Craving

by Cara McKenna

  The next item that draws my eye is a fabric box, not unlike the kind that a pair of steel meditation balls might come in. I undo its brass latch and metal does indeed wink at me in the candlelight, though it takes me a second or two to realize what the objects are.

  There’s a glass one and several in copper and steel, different sizes. In this felt-lined box they seem like chess pieces, but even a sexual neophyte like me knows better. I wish I knew whatever the French term for these is, as anything is bound to sound more elegant than “butt plug”.

  I turn one around in each hand, liking the weight of a copper one particularly.

  “Do you know what those are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you curious?”

  “I think so.” The idea of heterosexual anal sex makes me cagey. It used to strike me as a misogynist’s appetite, though since Didier began educating me, my old prudish opinions have softened. Plus, I think, studying the plug, these don’t scare me. “They’re pretty.”

  “My little magpie,” he teases.

  “Do you use these too?”

  “I do.”

  “Because a woman asks for it, or just because it feels good, or…?”

  “Both.”

  “Huh. Which size is good for, you know. A beginner?”

  He reaches over and draws a shiny steel one from the box, handing it to me. The base is spherical, the insertion end shaped like the kind of oversized Christmas bulb you put in a fake window candle, only a little smaller. It has a pleasing heft to it, and I set it with the paddle and scarves. “What about for yourself?”

  He sorts through the choices, as one might deliberate over a sampler of chocolates. I’m handed a copper one—a bit bigger, but nothing crazy.

  Didier eyes my pile of goodies and smiles. “Ambitious.”

  I suppose it is. But as well as I’ve done keeping my jealousy at bay, knowing the man I love fucks other women… Suddenly faced with a chest full of things he doesn’t get to enjoy with me, a competitive female gland has become enflamed.

  I doubt I’ll ever be some wild, insatiable nympho. I’ve got much too noisy a brain for that. But I’d like to be adventurous, open to things, and Didier’s very easy to be open with. Deep in my insecure heart, I want to be as good a lover to him as I can be, so if by some astounding feat of witchcraft he should ever want to be mine, just mine, I can feel confident that settling for me doesn’t mean he’s giving up anything he likes in bed. Though that’s impossible, since he’s probably done just about everything, short of some real Marquis de Sade-level shit. Still, I want to aim high, and yes, I am feeling ambitious.

  I close and latch the box and set it in the chest.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “I think we’ve got plenty to start with.”

  “I’d add two things, if you would permit me.”

  I raise my eyebrows, curious, but he doesn’t lean forward for the chest. Instead he leaves the bed altogether, disappearing from the bedroom. I hear him in the kitchen, the faucet running, then the clicking of a gas burner before it lights. Perhaps he’s boiling water to sterilize some special toy?

  He returns empty-handed and rifles through the chest, setting a satin sleep mask beside me with a smile. The chest is shut and returned to its place, and he leaves again. I toy with the mask’s elastic strap, faking patience while he putters in the kitchen for another two or three minutes. There’s the low whistle of the kettle, a crinkling noise, then silence. Finally he returns, though the steaming mug in his hand doesn’t do much to solve the mystery.

  I squint at the tag dangling from its rim. “Is that some kind of aphrodisiac tea or something?”

  “It’s peppermint.”

  “Oh.”

  Without explanation, he sets it on the table near the condoms and tosses a clean towel on the foot of the bed. He sits, hands clasped atop his shins, and I shuffle around to face him. His smile is slow and warm, melting away my lingering misgivings. He’s excited. My calm, unflappable lover looks like a boy ready to open his presents and a grin hijacks my lips too.

  “I have no clue what I’m doing,” I remind him, gesturing at the pile. “Do you mind leading?”

  “Of course not.”

  I expect my sensitive sex coach to preamble our game with his usual reassuring wisdom, but he doesn’t. Instead he gets to his knees and crawls to me, urging me to lie back.

  My heart swells, growing heavy and hot between my ribs. There’s his familiar weight and warmth above me, the gentle shove of his legs spreading mine and driving my dress up. Somewhere in my body I’m excited, but another sensation is stronger. He tucks his forearms to my ribs and it occurs to me, as it so often does, that this is my man. Maybe he’s not my boyfriend, maybe he’s not only mine to kiss and caress and sleep beside, but he’s the one I want, and the one I get, strings or no. The most handsome, elegant, kind man I’ve ever met, and he wants to be with me.

