Coming Soon

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Tricia’s fingers slipped over the back of her hand, past Jacob’s lips, joining hers. They entered him together, felt him moan across their entwined digits.

  After withdrawing, Tricia traced the wetness of his mouth around Helen’s nipple. “Oh,” she said again, the only sound she could make now. She brought her own hand out and up to cover Tricia’s, pleading for her to stay there, to keep touching her. And she did, while Jacob went back between her legs.

  Helen’s other hand hadn’t left Tricia’s body, though she couldn’t swear to what it had been doing the past few minutes. Now she went to Tricia’s breasts and returned as much of the attention she received as possible. Tricia seemed to enjoy circles traced with the pad of her thumb. Helen realized those circles mirrored the pattern of Jacob’s tongue around her clit. A dizzying, interconnected spiral of mutual pleasure. It built and built and—

  Tricia kissed her once more, then left the bed. A closet door slid open, then shut. She returned and pulled Jacob’s hands away from Helen’s hip and waist. She crossed them behind his back and tied them there. It brought a sound from him of unmistakable happiness.

  “Exceptional service,” Tricia murmured over his shoulder, to him and Helen both, “deserves an exceptional reward.” She grinned and stepped back to adjust the strap-on in the harness she now wore over her panties, then nudged Jacob a little higher on the bed—Helen wiggled up with him, his mouth remaining perfectly placed through all their movements—to make room for her to kneel on the mattress behind him. She uncapped a bottle of lubricant.

  Jacob was very, very exceptional at service. The pace of his tongue stroking over Helen’s clit didn’t falter, except for one brief slip in his rhythm as Tricia slid inside. His breathing took on a new deepness, each exhale heavy on Helen’s flesh, a welcome heaviness—it caressed her, adding another layer of arousal, not to mention the pleasure from knowing how much he was enjoying this. She wasn’t entirely greedy in bed. Or at least her greediness wasn’t entirely selfish.

  Tricia grinned over his shoulder. Sometimes her thrusts, though gentle, pushed his lips closer to Helen’s mound. That was welcome, too. Jacob’s hands, wonderful as they had felt, weren’t necessary after all. When the rocking of Tricia’s hips and hers became more intense, Helen guided him with a grip on his hair, which brought out yet another appreciative moan. And the moans continued, one with every thrust, the vibration of sound joining the weight of his breath and slick pressure of his tongue. His hair had fallen over his face, across Helen’s waist and thighs. So many delicious sensations, and all she really needed was the warmth of his mouth, which she pressed into, rocking against it . . .

  Her second orgasms often weren’t as intense as the first, but this one had built and built, and seemed to last nearly as long as it had been in coming. Helen lost track of when it started. In the midst of it she soared, on and on and on, her ears ringing with an awesome rush.

  Sinking into sweet afterglow, she didn’t return to sanity. She looked worshipfully up at Tricia, who smiled down at her with lips that parted in her own ecstasy. Helen loosened her grip on Jacob’s hair and stroked through it as Tricia had, returning pleasure for pleasure. He brought his mouth away from her clit, pressing a kiss to where her thigh joined her hip.

  Tricia shifted her grip, grasping his tied wrists in one hand and tucking the other under his waist, angling him for deeper thrusts. She pumped her hips in circles and began to gasp. Helen watched the orgasm dawn on her face.

  Jacob’s own moans turned to happy whimpers. Helen slid from under him, left more room for Tricia’s strokes to drive him down and forward, for his legs to give out. By the time Tricia finished she was lying across his back, his body flat against the mattress.

  Tricia kissed his shoulder and stroked the hair back from his cheeks. Helen helped. His eyelids, heavy with bliss, fluttered in her direction.

  “Did you come?” she asked, unable to hold back her curiosity this time. She’d never seen someone orgasm from prostate stimulation before, and was struck by how encompassing the pleasure seemed to be: spreading from an internal point, like her own spread from the root of her clit through her entire mound. So encompassing, though, that it was hard to tell from the outside if it had reached a climax.

