I found his name the way one does, by word of mouth. My friend Ginny raved about L’école de Bondage, a school for BDSM located in a discreet loft in TriBeCa and run by this elegant young man. My training is to be a surprise present for Danny, a banker I’ve been dating: me kneeling, submissive, naked apart from a huge bow around my neck.
Danny’s hinted about BDSM almost from the first date, but I’m pretty sure he’s never tried it. I experimented with it in college with a guy who also didn’t know what he was doing. I’m hardly experienced. No way two newbies should try to learn together. Plus, Danny’s a bit, oh I don’t know, rough around the edges. I want to please him, but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to hand him a whip and tell him to have at it. I figure if I know what I’m doing, that’ll keep Danny from making any boneheaded mistakes. And if Danny’s a crap Dom, I’ll know when to use my safe word.
To do that, though, I’ve got to know what a good Dom is all about, how he focuses on my body, how he gets me to experience more than I think I’m able to. I want to feel that release that comes from submission. So I take lessons. And I want to be taught by the best. Ginny’s right. Marc is the best.
Marc’s back, attaching nipple clamps with a deft touch. They hurt, but he’s described to me how my body will translate the pain into pleasure as our session goes on. I can feel it starting already, with the ache glowing like the trail of light left by a sparkler. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as the white-gold light flows straight to my clit. I feel incandescent, but I know now that’s only the start.
Marc spreads my legs farther apart and the ache in my clit grows with the exposure. I flinch. He looks up at me.
“Do you need your legs to be restrained?” he asks.
For a moment I can only stare at his gorgeous hazel eyes. I wonder what the rest of him looks like. Naked.
“There’s no shame in wanting the bondage, Rachel.” His French accent softens my name: Ray-shell. I can’t say why his voice thrills me every time. Maybe it’s the lure of the foreign, the forbidden. All I know is it makes me ache almost as much as the clips and clamps, the restraints and submission.
I nod finally to his question about the ankle cuffs. He crouches at my feet. I stare at his bent head with its burnt-sugar curls. I was surprised at first by how young he looked, but then he spoke with a calm command and any concerns that he wouldn’t be dominating enough evaporated. Danny’s bluster and swear words are going to sound boorish by comparison to Marc’s continental courtesy. A courteous Dom—is that an oxymoron?
He stands up and walks behind me. I stiffen a little. I want to like this part more, but I’m still struggling with the concept of Danny coming at me with a thick leather strap. Or worse.
“You are too tense, Rachel,” Marc says after a moment. “You need to trust me to calibrate the pain so that it’s running hand in hand with the pleasure, yes?”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” I blurt out.
“Ah. The boyfriend.” He’s trying to keep his voice neutral, but his contempt for Danny bleeds through. I know Marc disapproves of my attending these sessions on my own. I don’t bother to explain we haven’t been dating long. Somehow that seems worse.
“He says he’s done this,” I tell him again, but even I don’t believe it. “I’m the one who’s going to do something stupid. That’s why I want your help.” And I do. When Marc stands in front of me, a paddle in one hand, my expression implores him to understand.
Something in his face mesmerizes me. I have a little crush on him, sure, but Ginny’s warned me that all the girls lust after him and, as far as anyone knows, he never dates his students.
So I’ve been playing it cool up until now. But his eyes are boring into me, pinning me in place. I want to submit to him, only him. I’m on fire. I can’t explain why, I just am.
He stares at me, then shifts his gaze. He lifts one of his hands to cup my cheek. The other gives one of the nipple clamps a tiny squeeze. I keep staring at him, not at the floor as I should be. The hell with good form. The air in the room is too hot, even for me naked and stretched wide open. Marc has to be boiling in his loose trousers and open-necked shirt.
He looks a little warm. Actually he looks hot. Not hot as in overheated, but hot as in the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. I desperately want him to kiss me—I want his tongue, his lips, the sleek edge of his teeth. And if I’m being honest with myself, I want a lot more. When he strokes me from my throat to my thighs, I moan with the pleasure of his touch.
