kurt Vonnegut
~~~
Two years later…
Renata Koreman
I’m seated in the airplane beside Grant, my shoulders hunched, eyes averted and my hands clasped tightly together. I’m freaking out, partially because I’m out of my comfort zone—new situations and new people make me nervous.
But that’s not my only problem.
Grant is acting really strange.
We’re sitting only a foot away from each other, but the vast distance between us might as well be measured in miles. It’s as though I’m not here with him at all.
Isolated and alone—that’s Grant. It’s probably how he’s been all his life. He’s wearing a tough, untouchable façade as protective armor. This must be the face he usually shows the world.
If only I were enveloped by the comforting safety of my dark box. It’s packed away somewhere, in the baggage area of the plane along with my medication. I wish I were down there, curled up in my little box.
Mitten is in a cat carrier, pushed under the passenger seat in front of me. My sweet cat, trusts me completely. He was content to be put in a box and transported. In the mysterious way of cats, he knows he’s safe, so he’s sound asleep.
What the hell is wrong with Grant?
I’m edgy, anxious and strangely numb as we travel together on the way to his home in Dallas. Grant has taken the window seat, so his facial scars are turned away from me. I’m sure he does this on purpose.
Is he thinking of friends lost in the war or perhaps of his most recent battle? How did he get that terrible injury? I hope he confides in me eventually.
There was a point yesterday when he forgot about his scars.
He’d had such a breakthrough. I met the real Grant—a gentle, honorable man who could finally be himself. No longer schooling his face into something he wasn’t, while struggling to hide his feelings, he was able to let go.
We formed a bond. Grant opened up to me.
I study the man now, while taking slow, deep breaths to manage my own nerves. He’s looking out the window, staring into space. His body is stiff, his back straight. Grant is a solid ball of building intensity, yet there’s an air of denial about him. He’s pretending he’s fine—and he so isn’t fine.
Today, I’m sitting next to a stranger.
I recall my phone conversation with André yesterday when I asked him about traveling to Dallas. I wanted his advice about helping Grant care for his brother’s child.
“My petite Souris,” he said. “Be very sure. This desire you have to help Grant. It is for him, yes, yes, of course… but is it also for you? This must be something you wish for. In this, you must not be the rescuer who denies her own needs for the benefit of another.”
“I want to go,” I assured him.
“For yourself?”
“Yes, very much so.”
Since Grant was within earshot, I began speaking French so I could say, “I have a ridiculous crush on the guy, André. It’s even worse than the one I once had on you.” We both snickered at that.
“I’ve never felt like this. Sure, there’s sexual chemistry which, which—may I emphasize, is completely off the charts. But somehow by helping Grant, I feel as if I'm helping myself.”
“Cést très bien,” he said. “And so, you must go on this adventure, of course, ma petite. You will be far from those of us who love you, yet we will be only a phone call away.”
How certain I was then, so sure of myself and my decision.
Today it’s all different.
This Grant is foreign to me. I don’t know this man. Obviously, something dark must have kicked in overnight, overtaking his every thought. Some demon from his past, or maybe something as simple as self-doubt or anxiety. I can relate to that.
I wish he’d talk to me.
Just what could be absorbing his attention? There he sits, burdened with the oppressive weight of the secrets he keeps. The man is totally preoccupied. His body is beside me, but his mind is somewhere else.
What did I do wrong? Is he sorry he asked me to come to Dallas with him? He was thrilled when I offered to help yesterday. What's changed?
I attempt to shut down this unproductive line of thought and try not to take his behavior personally. Rationally, I know I did nothing wrong—it just feels that way. Unfortunately, when he’s like this, I fall into self-doubt too.
Uncertainty can be contagious.
I’m leaving t
he safety and comfort of my home, my job and the people I love. Until now, I never recognized how reliant I am on them for a sense of security and happiness.
I feel so lost.
So alone.
With Grant behaving like this, it's worse than if I were alone. He’s upset, he’s sad and he’s suffering. The darkness that envelops him has swallowed me as well. I'm sharing the same hellish angst.
I slant a look at Grant. Man, it’s like staring into a mirror.
Tension palpable, barriers up, we’re both surrounded by shadows. He may as well be wearing a neon sign with big red letters saying, Keep back! Go away!
He’s the male version of me, only his scars are obvious. We each have moments when we’re not at our best. But why must we both be in a mind-fucking mess at the same time? Why can’t we take it in turns so we can be there for each other?
A strong memory of André’s recent furious reprimand flashes through my mind:
“Regrettably, healing cannot occur unless at least one of you can remain rational! You cannot both be the client! Non! Such can be of no help to either. It is for you to be the capable, professional woman I know you are. Your attention must be on him! Listen, look and learn from him.”
I inhale a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself of the reason I’m here. I can do this. I am not the client. Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.
I open my eyes and steel my nerves, forcing myself to rise to the occasion. “Grant?” I say. My voice sounds strange to my ears.
The plane engines drone on, but Grant doesn’t respond. I gently touch his hand, which lies motionless on the armrest between us. The moment I do, he stiffens.
“Are you OK?” I ask, in a loud and carefully measured tone of voice. I’m a counselor, and I refuse to permit my nervous tongue to stutter.
Not here.
Not now.
“I’m fine,” he says, continuing to stare out the window. His voice is flat and emotionless.
“No, you’re not,” I snap back, surprised at the anger in my voice.
The non-communicative I’m a brick wall treatment he’s giving me is beginning to piss me off. At least I’ve got his attention, because he turns toward me.