  “People have sometimes commented that I do so very subtly,” he replied, then turned his head to kiss Tricia’s fingers. She smiled down at him.

  Helen realized that hadn’t actually been a confirmation, but his tone of voice and expression made his satisfaction clear. As clear as Tricia’s, or as what Helen felt and was certain showed in her own languid posture.

  Yes, she could get used to receiving exceptional service.

  Tricia untied Jacob’s wrists, then moved off him to kneel before Helen. She bent to kiss her, and Helen met her with all the force of her gratitude and greediness, her awakened wildness, her unapologetic desire. Tricia responded with the same.

  “Jacob and I,” she said when their lips had parted, “issue invitations like this sometimes. And we’re happy to re-issue them, when a third really clicks with us.”

  “Name the hour, ma’am,” Helen said, using the honorific to underline her absolute consent. Maybe she could try it out a little more in other circumstances, too . . . if Tricia was interested, and the moment felt right.

  If nothing else, this moment felt perfect in its own way. Helen reached out to pull Jacob into their embrace. Yes, even more than perfect, merely flawless, this felt exceptional.

  ADORN

  Nico Murray

  I stood in my curve-hugging wine-red dress feeling overdressed in the swank Paris art gallery. I stared at the framed photos in the exhibit. I tried to make out the image as others in the room exclaimed in delight. What were they seeing in the photographs that I wasn’t?

  I moved down the line to the next image and tried again, turning my head to different angles. Landscapes? Abstracts? I couldn’t place why the image and texture seemed so familiar.

  Audrey came up next to me, and pressed a glass of wine to my hand.

  “Figure it out yet?”

  “No. No idea.” I stepped back, frustrated.

  “It’s someone’s backside. That one over there is two lovers, at the moment of their petite mort. See?” Audrey traced the lines with her fingers as she spoke with soft French-accented English. In that instant the picture resolved for me, as did the others.

  “Oh! Should have guessed. I mean, with the shadowing it makes it hard to make out what or who it is. It’s quite beautiful.” I stared at another image of someone’s fingers gripping goosebumped flesh.

  The angles and shadows still threw me off, but I could just see a curve of thigh, the delicate curl of hair, and even the shadowed outline of genitals.

  “I have a few of the photographer’s works. Modeled for him, too. Elias and I do. People pay well for them, and his photobook collections. He does about three a year. They’re limited edition collector items. As are the original photos.” Audrey grinned.

  “You what? Any of these you?” I glanced around the expansive gallery, packed with patrons.

  “Yes, one of them is. Not telling, just yet. Come on, go meet Tomas, the photographer. You’d like him. While you’re here you should model. I expect he’ll ask. You have a look he likes.” Audrey took me by the arm.

  I glanced once more at the photos, trying to guess which one was Audrey.

  “You’re wondering. I can see it on your face. I’ll tell you before we leave.”

  “I can’t just go model nude for some stranger in Paris on your say,” I protested.

  “Sure you can. Why not? Who’d ever know? Just meet him. That’s all. Tell him you admire his work, at least.”

  “Well, that much is true.”

  A man approached us, looking delighted as he embraced Audrey and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.

  “Audrey, my dear. I’ve not seen you in ages! I need you back in the studio with your sir, I beg of you. I’m short of models and th
ere are deadlines. So nice to see you tonight. What do you think? And who is this divine lass?” Tomas grinned as he looked at me. He cut a tall, lean, muscled frame, with cropped white-blonde hair. He wore an expertly tailored, expensive-looking pinstriped suit, right down to the matching blue waistcoat and tie. Blue thread in the fabric complemented the blue in his eyes.

  I admired him on the sly as they talked. Audrey’s words played in my mind, as my imagination whispered lascivious things.

  “Soon, I’ll be happy to come back and model. I’ve been busy. This is Euna, we went to college together. She’s visiting for a couple weeks so I thought I’d show her a non-tourist side of Paris. Euna, this is Tomas.”

  “Hello. Your photography is stunning,” I blurted.

  “Well, thank you. You should swing by the studio and see the rest of the work. I had to make some decisions for this show, and left out some of my favorites. And I need to start the next book. Come on over this week. Both of you.”

