by Cara McKenna
“I’m so ready,” he murmured. There was no pressure in the statement. No request. The thought that my presence was linked to this man’s arousal felt like a miracle. And the idea that I could have him, if I wanted…
“Come closer,” I said.
He stood from the bed and stepped forward a pace, keeping just far enough away that our eyes couldn’t meet above the screen. He dropped his shorts and kicked them aside. As he pleasured his cock, his other hand caressed his belly and chest, all the places I longed to touch myself.
“I’d like to watch you bathe sometime,” I told him. Warm, soapy water dripping down his abdomen, between his legs…
“You can have anything you want.”
What I wanted right then surprised me. I wanted to be close to him.
“Go back to the bed, please.”
He did as I asked and I watched him for another minute or two. A strong, hard, pantingly horny man is a marvelous creature, everything the gender ought to be…yet so frequently isn’t, in this day and age. This was how Didier looked when he was by himself. Who did he think of, when he did this?
His groans grew harsher, driving the bad thought away and drawing my attention back where it should be.
I stood and skirted the shade, intending simply to move it aside. But my fear was gone so I let my body lead me, and it led me to sit right next to him on the edge of the bed and watch from close up. His lids looked leaden as he turned his face to me. I could have kissed him, I’m sure. I even leaned in, but when we made contact it was forehead to forehead. Yet it felt more personal than any kiss I’d ever experienced, more explicit by miles. His skin was hot and damp, breath sweet from the wine and scratchy with arousal. The moment was nothing like I’d feared. It was nervous but somehow natural. Sweet. I nestled against his shoulder and watched his hand, wondering what his cock must feel like…surely as hot as the cheek pressed to mine. But I wasn’t ready for the tease to end and real exploration to begin.
The smell of his sex was something I hadn’t anticipated. Heady and dark as rum, dark as his eyes and brows and the tidily trimmed hair between his legs.
He pulled away an inch to whisper, “What do you want from me?”
“Keep going. Until you absolutely have to…”
He nodded, and even in the candlelight I could see how pink his lips and ears and cheeks were. His cock was flushed as well, his shaft dark against his stroking hand. It was a revelation to know his arousal was so real, when I’d imagined his experience must have turned him into a cold machine, going through the motions.
I thought, I could kiss this man, so easily.
Just as easily, I could discover all the things I’ve denied myself. I could find out what a hard cock feels like against my palm, what it tastes like, how it feels to have a man in my mouth. What it’s like to have Didier above me, sliding inside me. What it feels like, the first time. If you’re really turned-on, it’s not supposed to hurt very much. No problem there. What would it be like, to feel his cock rushing in and out? And how would I feel to him? Does it actually feel different with a virgin?
“Have you ever done this… Has a woman come to you, I mean, who’s a virgin?”
He nodded, lost in his own pleasure or the struggle to keep from losing it.
“Does it feel different?”
“Every woman feels different.”
“Oh.” Another good answer.
“I know if you decided you wanted me,” he said, “you would feel amazing.”
Fuck, that melted me. If I decided I wanted him. As if his wanting me were beyond speculation. Maybe it was even true. Maybe I was one of his prettier and younger clients. Maybe he’d even have smiled at me, had we met in line at a café and not under these strange circumstances.
I tried to imagine what other women might come here to do… To have a beautiful man kneel between their legs, take them roughly on this stately old bed, or ride his hard cock until they got their fill. He’d said nothing was off-limits. I imagined him tied down, or doing the tying. Getting spanked or doling out that punishment. He was whatever that evening’s client wanted, and right now, he was exactly mine, intuitively guiding my experience. I wondered what else he’d know I wanted, before I knew it myself.
“I’m imagining you,” he whispered.
My heart stopped, tangled in what he’d said. “What are you thinking about?”
“Imagining what you might have me do to you. Maybe undress you here on this bed. Taste your mouth and neck, and your breasts. Your sex.”
“I don’t know what I want yet.”
“I can’t wait to help you find out.”
Oh, but he could wait, surely. I bet no one can delay gratification like Didier Pedra.
“Do you like being watched?” I asked.
“I like pleasing a woman, so yes. I like the way you watch me.” His eyes were nearly closed, voice shallow and strained. “You still want this?”
“Yes.” So badly I prayed it would never end. “Would you stand? In front of me?”
Didier got to his feet and it felt precisely how I’d hoped with his body looming, just the slightest streak of intimidation warming me. I glanced at the little bottles beside his bed.
“Do you ever use any of those?” I asked, pointing.
“I do. Would you like that now?”
“Please.”
He reached for the largest bottle and lifted the sphere from its top, drawing out a glass wand and dripping a measure of clear liquid onto his palm. I recognized the smell—mineral oil.
“Slowly,” I said, surprised again by this new ability to make demands.
He obeyed, running his cupped hand along the underside of his shaft with perfect control. Next he smoothed the oil over the base, drawing his fist halfway up, then back down. With each stroke he came closer to the head, until his entire length shone in the dancing light.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes, wonderful.” His hips joined the motion of his hand, thrusting his cock into his grip. Arousal obliterated a dam inside me, flooding me with heat and urgency.