  I hug my calves to his hips and accept his kiss. He feels so right, I actually could cry. I feel the sting behind my nose. I spent my entire adulthood terrified of good-looking men because the pain of wanting one—of loving one—and being rejected or discarded would surely destroy me. Now I have one, and he wants me back. It’ll hurt when things end. It’ll hurt if he’s the one to end them. The pain will be as terrible as the pleasure has been exquisite, but I don’t want to spend my life missing out on pleasure just to avoid pain. It’s no way to live. Like never feeling the sun on your face because you can’t bear to risk getting rained on.

  Rain dries. Heartache fades. The sun shines, whether you’re outside or not. You may as well tilt your head up and enjoy it while it lasts.

  Inside my body, the warm sun is setting, a mischievous moon rising. Our sweet kisses deepen and darken and Didier presses close, brushing his erection against my pubic bone. I cup his face and welcome his tongue, dig my heels into his ass in time with the thrusts I want. He gives them, rubbing me through my panties and his slacks, long drags that remind me how big he is, how hard he gets, how it feels when I welcome him inside. How he sounds and smells and tastes. How much he wants me.

  He wants me.

  I slip my hand between us, letting his stiff length stroke my palm as he keeps his hips working. When I squeeze, the softest moan interrupts our kiss.

  He speaks against my mouth. “Let me undress you.”

  “Of course.”

  He drops back on his knees and I sit up, arching so he can draw the zipper down my spine. I lay back and his dark eyes dart as he eases the dress over my shoulders, down my arms, exposing my bare breasts. His lips part. The stretchy fabric skims my belly and he slides it from my hips. I tuck my legs up and he strips it away along with my underwear. They were cute panties, new ones, but he’ll see them some other night.

  He covers my naked body with his clothed one, teasing my skin with a whisper of cotton, the kiss of buttons, the cool press of his belt buckle. The hot, hard insistence of his cock behind his fly.

  His lips and tongue trace my throat, his moans hot and low. In French he tells me, “I want you. So much.”

  “I want you.” I’ve never not wanted him. Even in the moments when he frustrates me, I would never wish I were elsewhere. He’s a hundred things to a hundred women, a different pretty bauble reflecting their unique tastes. But he’s my kaleidoscope. I want to keep turning him, discovering new patterns, seeing him through new eyes.

  “Show me the things other women want from you.” And what you want from them, so I can be everything. So I can maybe, just maybe, be enough.

  Without a word he leaves the bed, standing before me in the low light. I sit up. A button is freed, exposing a slice of his chest, then another. Two more and the shirt falls away. My hearts speeds as it always does in the face of beauty, how I imagine a hunter’s pulse races when he spots a buck, how a wine lover’s mouth tingles as she twists the corkscrew. Didier opens his belt with those deft, capable fingers, sheds his trousers and kicks them aside.
His cock is hugged in the boxer briefs he favors, a single spot of wetness darkening the cloud-gray silk.

  He’s more perfect than any man has a right to be. I suspected as much the moment I laid eyes on a photo of him. Now that I’ve made him laugh, kissed him as he slept, soothed him as he trembled in a crumpled, heaving heap…now I know it.

  There’s no show tonight. No teasing strokes of his hidden cock to make me crazy with impatience. He strips his shorts and joins me on the bed, guiding us onto our sides and locking our legs. He’s stiff and ready at the crease of my thigh, but we touch each other’s faces and hair, taste each other’s mouths for five minutes or more. The space between our chests grows warm and damp, and he breaches it to graze his palm over my breast. My nipple draws tight, my breath coming short. He tugs me closer by the hip, belly to belly, then his hand cups my butt. He kneads me there, traces the cleft softly.

  “Do as I do,” he says.

  I stroke his ass, as firm as mine is soft. When he rubs, I rub. When his nails rasp, mine rasp. When his fingertips slip between my cheeks I do the same to him, and it smoothes the edges of the anxiety I knew I’d feel. He’s touched me there before, just casual glances as he gave me head. I’ve never touched him that way, but when his fingers find the spot, I mirror them. A warm sigh heats my lips and the last of my nerves dissolve. We’re two people, two bodies giving and receiving equally.