  “Would, if I wasn’t working late this week. I’m leaving Euna to her own devices,” Audrey replied.

  “How are you enjoying Paris then, Euna?” Tomas pivoted his attention to me.

  “Quite well. Audrey is giving me the hard sell to relocate. My work would transfer me if I asked. Just listen to me, five days in the city and I’m ready to pack up and stay here.” I sipped my wine.

  “Well, we’d all welcome you here. If you need a tour guide, I’m free most days. If I sleep late and work in the evening. Indulgent beast that I am.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You aren’t going to ask me to model like Audrey, right? It’s not some lure to get me to your place in a state of undress?”

  “Only if you’d like it to be. I wouldn’t object. I ordinarily have models in abundance, dear Euna. Everyone’s off travelling or ill. I have assistants on staff who would assure your safety. I have not made a name for myself by coercion. There’s more beauty when my models are enthusiastic. I’ll leave the choice up to you,” Tomas explained.

  Audrey grinned. “Euna, you should consider it. Friday evening we can meet up? I’d like to talk more about work with you over a nice dinner, hmm, Tomas?”

  “A plan is afoot. Safe trip home, and see you soon, Euna.”

  Tomas remained true to his word, and planned several days out.

  “The Louvre’s nice but it’s so terribly busy during the day.” Tomas led me along winding streets with shopping, galleries, cafés, happily hailing cabs in his melodious French. He was delightful company, well read and witty. I soaked up the luxury of his attention as he led me around the old city.

  “Audrey and I saw it last week. I’m here for another two weeks, and then back home,” I said, as we wrapped up the day in a café.

  “Ah, then I wasn’t remiss in skipping it. Audrey would thump me if I was a terrible host. Will you be back again soon?”

  “I hope so. I try to visit once or twice a year. I had a work conference in London so I figured I’d just hop over and see Audrey and use some banked time. Do you live in the city?”

  Tomas grinned. “I live a few blocks away. I know this part of the city well, as it’s my heart and soul, and I loved showing you around.”

  I laughed. “Can I come over to see your other work?”

  “Absolutely, my dear. I’d be honored.” Tomas stepped away to pay our bill.

  I texted Audrey. Going to Tomas’s. I’m not modelling. Just looking at the art. Back later.

  Audrey texted back, Sure.

  I could hear the skepticism implied in the digital text. I glanced over at Tomas, and a tiny flame of want lit within me.

  Tomas’s home was a tall, narrow cream-colored stonework townhouse, on a classic Parisian street lined with similar town-houses. It was postcard pretty, to the point of absurdity. The sun was just setting, casting a golden glow across the neighborhood. The streetlights flickered to life as we walked.

  “First floor is my own small gallery, and a bookkeeper that shares the other shop.” Tomas unlocked the door and ushered me in.

  “Good evening, Mr. Calvet. How was the show opening? And a guest!” A slightly older woman with short, spiky crimson hair greeted us.

  “This is Cecile, my assistant, Cecile, this is Euna, a guest of Audrey’s. She’s here to see some of my work, up in my office. We could use some refreshments. Nothing elaborate. We spent the day hitting all the patisseries and chocolatiers we could.”

  “Madame, welcome.” Cecile escorted us through the main room and up into the office proper, and took our coats.

  I looked at the books on the shelves in the opulent sitting room. The shelves certainly told a story of Tomas’s interests. Sex and psychology. The art of bondage. History, ritual, and a wide range of subjects from philosophy to science. Texts and picture books of famous photographers, and Tomas’s own books on one shelf. The art on the walls was all black and white floral photography, and a few framed news articles and award documents for his work, a few candid photos. There was a Lalique-style vase of lilies on the desk, the blooms drooping a little in the summer heat. Tomas lifted the flower head with a gentle touch, and let it fall again.

  “You have some diverse interests, I’ll grant you that.” I sat down in the grey-green brocade wingback chair.

  “Thanks. If you want to return to Audrey’s at any time, that’s all right by me. I have my own reputation to protect. I don’t coerce or pressure people into posing for me.”