I rose to stand at his side and study him from every angle. He seemed to understand what I wanted from this show, intensifying the movements. With his free hand he reached up and clasped the canopy rail, leaning forward to emphasize everything that had me so mesmerized. He held his fist still, fucking it with his cock and letting loose a deep groan. The sound sucked the breath from my lungs. I circled to the back, imagining this vision—the undulations of these strong hips and ass and shoulders—was how he’d look, taking me.
With a shallow, fearful inhalation, I reached out and touched him, trailing my fingertips down his spine. He moaned from the contact and I pulled away, but only for a moment. When I touched him again, I let myself linger. His skin was hot, as though he’d been standing in front of a fire, and damp with the finest sheen of perspiration. I traced the crests of his jutting shoulder blades, then down his back to his hip. Beneath my palm I felt the strength in his muscle and I marveled simply to be touching a man this way. To be touching a man this flawless. It was a glorious crime, like breaching security to stroke my palm over Starry Night and memorize its luscious brushstrokes.
As I rounded him, I dragged my palm across his lower back. I admired the flex of his arm, with my eyes as well as my touch. How extraordinary, that this was actually happening to me, that I was allowed to enjoy the most beautiful man I’d ever seen and he couldn’t break my heart.
I went back to the bed, kneeling on the mattress in front of him. As he fucked his fist, I mustered the nerve to touch his face. His gaze, half-mast though it was, felt too intense.
“Close your eyes.”
He did.
I memorized his cheekbones and the rasp of his stubble, the shapes of his ears and nose. I held his jaw, awed by how real he was. How he could look this astonishing yet still be flesh and blood. I rose enough to graze my closed lips against his lower one, not quite a kiss.
“I’m close,” he whis
pered. The words brushed our lips together, the most potent and personal caress I believe I’ve ever felt.
“I don’t want it to end yet.”
He nodded.
“Can you stop now, or are you too close?”
“I can stop.” And he did. He straightened, chest and belly rising and falling with each harsh breath.
“Could I watch you bathe?”
“Of course.”
“When you’re ready, I mean.”
He smiled at that. “Thank you.” He ran his hands through his hair and gulped a few inhalations, until his composure returned.
“That was… That was exactly what I wanted,” I told him.
“Good.”
I felt myself blushing but continued anyway. “Does it make any difference, that it’s me here with you when you were doing that?”
“Of course.” He met my gaze and as intense as it was, I welcomed it. “Everything I did was for you. Every thought that ran through my mind was of you. And it thrills me to be the only man you’ve watched, that way.”
The blush raged to a full-blown fire. “Oh.”
“Whatever you desire tonight, I want to be the one who gives it to you.”
I felt too many things, at that moment—lust and awe, and a romantic thrill quickly eclipsed as my traitorous, annoying brain reminded me we were only together because I was paying him. But the illusion felt too good for the ugly thoughts to win. That’s the magic of Didier—he lets you believe this romance is real. Because for the six hours you’ve reserved with him, it is.
“You want to watch me bathe now?”
I nodded.
“Come.”
I followed him to an adjacent, tiny bathroom, lit by the clear bulbs framing the cabinet mirror. This is a garret, I’ll remind you, so don’t imagine he has an actual tub, merely a shower cubicle. But it’s an elegant little nook, tiled in teal and turquoise and indigo, with antique copper fixtures. I took a seat on the wooden lid of his toilet and marveled at how close his naked body was. He got the water running, leaving the glass door wide open.
For whatever reason, this seemed more intimate than sitting beside him on his bed. There was his shampoo bottle, a brand I’d seen in the drugstore a hundred times. On the sink, the razor he shaved with—however infrequently—his toothbrush, his comb. All of these things felt more explicit than his bare cock, perhaps because they negated the illusion. He’s an actual man, and I’d been invited into this, his actual home.
“How hot do you want the water?” he asked me.
I balked a moment, worried he thought I wanted to join him.
“Choose for me,” he elaborated.
“Oh.” It felt like an odd request, but when I rose and put my hand under the flow, it made perfect sense. Did I want him to be warm and comfortable? Cold and tense? Scalded to within a gasp of fainting? I opted for the temperature I like myself, hot but not too hot. I took my seat.
“Thank you,” he said, and stepped inside.
I don’t know what it is about a man in the shower… His eyes shut and his dark hair turned black as the water cascaded over his face and shoulders, down his chest and stomach and legs, slipping from his oiled cock. My pulse sped as he took a bar of soap from a tray, turning it around and around. He taunted me until the lather was thick and dripping from his hands. His eyes opened, holding me hostage.
He slicked a palm across his throat, his shoulder, down his arm. As he stroked his chest, the suds slid down the crests of his abdomen and between his legs. He broke eye contact to turn, letting me watch as he soaped his hair and his elegant back. He slicked lather between his ass cheeks with a slow, explicit sensuality. The caress unleashed strange, taboo possibilities in my head, ones that had never held much interest for me before that precise moment.
