Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  The barman brings us drinks. I’m so wound up. Waiting. And nothing’s happening.

  ‘Sip your drink slowly,’ she advises. ‘You won’t be getting another while you’re in here. And you may be in here for some time.’

  She settles down, stretching out her long legs next to me, kicking off several cushions in the process. In the absence of anything else to look at, I look at the shiny black, spiked heels and all the holes woven with long laces. They are stereotypically sexy. And sleazy. Worn by women who wield whips and other implements of torture. Then I look at her creamy thighs jutting out the tops of the boots. They look so soft, so inviting. My eyes move further up. I feel a flicker of annoyance that the space between her thighs is bathed in shadow before I continue my appraisal. Her wide hips are partially obscured by her black, longline corset that makes her waist so tiny in comparison.

  Then, the corset’s pièce de résistance, those huge, soft breasts that look so barely contained, threatening to burst forth with every breath she takes, yet do not escape even when she leans forward. Locks of black hair make a startling contrast as they lie against her creamy skin—one of which curls enticingly into her ample cleavage. The temptation to lean forward and pull it out is resisted only by my fear of overstepping the mark. She’s my therapist; she’s not interested in me sexually. That doesn’t stop my cock from pushing against my jeans. Maybe, because she’s unobtainable, that makes her even more desirable. My cock jerks wildly, confirming my suspicion.

  And yet, as my eyes meet hers and I find myself blushing, caught in the act of admiring her body, she smiles in what is unmistakably a provocative manner. She leans closer to me, her eyes twinkling. She knows what she does to me. Briefly I wonder whether it’s appropriate behaviour for a therapist to provoke her client so brazenly but, before I can consider it, she speaks.

  ‘Oh, one more thing. You are undoubtedly going to get a raging erection at least once during the evening’s proceedings. Firstly, don’t be embarrassed. You’d have to be inhuman not to, surrounded by horny individuals openly engaging in all manner of sexual acts. Secondly, feel free to take yourself in hand. Literally.’

  She laughs and those massive tits shake. I stare at them hungrily, willing them to burst out of their confines but they don’t. I feel robbed. I want to lean forward and pull the fucking thing down, just so I can see them in all their glory. I want to know what her nipples look like. I imagine them. Huge. Dark. Puckered. Tempting.

  Fuck! My cock’s solid and it keeps twitching so bad it’s making me uncomfortable. I shift in an attempt to release some of the pressure.

  It’s only then that her words hit home.

  She expects me to wank myself off? Here? In front of her? In front of strangers?

  I feel my cock lurch again. My mouth falls open as I process that little gem.

  My cock is telling me that I like the idea of wanking in front of people.

  It lurches and throbs. My hand moves involuntarily to cover it. I have no idea why. Part of me wants to shield it from her knowing eyes. Another part of me wants to grab a hold of it and choke the fucking thing stupid.

  Her voice makes me jump.

  ‘Don’t suffer. Don’t be a martyr to your cock. Let it free. Embrace it. You find my body attractive. You find being here with me intoxicating. I’m not going to fuck you tonight. And it’s only going to get worse. Much worse. If I hadn’t been taken care of, just before you arrived, I might be rubbing one out alongside you. Hell, I still might. The only one suffering if you don’t release the pressure is you.’

  I feel like telling her to look away so that I can. But I don’t speak. I just nod and hope that she either lets it drop or that my cock starts to behave. I mean, getting turned on by the idea of wanking in public is one thing. Actually doing it . . . now that’s something altogether different.

  I can’t help but hope she gets turned on enough to masturbate though. Although I think I’d probably come in my pants without even laying a finger on myself if she did.

  My cock’s lurching around so much at the thought of her, seeing to herself, right here next to me that I’m surprised it’s not seasick.

  I’m grateful for the distraction when wall lights, positioned all around the room, flicker to life. Gradually, their brightness increases enough to illuminate people entering the room and reclining on other beds and sofas. It’s still fairly dark in here, except for those pools of light. A music track starts playing quietly—one I can’t place but it’s throbbing with bass and expectation.