  “I know. I’m fine for now. I like your company. People let you photograph them like this? Isn’t it strange? Do you ever get involved?”

  I flipped through the pages of the book he set in front of me. Some were undeniably more graphic than the ones at the gallery. A heat crept into my face, not of embarrassment or shame, but want. I wasn’t going to let Tomas in on that so easily.

  “The more intimate ones are sometimes private sessions or not for public shows like the gallery. Some couples hire me as a gift for each other. Sometimes, yes, I do get in the picture,” Tomas said.

  I gazed at the picture of a nude woman, bound in blue and black ribbons, back to the camera, and Tomas standing in his three-piece suit, with one hand at her shoulder, and a riding crop in the other. I wanted to be her, in that photo. I didn’t let on, however.

  My heart skipped a bit as I took in the details over the next few pages, of the lovers entwined with ribbon, skin marked with the faintest lines from the crop.

  “Audrey said she and Elias had partaken.” I gestured at the photos. “I don’t know what I was expecting coming here. She suggested I model. I honestly thought she was joking.”

  “Audrey knows me well. She has an eye for what I like,” Tomas replied. “A nice memory of your trip, for sure. Maybe not one for the ‘see my holiday’ collection.”

  “True. So if I wanted to do this? Tell me what I need to know.”

  Tomas smiled, half knowing, half bemused, as I spoke.

  “I photograph, and sometimes my assistants do, as I might be indisposed as you can see. No photos show any identifying marks. I edit those out for my model’s privacy. The boundaries in the studio are yours to dictate.”

  I sipped at the juice Cecile had brought in, as we flipped through the book.

  “I haven’t been involved with anyone for some time. I just want to feel connected again, protected, comforted, even temporarily, pushed a bit, maybe. If I do this, don’t tell Aud. I’ll tell her when I’m ready.”

  “I understand. What you say here and in that room is confidential. You and I, by the time the morning comes, will find you some clarity, grounding, and new horizons, and maybe some new work for my next book. I have some ideas of what I could do with you, if you granted me consent. It was on my mind when I saw you at the gallery.”

  I blushed. I couldn’t help myself. “By bedding me?”

  Tomas laughed. “No, not necessarily, but I confess I wouldn’t object to the current company if she offered. Removing inhibitions tends to reveal things to yours
elf that you never wanted to admit.” He set a few papers down on the desk near me. “Health form and consent form. Standard for all my models. I myself, I am screened often. And I have been snipped. You’re free to back out at any point. This isn’t a binding agreement of participation for either of us. I like my models happy.” He slid a pen over to me and left the room. I was alone with my thoughts.

  I hesitated, and filled in the forms before nerves got me and I backed out at the behest of my rational and over-cautious self.

  Why not, indeed. Why shouldn’t I have what I wanted?

  “Come with me, then,” Tomas said when he returned and saw my signature. “Elevator or stairs?”

  “With all the pastries, I’ll take the stairs.” I laughed. Cecile followed with us.

  We stepped into Tomas’s studio, which occupied the space with a lofted ceiling that stretched past what would have been the fifth floor. Lights and lamps hung from the rafters, with rolls of backdrops. A small observation room was glassed off in the corner.

  I looked around. “You watch all his sessions?”

  Cecile nodded. “Most. There’s a few of us who work here, but I do most of the observing and recording. For archive and liability. One-way glass.”

  “You ever . . .?” I gestured.

  “A few times. That’s me.” Cecile pointed, and smiled amusedly.

  I raised an eyebrow at the black and white in the photo, the model tied in red ribbon and red roses against curves of flesh.

  Cecile opened another album of photos. The images showed models in artful poses, faces obscured from identification. All of them were photographed at the height of their bliss and torment. These were decidedly graphic and deeply personal.

  One caught my eye, a man, sitting on a bench with an array of needles threaded just under his skin in an elaborate pattern. Another, a woman bound in elaborate ropework, standing with a hint of a lust-filled smile at her lips, her eyes blindfolded in a simple leather mask. It was Audrey and Elias. I gasped.