  His caress turns firmer, more focused. I mimic it. Because he’s taking pleasure in this, I can relax and do the same. His hips flex, stroking his cock against my belly and guiding my touch. His moans are deep and needy, and I let myself imagine the things that unnerve me. I picture how his face might look as someone violates him, eyes shut tight in the pleasure-pain of taboo, mouth open, brow drawn.

  It’s not so wrong, I think. Or maybe it is so wrong—so wrong it might be hot.

  He stops us suddenly. I study his cock when he peels our sweat-sticky bodies apart, and it looks as hard and flushed as I’ve ever seen. His muscles clench as he twists behind to grab a bottle from the table. With its eyedropper he drips mineral oil onto my fingertips, then his. He’s lost his grace, setting the bottle down with a sharp knock and pulling me close, rougher than before.

  “I want more,” he breathes. I’m unsure which he wants more of—touching me there or being touched, but I don’t care. I love when his civility cracks and I catch glimpses of the animal prowling underneath.

  I wait for his lead. I feel embarrassed and intimidated by his slippery fingers, roaming in such a personal place. But only for a moment. I do the same to him and there’s no spotlight on me anymore. I’m not having things done to me. What we do, we do together. When I feel the pressure of his fingertip, I take as deep a breath as I can and give him the same.

  I’m grateful my lover’s no roughneck with raspy palms or ragged nails. Didier’s calluses are small and few and peculiar from his watchmaker’s tools, but the pad of the finger seeking entrance is smooth, as dutifully manicured as every other bit of its polished owner.

  He drives his thigh deeper between mine, opening us both a little wider. There’s cool air where there shouldn’t be, and a slick, demanding fingertip. But there’s also Didier, breathing heavily, moaning softly. He’s composed for all those other women, a master performer, but for me he’s just a horny, needy man. I flush at the notion, feeling drunk, and drive my own finger a bit deeper.

  My breath catches when he starts to penetrate. It feels…strange. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel good either. Just…bizarre. He doesn’t push in any farther but moves his fingertip gently with the tiniest of twists.

  “How is it?” he whispers.

  “Different.”

  “It’s a better garnish than a main course, I find.”

  “How does it feel to you?” I ask.

  He smiles deeply and kisses me. “It feels wicked.”

  We kiss more, heavy and hungry and thorough, and he’s right—when it’s not foremost on my mind, the things our fingers are up to aren’t nearly as unnerving.

  After a few minutes of play he asks, “Ready?”

  For what, I’m not clear. But I’ve learned that he often knows before I do what I’m ready for, so I murmur my consent.

  He turns away, then hands me the bottle to hold while he grabs the two plugs from my pile. I watch as he oils the bulb of the small one, and I do the same to the larger copper one. He sets the oil aside and brings us back together in our tangle of legs.

  The metal is cool between my cheeks, eerie in its perfect smoothness. I press when he presses and our breathing hitches together. Still no pain, just cold, hard, alien weirdness. He makes a sound, a sharp moan of surprise or discomfort.

  “Okay?”

  His sigh tells me I misread. “Yes. Keep going.”

  He’s more relaxed than I am, and more aroused. With a final push, his body welcomes my intrusion.

  “Good,” he murmurs. His hips begin to shift in small thrusts, rubbing his cock against my mound and belly, sliding the sphere at the plug’s base against my fingers. His reactions distract me, turn me on and take me out of my own body. With a sudden, subtle popping sensation, I accept his entrance.

  “Ooh.”

  His turn to ask, “Okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” The anxiety of the penetration’s done and now it’s just a curious presence back there. I feel vaguely as though I need to use the bathroom, but I don’t share the thought.

  “Now put it out of your mind,” he tells me. “I’ll show you how it’s meant to be enjoyed.”

  He pulls away, coaxing me to lie on my back. With a hand towel, he wipes the oil from his fingers and passes it to me to do the same. Next he gives me the sleep mask. The satin blocks everything but the faintest corona of candlelight.