I can’t help it, my hips thrust forward, wanting him to delve deeper. He steps back abruptly, not with his normal slow control. When he checks my face, there’s something in his eyes, a glow hotter even than the room.
Paradoxically, I shiver.
He nods and returns to his spot behind me. Back to business, in this case, the paddling.
“You will count the blows,” he says.
Shameful, I know, but I’m not picturing Danny when I finally close my eyes and let go of my fears. I’m thinking of Marc touching me, my face, my skin, my sex. I imagine myself on my knees with a bow around my neck, but it isn’t Danny’s cock I want in my mouth, it’s Marc’s. I want him to fuck me, hard. I want to serve him, only him.
I know I’m wrong to think this way. Which is why, when the first blow of the paddle lands, I feel completely schooled.
“One, Sir,” I manage.
The next blow strikes my other ass cheek, just as hard. I jerk but settle back into place. “Two, Sir.”
My cunt throbs with need. I think about Marc’s long fingers wrapped around the handle of the paddle. I imagine him wrapping them around his cock and stroking it, aroused by the sight of me bound before him.
“Three, Sir.”
The movie in my head continues to unspool. Marc, naked, pressed against my back, biting the neck I keep covered up with everyone else, even Danny.
“Four, Sir.” I’m starting to feel like I can come just from the fantasy, or maybe the fantasy plus his fingers on my clit. Oh, yeah, definitely his fingers.
“Five. Sir,” I groan. I imagine Marc’s cock is hot against the small of my back. I can see him reaching around with the paddle in one hand, the other hand free to pry open my pussy lips. He’s flicking my clit, then rubbing it, squeezing it. Before I can come, though, he’s sheathed the handle of the paddle with a condom and is using it as a dildo, teasing the flesh before pressing up, slowly, firmly filling me.
The final smack of the paddle jerks me back to the loft. “Six, Sir,” I whisper. I’m sore but that actually feels okay. It’s the emptiness that’s hard to bear, the longing of my flesh for his.
“Very pretty,” Marc says.
I open my eyes. He’s in front of me, scanning my body. As his gaze rises to my belly, my breasts, my neck, I have to look at the floor. I’m so afraid he’ll read my desire and somehow know I desperately crave his touch.
He releases my arms first, then my legs. He massages my wrists carefully, checking the skin for marks or redness. The massage goes up my arms, shoulders, neck. I keep my eyes downcast. I try to avoid the clinical detachment in his eyes, that expression that marks me as just another student. I don’t need the reminder that to him, I’m no more than “Tuesday at four.”
But I can’t suppress the quiver of desire I feel at his touch. I just pray he hasn’t noticed the goose bumps on my arms.
“Ah,” Marc says, so quietly I’m not sure I heard him. Maybe he just sucked in some air. Or he’s in pain. “Kneel down,” he says in a stronger voice.
I kneel on the plush towel he’s laid over the soft flooring. I arrange my body in the proper presentation position: knees apart, spine straight, shoulders back, eyes cast down, my hands palm-up on my thighs.
“Touch yourself.”
I’m just about to jerk my head around to gape at him when I catch myself. But that’s sex, and I thought we couldn’t do anything like this, not anything that could lead to orgasm. Even as I goggle at his command, I s
lip two fingers into my damp cleft. My body knows what to do and doesn’t need to be invited twice.
“What do you feel, Rachel?”
“I’m wet.” I’m wet for you, I mean.
“Your clitoris, how does that feel?”
“Huge. And…and hungry. Eager.” Desperate, actually. Is he really going to let me masturbate? And if he does, is that part of my training? I’m sure to come, hard if he lets me. I allow a little of my excitement to expand my chest. I’m hopeful but confused.
He trails a single finger from my hairline down my nape and along the ridge of my spine. I try to elongate my torso even more, pushing tentatively against his hand. The sensation of his skin on mine is electric, stimulating me beyond my ability to comprehend.
“I want you to come, but not yet,” he states in the same tone he uses when commenting on the weather.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe. I don’t move my fingers. Surely I require more instructions…?