  Nobody’s taken any notice of us, lying there in the middle of the room. They act as though they’re the only couple or group in the room, not interacting with any others. They sit or recline and seem to be chatting quietly, although I can’t hear what’s being said.

  I begin to feel a little bored. This wasn’t what I was promised. So much for worrying about my cock exploding . . . it’s long since lost interest. I sneak a sideways glance at La Veuve Noire; her eyes are closed and she looks like she might be asleep. If she is, I find myself hoping that she’ll adjust her position so that her tits fall out or . . . oh yes, please . . . that her legs part to give me a view of her . . .

  Fucking hell, Dean. You fucking pervert! Get a fucking grip!

  I feel my cheeks flame and I chug back the rest of my pint in one go. This happens a lot lately; since that moment of weakness with Isla, my boss. I mean I’m a man—it’s the way we’re programmed. Sex on the brain and all that. But I’ve never felt as desperate as I did that night. I know what I did was wrong. I should never have put her to bed. Well, okay carrying her to her hotel room and putting her in bed, fully clothed was the gentlemanly thing to do. It was getting into bed next to her that was wrong. And doing so naked. That was even more wrong.

  And while I could shout that she started it, which she did, I know I should have ended it. I should have got up and left. But I was weak. I took advantage of the fact that she came on to me while she was pissed—something that never happened when we were sober, although we’d become close and there was an obvious attraction. What happened next serves me right. She got feisty—I mean really feisty. Her mouth was so crude, so filthy as she made demands of me, making me do things . . . things I’d not done before—certainly never in the way she demanded. My mind was wheeling.

  I’d had her on this pedestal. To me, she was perfection. It was such a shock to find that she was a man-eater in bed—although she urged me to take control—something that was impossible under the circumstances. I still don’t know how I feel about it. It was exhilarating—so different to what I’ve experienced before. But it was not how I think sex should be—or at least how I thought it should be. Now I’m not so sure. It was such a shock. Couple that with the fact that I knew I shouldn’t have succumbed to the temptation and the pressure that she might change her mind at any moment, it felt surreal.

  She was out of control—so demanding and aggressive. So many times since then, I’ve wondered what it would be like to have such aggressive, rough sex without the additional pressures. It’s all so mixed up in my head. Sometimes, that’s what I long for—to experience something so passionate and wild again. Other times, I feel like such a lowlife pervert.

  Then, the final mindfuck. I fuck her and I come—I admit it didn’t take long. I’ve never claimed to be a fucking porn star. But she flops down and accuses me of being useless, saying I couldn’t satisfy a woman if I tried.

  That was it. I crawled out of her bed and collapsed on the sofa. I couldn’t leave the room—the former owner of the hotel was on the rampage—long story—so I just lay there. Shell-shocked. By the time sleep came, I’d convinced myself that I should stay and face the consequences in the morning. Leaving in the middle of the night would just add insult to injury. I told myself that I needed to man up and face her. I had to work with her every day, for fuck’s sake. But no, by the time I awoke, she’d left the room. That told me all I needed to know. I crept from the room and the hotel, leaving her
and my job behind. I mean, how the hell could I face her after that?

  And that’s what brought me here, to this club. My curiosity about sex. The fact that I couldn’t satisfy a woman and the resultant need to get pissed and stay pissed. That way I didn’t have to face up to any of it. I could be blissfully numb.

  Until last night. Last night when the bouncers wanted my blood after I’d kicked off because the barman stopped serving me, saying I was too pissed. But she’d stepped in. La Veuve Noire. She’d taken me to a little room near this one and made me confess all. Well, it was easy really, considering Jones—a security guard employed by the hotel I worked for—had turned up and told her everything. He only knew from my drunken ramblings when he’d tracked me down at the bar on my boss’s orders. And then, the bigmouthed fucker had called my boss and told her to come down here. As a former Royal Marine, he should know the meaning of the word confidential.