  “Now hold out your wrists for me.”

  I do as he says and more slippery silk glides across my skin.

  “We’re only playing tonight,” he tells me. His voice sounds different somehow, with my eyes covered. Deeper. Closer. “I’m only tying this in a bow, so you’ll have no trouble freeing yourself if you wish to.”

  I feel a tug as my wrists meet.

  “Put your hands above your head and pretend I’ve tied them down.”

  I do, my knuckles resting against the headboard. I fist a bit of the bedding to feel anchored.

  For a long moment, there’s perfect stillness and silence. I know he’s there. I’d have felt him leave the bed.

  “Didier?”

  “I’m just looking at you.” I hear awe in his voice—reverence of the dirtiest sort. For a breath I tense, intimidated. Then his warm hands are on my ankles, calves, my knees, then spreading my thighs. Without sight, every sensation echoes.

  “You look like a present,” he murmurs. “Wrapped up for me.” His palms slip beneath my butt and I feel his weigh shift on the bed. The forgotten plug asserts itself as he nudges my thighs wider. In the isolating dark, I feel his breath as starkly as I do his hands. It warms my sex in steaming bursts.

  He makes a sound, a small grunt of decadent disbelief. My legs twitch at the first hot lap of his tongue, and when my inner muscles clench from the arousal they find the toy there, with its odd but admittedly exciting resistance. He kisses my clit just as he might my lips. Gentle, fluttery caresses to start, then more aggressive. He moans as he lowers his mouth to my folds. He loves doing this as I’d never guessed a man would, as though it’s his absolute favorite thing. Twice he’s begged for nothing but this—me on my back and he on his knees, his mouth between my legs, his weight braced on one forearm as he strokes himself into a frenzy with his free hand. For some men I imagine it’s a means to an end, an admission fee for access to the main event. For Didier it is the main event.

  Suddenly he’s gone—cool, dry air where his warm mouth and hands had been. He doesn’t leave the bed, but there’s movement. He’s getting another toy, I think. The paddle? That scares me a little, not having a visual warning before it lands.


  But then he’s between my legs again, and when his tongue laps my labia it’s hot. I gasp and his lips wrap my clit in the same heat. It fades soon enough, and in its wake my sensitive skin tingles. Peppermint. I shiver.

  “Do that again.”

  He makes a smug noise and I can picture his smile perfectly. “I’m going to set the mug on a book, beside us. So try not to thrash.”

  More moving around then finally that scalding kiss again. Jesus, it feels good. A pause, another treat. My thighs tremble and I can feel an orgasm growing with every searing swipe of his tongue.

  “You like that,” he whispers between sips.

  I start to reach down to hold his head, but I’ve forgotten the scarves that bind my hands.

  “No,” he tells me. I put them back down. I can hear the blessed impatience of arousal in his voice and the next time his mouth spoils me, the slick strokes come harder, faster. There’s a cruelty brewing in him, one I trust implicitly.

  “You like that,” he tells me again, in a meaner voice than before. “I like that too.” More moving, then, “Tilt your head up.”

  I do, and I feel the warm rim of the mug. He tips hot tea past my lips, a bit running down my chin. I hold the rest in, warming my mouth. The mug is gone, more movement, unseen body parts at my armpits. Knees, I imagine. When he speaks, his voice seems to come from high above.

  “Open up.”

  I swallow and do as he says. The crown of his cock feels cool against my hot lips and I can feel the groan as it vibrates down through his body. The headboard creaks under his braced weight, and he cradles my head in one hand, pushing inside.

  “Oh. Good.”

  He gives me more, though not too much. Not enough to gag me or obstruct my breath, but plenty to trigger a dark, exciting rush. I felt it a couple of weeks ago, when he pretended to force himself on me. It makes me wish my hands really were tied.

  He draws his cock from my mouth, panting. “You’re hot for me elsewhere.”

  “Yes.”

  The warmth of his body leaves me, and I hear things being set aside and the crinkle of plastic. I picture how he rolls the condom down his cock. I’ve watched it dozens of times now and it never fails to thrill me. His hands on his own body in the candlelight… The very first night we met, he spoiled me with such a sight, the realization of years of theorizing.