He walks away from me, then comes back with a plastic package. He shows it to me: a dildo encased in a thick clear vacuum pouch. He pulls the two sides apart and presents the phallus to me without touching it.
“Use this. Don’t play with your clit yet.”
“Yes, Sir.” I sound happy. My eagerness to please him is feeding my need to come.
Marc walks over to the bare brick wall, maybe six feet away from me. He’s leaning against the wall with his legs crossed at the ankle. He’s trying to look relaxed, but something about his posture suggests the opposite. I don’t dare look at his face.
“Put the head in position, but don’t insert it yet.”
It’s a realistic dildo. I’ve no trouble imagining that it’s his cock I’m touching. I’m straddling his hips, poised to press down, to take him deep into my body. I shake with the effort not to ram it in.
“Slowly, Rachel.”
I push a little. It’s large, perfectly so. It hurts a little and that ratchets up my appetite, my longing.
“More.”
The head pushes against my G-spot and my thighs burn as I hold my position.
“Play with your nipples.”
They’re still clamped, so the moment I finger them—first the right, then the left—it’s like the Fourth of July. Explosions of pain and pleasure all at once. I moan.
“All the way in. Now.”
“Ah, oh, Marc.” I drive the dildo home, deep and hard. I no longer care if he can tell that I’m pretending it’s his cock, his hands at my tits, those long slender fingers brushing, squeezing, tugging. My ass clenches and lifts off my heels. I close my eyes so I can picture Marc between my knees, reaching up to play with my nipples, his brown eyes hot with arousal and firmly in control.
Yes. I want him. I want him to control me with his eyes, his touch, his cock, his needs. And his voice, that smooth accent and rich timbre. I can burn up simply from listening to his voice, but I want it all. I want him.
“Don’t come yet, Rachel.” His voice is close. “No. Don’t open your eyes.” I can feel his breath on my left ear.
Then his fingers are on my clit, for real, not just in my fantasy. I nearly lose it. As it is, every muscle goes tight. I have to press my lips together, biting them closed in an effort to control my response. I’m still fucking myself with the dildo and plucking at my nipple but now Marc is helping.
I make some noise, a whine almost, as I struggle against the orgasm pressing in on me. My body is quivering with the intensity of my looming climax.
“Now, chérie. Come now.”
I jerk, hard, as he does something extra special to my clit. Then I explode, the orgasm swamping me, drowning me, then tossing me back to the present. The loft. I open my eyes slowly.
Marc is supporting my back. It’s my fantasy, the part where he’s pressed against my back. Except that he’s dressed. And if he has an erection, I can’t feel it.
“Lean back.”
He undoes the clamps, then licks his fingertips and uses their dampness to soothe my sore nipples. I ache with a mixture of pain, elation and regret that Marc is still—will always be—only my instructor. I can’t stop my tears but I work hard not to sob.
“Shh.” He runs his palms all over my front, my arms, sides, hips and thighs. When I quiet down, he pulls away enough to release my hair from the clip. The strands tumble down my shoulders, covering my nape.
I’m still nude but I’m no longer naked. That gives me the strength I need to pretend I haven’t just had the best sex of my life. I pull in a deep breath, wipe my tears with the heels of my hands. Marc rises first and helps me up.
I stare at the floor. I don’t want to see his expression this time either. “Thank you,” I say softly.
“This man you’re dating…” he blurts out.
I glance at him. He’s frowning. I smooth my hair into place. “Yes?”
“Does he—I mean, is he good to you?”
I shake my head, not to answer no but because I don’t understand the question. “He’s okay, I guess.”
For the first time, Marc turns away. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”
I want to ask him what he means, but I don’t want to hear his answer. Because while I’m telling the truth, that I guess Danny is okay, I haven’t told the whole truth. Danny isn’t Marc, and he never will be.
Just three sessions, and I’m another of the crazed girls who imagine themselves in love with the luscious Marc Thibaud.
I shower, get dressed, pay Marc for the session and leave. When Danny calls me that evening, expecting me to rush over to his place, I invent a headache and say I’m staying home.
He’s okay but he’s not Marc.