He turned to face me again, leaning back against the tile with his feet braced at shoulder-width. For what felt like ages he soaped his chest and neck and stomach, before he finally slid his hands lower. Those dangerous eyes closed as he cupped his balls, fondling and lingering, the filthiest act of ablution I’ve ever seen.
After a few more slippery turns of the bar in his hands, he lathered his cock.
“Good,” I murmured.
He didn’t touch himself as he had on the bed. This was for me, first and foremost, not merely a voyeuristic glimpse at private acts. He gave himself long, lazy strokes, as if he knew exactly what I wanted—to savor every wet, glistening square inch of his bare body.
“Tell me what you think I want,” I said. “Not just tonight. But eventually.”
Eyes still closed, he paused before he spoke. “I think you want me to take you.”
“How?”
I could have sworn his fist gripped tighter, his strokes no longer a show meant only for me, but pleasure for himself. “Slow,” he said. “Slow at first.”
“Where?”
“In my bed. You want me on top.”
My throat and pussy tightened.
“You want to be taken, your first time,” he went on. “You need to be passive before you can feel ready to take for yourself. When you trust my body, then you’ll explore.”
“Explore how?”
“Find out what it feels like, to have a man in your mouth.”
“That usually comes first, doesn’t it? Before the actual sex?”
He smiled to himself. “That is actual sex. And yes, it does often come first, but I don’t think it should.”
“No?”
“No. I think that act is more explicit than mere fucking.”
I shivered, wondering if maybe I shared this view.
“To trust someone when you can barely see their eyes,” he murmured. “To give up your own comfort and control and take pleasure in their commands, their experience. And for the one who receives, the vulnerability of being seen so close up, smelled and tasted.”
“I never thought about it like that. It always seemed like…like the thing you do between fooling around and going all the way.”
“It can be, if you like. But it isn’t to me.” His brown eyes finally opened. “When sexual pleasure loses its mutuality, that’s when the fear and the trust emerge. That’s real intimacy. To me.”
I was being offered lessons on real intimacy from a man who fucks for money, yet I was inclined to subscribe. Then again, with that deep and nasty-sexy accent, Didier could tell me how to strip wallpaper or press flowers and I’d still be riding on the brink of orgasm.
“I like that,” I told him. “Your views about it all.”
“This is just what I’ve learned from the women I’ve been with. When you leave here, I’ll have learned something from you as well, I’m sure.”
I found that hard to believe…I’m the least sexually experienced woman I know. But the way he said it had me wanting to believe it, which was enough.
“You’ll teach me what it’s like to get a private woman to open up, perhaps.”
“I hope so. I’d like to learn that, myself.”
“What else would you like to learn?”
“Well, how to be with a man, I guess.”
He gave me a strange, crooked smile. “You want me to teach you how to be a good lover?”
“Maybe. Well, no. Not really. I just want to know all the things I should by now…what it’s like to touch a man, what everything feels like.”
“I can only teach you what it will be like between you and I.”
You and I. I could’ve sighed aloud at that concept, the two of us encapsulated as a couple. “Then that’s what I’d like to learn. At my own pace.”
“At your pace,” he agreed.
Didier’s own pace had me hypnotized—the slippery, gliding pulls that had his cock looking so hot and thick. How would I want it to be, when I touched him for the first time? Who would be above whom, or how could it be made equitable? I thought perhaps I’d like to touch him as we kissed…or did I want both our pairs of eyes on my hand, his cock? I was already trapped in the worries o
f what would come, wasting the magic of the present.
“Are you enjoying this?” he asked me.
“I am. But I’m making myself anxious, thinking about whatever’s going to happen next.”
“Did you think when you first arrived that we’d come this far?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“What happens will happen, exactly the way it’s meant to.”
As I nodded, I truly believed him.
“All you need to do is be honest with yourself and with me about what you want. You’ve done that perfectly so far.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you wanting?” he asked. “Right now?”
“I think I want to touch you. But not here. Maybe on your couch.”
He released his cock and set the soap aside. As he rinsed his magnificent body, he said, “Then we will go to the couch and find out if that is meant to be.”
I preceded him to the living room, turning on a dim reading lamp and refilling our glasses while Didier dressed. He joined me on the couch in his pants, his shirt unbuttoned, to my great delight. He accepted his glass and took a deep drink, staring at me over the rim.
“So,” I said.
“So. You are pleased with how this is going?”
“Very. You’ve made me way more comfortable than I’d guessed was possible.”
“Good.”
I leaned a bit closer, addressing his chest. “You’re very intuitive. What else do you think I want, tonight?”
“I think you want to control when I come. You want to feel some control, but also feel safe. Passive.”
“I think you’re right.”
“You’ve seen that before, I’m sure. A man pleasuring himself? Coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you enjoy watching? Videos? Or looking at pictures?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been curious enough to check them out, but I don’t really enjoy it for more than a minute or two. I’m never attracted to the men, and I don’t want to see the other women, in case I catch myself comparing myself to them.”
“I think you’re possessive, maybe?”
“I think I’m too fussy. And I think I’ve spent too much time in my own head, imagining things I’ll never be able to have, and no one in real life could ever live up to my ideas.”