  I shuddered. The memory of her and La Veuve Noire openly talking about what a crap shag I was, as if I wasn’t there, makes me cringe. The only saving grace was the fact that they both came on to each other. I’d never seen two women practically seducing each other before. Neither had Jones from the looks of it. He’d had his tongue hanging out. I should have kicked his arse for calling Isla. Well, considering his tough as fuck background, maybe it’s best that I didn’t attempt that. And, I guess since I’m now having free . . . what exactly? Sessions? Therapy? Whatever . . . help, yeah that’s it—I’m having help from a sex therapist for free. Well, I guess ultimately he did me a favour.

  Although, I’m beginning to wonder how good she really is. All she’s done is make me feel like crap this morning and now she’s promised me an orgy to watch but nothing’s happening—I may as well be at a damn train spotters’ meeting or something and she’s gone to sleep. Maybe I should have made her drink more, then I could have taken advantage of her too.

  Yeah, I know. It’s not funny. My stomach churns as if to condemn me for my bad humour. Just then, I notice that the music’s getting steadily louder. It’s not loud—just at a higher volume than the subtle one before. I notice that the lights are getting brighter too.

  I look around and gasp. While I’ve been busy revelling in self-pity, things have moved on around me. I can’t take in all that I’m seeing. Bodies. Naked. Busy. Sex. Everywhere. It’s visual overload. My cock appears perfectly able to absorb whatever it can get though. It’s woken from its slumber and is making its presence felt. I think guiltily about the woman next to me—wondering whether I should wake her. I needn’t have worried; she’s obviously used to the drill. Her eyes are open and she’s casually observing proceedings around the room.

  ‘Easy, tiger,’ she mutters. ‘Lie back and take a good look around. Don’t feel like you’re perving, unless that turns you on, then feel free. Nobody here is a shrinking violet. They all know the score and are happy to be observed—if they weren’t they’d be in a smaller room, with the door closed. In here, anything goes—especially inhibitions. They know they’re being observed, by us, by each other—that’s part of the thrill.

  ‘Sooner or later, you’ll probably see some couples merging or swapping over. It’s all part of what makes this room work. I just want you to watch what’s taking place. I want you to lose your inhibitions enough to tell me what turns you on. And what doesn’t. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help and to do that, I need to know what’s flicking your switch. Nothing’s going to shock me. Nothing’s going to repulse me. Because believe me, what happens in here is tame compared to some of the goings on behind closed doors. Got it? Now take a good look and see what catches your eye. Take your time, they’re not going anywhere anytime soon. And be honest. Or this really is just pointless perving. Think of it as a live porno—and you can give me a running commentary of what you feel as you watch. You never know, you might find you have a voyeuristic side. I embraced mine years ago.’

  I stare at her. I mean, I must have had a sheltered life compared with the people in here. And now she wants me to watch people having sex and to tell her what does and doesn’t turn me on. I don’t know if I can do it. Surely, that kind of thing is private . . . then I realise I’m in a room full of people openly flaunting what turns them on and getting down to it with no hesitation. That realisation is liberating but I’m not sure I can vocalise what I’m seeing, never mind how I feel about it.

  As if reading my mind, she takes the lead. ‘See over there, that woman with a crop in her hand. She’s wearing a strap on cock. Do you see her?’

  I narrow my eyes and look to where she’s pointing. There are two women and one of them is indeed holding a crop like she’s going to ride a horse. The other’s on her knees and she’s . . . oh my fucking God . . . she’s the fucking horse that’s going to be ridden!

  My mouth falls open. I watch as the other woman closes in behind her, holding the dildo that’s fixed to her front by a harness as she lines herself up. I can’t tear my eyes away and yet it feels wrong to be watching. My heart rate is slightly accelerated—like when I’m speed walking. The woman on her knees looks over and I feel myself blushing furiously. I look away, feeling like a guilty pervert. I look at my therapist—she’s still watching them. Openly observing as though she’s watching two women play tennis or something.

  I tell myself that it’s okay. That’s why they’re in here . . . that’s why we’re all here. I take a deep breath and look over again, just in time to watch her expression change as the other woman pushes the dildo inside her.

  Fuck me! I can’t believe I’m watching this. Both women show their pleasure on their faces and I’m drawn in. My cock lets me know its approval and I look down. The woman beside me follows my eyes and grins at me.

  ‘So?’ she says. ‘Verdict?’