*
I’m alone, waiting for her.
Three forty-five. I double-check my watch. Time has an elastic quality, stretching out painfully and then snapping back like a gunshot. I thought Tuesday would never come, and then it was noon, and now I wish I had the safety of the weekend back.
How can I face her after last week?
Fifteen minutes. I look down. No, thirteen minutes. Rachel Cooper is always on time, thoughtful, smiling that sunny smile when she’s buzzed in. Okay, I’ve only known her for three short sessions but even those six hours have stretched out to feel like a month, a year. She’s so delightful. A little shy at first, but then very serious about the lesson. She really wants to learn.
Pah. Who am I kidding? She pulls at me. I can’t get close enough to her. That makes sense, given that I’ve wanted to fuck her since halfway through the first lesson. I asked the standard questions, finishing up with why she thinks she’s submissive.
“Because I have this fantasy of being commanded to do things I secretly want to do, and being forced to experience heights I can’t get to on my own,” she admitted. Then she grinned, and I needed all my training not to order her to strip right there on the spot.
Instead, I memorized her face, the strength of her shoulders, the downy hair at the back of her neck. She’s soft and natural, with curvy hips and sultry breasts. Her hair is glossy and warm like crème caramel spilling over her shoulders when she moves. I have to clip it out of the way, I find it so distracting.
In the years since I uncollared Yvette, I haven’t wanted a sub of my own. But Rachel…Rachel makes me want to claim again the responsibility of the Dom to ensure a sub’s satisfaction, pleasure, happiness. To give her everything she wants and needs, including control and security. Safety.
It’s been so long, though. When I left France, I thought I’d left that behind, as though a full-time sub was a peculiarly Gallic experience. Here in New York, I go to a private BDSM club when I want sex.
Only I haven’t been to the club in—I do a hasty check of my mental calendar—just about a month. Not since Rachel. This is not good. She’s a student. She’s my student.
The possessive resonates. Mine. Oh God.
Ten minutes. The sweep-second hand makes delicate little judders, always forward, always moving toward four o’clo
ck. I walk over to the window, looking down at the street. I don’t see anyone with oak-cask hair. I sit at the desk only to stare at the computer.
Why her? Why of all the women who come to the atelier do I latch on to her? Because her boyfriend is a jerk? Ginny’s said what a crummy guy he is, but I’m resisting taking Ginny’s word for it because, well, who knows where these things come from. Rachel has a fight with this guy, confides in Ginny, Ginny takes Rachel’s side so I hear what a schmuck he is and who tells his version? Although nothing Rachel has said since makes the man sound like anything other than an ass.
But then, I wouldn’t think anyone is good enough for her, would I?
Another rush of the Dom’s need to protect surges through me, making my fingers curl. Why does some asshole get to continue the work I’ve started? Rachel is so lovely when she submits. No man deserves that much grace but at least I earned it. He’s going to get it as a gift. Merde.
Six minutes.
I can’t stand my desk another moment. It’s spread thick with the research for my dissertation. I’m due to defend in a few months, so I’m just polishing the thing to death. My advisor says he’s happy with the progress and confident that the university will confer a doctorate in psychology on me with no argument. Once I have the degree, I’ll have choices. I can go back to France. I can find a job in the States. Because Maman is American I have dual citizenship. I can’t be kicked out when my studies are done, no matter what the American immigration officials say.
The clock on the wall of the loft says it’s time. I check my watch—the same. I take a deep breath, but it’s no good. She’ll be here in a few seconds, and I haven’t begun to prepare for it, for our last session. I’ve got a list of things I can do with her, some shibari, some hot-and-cold stimulation. The usual fourth-session material, if a student does as well as Rachel has.
The curriculum isn’t what’s worrying me. I’m not her Dom. I’m her instructor. Her pleasure, her orgasms are not mine to control, to orchestrate. Not mine to enjoy. What I’m not supposed to do is touch her, not in that way. And yet that’s all I’ve been able to think about for a week. Touching her, arousing her, satisfying her and, yes, fucking her.
Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire Page 5