  I find myself grinning back. Albeit shyly. I’m amazed that I’m not feeling anywhere near as self-conscious as I had been. The two women don’t give a shit who’s watching and who’s not. They’re just happily fucking, regardless.

  ‘Well,’ I begin, trying to formulate a suitable response in my head. ‘As you can see, I’m feeling pretty horny.’

  ‘Why?’ She narrows her eyes at me.

  ‘I’m in a room with people openly fucking all around me. I defy any man not to get hard.’

  I see irritation flick across her face before it smoothes over and smiles patiently. ‘Is anything they’re doing making you horny? I don’t mean the fact that you’re watching . . . I want you to imagine participating. What if it were you on your knees and a woman, wearing a strap on was about to—’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim, a little louder than I mean to. ‘It’s watching them. I mean, how many men wouldn’t own up to wanting to watch two women make out?’

  She smiles. ‘Okay then.’ Then she subtly points to two men fucking on the floor.

  I shake my head. No way.

  She indicates a couple who are having what I’d thought of as normal sex . . . before the episode with my boss had led me to this place. The woman was lying on her back and the man was gently, reverently almost, fucking her.

  I nod and for a second, I see something akin to surprise, possibly even disappointment cross her face before she points to a group of three—two women and a man—who are all pleasuring each other at once. The man is obviously conducting proceedings and the two women prioritise him but they take any opportunity to fondle or caress each other too.

  ‘You like?’ La Veuve Noir whispers. I nod again. I’ve never seen anything like it in the flesh. I’ve seen a porn film once with something similar but, from what I can remember, it all seemed so scripted and contrived in comparison with what I’m watching now. Yet, it’s seamless . . . flawless even. Not awkward or messy. They all look so in tune with each other, almost as though they’re communicating telepathically.

  She points elsewhere but I’m not finished watching the threesome. There’s something about the way the man effortlessly orchestrates his pleasure and the willingness of the women to obl
ige that has my attention. It’s quite inspiring to watch and I find myself envying the guy, wishing that it was me over there being fawned over and fondled by expert hands.

  I silently resolve to get myself some of that action. One day soon. I look up to find La Veuve Noire watching me intently. I smile and allow her to direct my attention to the next couple who are walking over to a bed just across from us. I say walking . . .

  Fuck. Fuck. Oh my fucking fuck.

  I sit up. This couple seriously has my attention. He’s sauntering along confidently—stark bollock naked—holding the end of a lead, like one you’d use for walking a dog. The other end is secured to a collar, all right but the collar isn’t around the neck of a dog. It’s around the neck of a woman and she’s crawling—naked—along the floor behind him.

  My conscious mind wants to laugh—it’s like watching a freak show. But my cock is making me feel like doing nothing of the sort. It’s rock fucking hard. I mean, it’s so fucking hard that I really feel the need to stroke it. Or fuck someone. Anything to relieve the throbbing pressure. But I don’t. I can’t. All I can do is watch, enraptured as he stops next to the bed. She gracefully sits back on her heels before lowering her upper body so that she’s prostrating herself at his feet. I can’t explain what I think in that moment. My mind’s screaming that I’m still watching a freak show but at the same time, my overriding thought is that it’s beautiful. Watching her. Watching him. Watching the unspoken communication between them.

  He clicks his fingers and she rises, back onto her heels but bows her head. I want to ask La Veuve Noire what’s happening—what this is all about but I don’t want to break the magic of what I’m witnessing. And it is magical. The guy is . . . for want of a better word, manly. He’s one of those men who command your attention. He has a presence—a natural one. But the woman is his exact opposite. She’s so subservient and humble looking that the two of them together are like yin and yang.

  Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a complete innocent. I know about bondage and pain and all that. Well, I know a bit. That it happens. And that it’s something you can take the piss about with your mates. And I know about dominant men and submissive women. Well again, I know a bit. Since the release of that book, Fifty Shades, how can anyone not know? I can work out that I’m seeing something like that but there’s no bondage. No implements of pain or torture. What I’m witnessing, or at least I think I’m witnessing is an actual demonstration of the core element of those relationships.