by Nikki Sex
Paul heard the sound of André’s dark chuckle as he released the pressure slightly.
“I see that you have not learned Brazillian jiu jitsu. This is a very simple, but most effective position called an ‘arm-bar.’ In Brazil, even the very young children can perform a move such as this. Is it not interesting to you?”
“Fuck you! I’m going to rip your head off! Arrrghhh!”
Again, André applied pressure.
“And still, you speak to me like an ill-tempered child! In this position, it is very easy to break the elbow of an opponent. You have been spoiled. One should always be most polite and respectful to a man who can break your arm, no?”
André applied pressure once more until Paul’s screamed, “Okay, okay, you win.”
Paul’s enemy loosened his hold, just enough to remove the pain, but maintained enough control to keep him motionless. Paul was trapped, unable to do anything.
“Je suis désolé, Monsieur," André said. "Excusez-moi, but I think it is time to talk. Will you behave?”
While the choice was obvious, Paul still had to think about this. What the hell did they have to talk about? And talking about himself wasn’t something he liked to do, not even with a friend. Anyway, after the day he had, Paul felt like an injured animal. All he wanted to do now was lick his mental and physical wounds. When life looked hopeless, he’d rather keep that kind of shit to himself.
“We can converse at the bar, enjoying an alcoholic beverage. There, we shall be two men bonding, after the most joyous of primal pleasures, a good fight, yes? Or, if you choose, we shall continue to speak right here. Make your choice, if you please.”
“Sure, let me go and we can talk,” Paul said, with no real intention to sit down and have a bosom buddy chat with the jerk.
André applied pressure and Paul screamed. “What? I said okay!” The pressure eased and his enemy glared at him. Caught out and uneasy, Paul met his gaze. Shit. I forgot that this guy’s a trained Dom.
“We both know why I punished you. You are the man who is angry and unforgiving for dishonesty, no? Could it be that you did not intend to keep your word?”
Paul felt the need to look away from André’s knowing and dangerous dark eyes. It was true. He’d planned to brush the asshole off. The Frenchman won the fight. Paul owed him an apology, and a talk, if that’s what he wanted. But somehow, he just couldn’t open his mouth when his jaw was clenched so tightly.
“Emily tells me that you plan to run away. Eh bien, she knows you very well. Let there be truth between us. Emily praises you as an honest man. Are you an honest man?”
“Why should I talk to you?”
“Who better? I know Emily, and I know much of you.” Paul met his gaze, even though it was difficult. Yet there was something behind André’s eyes. Was it empathy? Some sort of understanding? Because the Frenchman’s intense glare had softened.
“You chose not to introduce her to the lifestyle while in Cabo,” André said. “I admire such restraint, for restraint it was. Such was the action of a good man. Emily was yours for the taking. She would have given you everything, and denied you nothing.”
“Are you fucking her?” The question just blurted out of his mouth, and Paul regretted it immediately.
André snorted, and responded with a number of French words, none of which Paul understood. “Young men! Always with the jealousy. And what is there to be jealous of? Nothing! No, I am not, as you so crudely say, ‘fucking’ Emily. I excuse you because you are young, stupid, and full of testosterone. Be sensible now. Swear to me, on your honor, that when I let you go, we will speak and drink together.”
“I swear,” Paul said with a sigh of surrender. “Let me up and we’ll talk, although I have no idea what difference that will make.”
André let him go. The two men straightened themselves up as much as possible, brushing leaves and grass off of themselves and their clothes.
Paul’s face was bleeding. Physically, the sensation of having taken and given a beating held a savage satisfaction. Other than being ignominiously held down at the end, the match had been somehow therapeutic and cleansing.
It had been an excellent fight! The Frenchman was extremely fit – he not only had training, he had experience.
What a ball-buster! Paul was fairly confident that Chevalier could’ve ended the fight sooner, with that unexpected throwing him right-over-his head smack down on the ground trick.
The devious bastard had been enjoying the intense pleasure of a violent battle. They’d both been breathless and exhausted by the time Chevalier pulled that one.
Paul grinned. It seemed that the Frenchman wasn’t a sissy after all.
Chapter 38. Revelations
The Holiday Inn had a nice quiet bar area. Both men ordered Scotch, neat. André convinced the bartender to sell him an entire bottle of twelve year-old Lagavulin Single Malt; a rich, peaty drink. They sat across from one another, and finished a glass each, before either of them began to speak.
The fight was the easiest topic of discussion, tactics and strategy were debated and war wounds examined. The Scotch began to work on Paul, and he became more relaxed.
André told him of Emily, why they met, and how he admired and respected her. André was incredibly well-informed about Paul’s whole life, and about hers. Emily, (a typical woman!) hadn’t held anything back, as far as Paul could tell.
“I found out that my father cut me out of his will today,” Paul said, apropos of nothing. While he spoke he intently watched the Frenchman for any change in expression.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Apparently, he’s decided to leave everything to Emily. Do you know anything about that?”
“I do not,” André said without flinching, his dark eyes openly meeting his own. “I do not believe that Emily knows of this, either. I spent this evening enjoying a home-cooked meal, in the company of Emily; her mother, Carolyn; and Beauty, the family’s new pet dog.”
Paul burst out laughing. “Seriously?”
“It is the truth.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. I haven’t even gone to visit Emily’s mom yet.” Paul started to chuckle again.
André, his expression calm and well-mannered, raised a sardonic eyebrow at him, inviting Paul to explain.
“Ever since you left the store together, my mind’s been working overtime,” Paul said trying to suppress his chuckle. “It was full of all the things I’d imagined that you were doing with Emily, and of the things that I wanted to do with her.” He simply couldn’t stop laughing. “I’m afraid, a home-cooked meal, around the family dinner table with her mother, wasn’t on that list.”
The relief that Paul felt at the Frenchman’s disclosure was incredible.
There was no escaping the truth. It had struck him earlier in the night, and nothing could make him change his mind. He’d come to a decision. He was sure now. He wanted Emily. He longed to introduce her to all of the pleasures of the lifestyle that he knew she craved. He wanted to be the one to train her, to teach her how to be the perfect submissive, for him. For her.
For both of them.
He recalled what he’d written Candy about his definition of love, ‘I’d have that connection I feel during aftercare. That feeling of no barriers, no masks, no falsehood. Just me. Just you. Just us. Whatever it is, it goes beyond the physical.’
He may as well admit it. Even if he had to crawl back to her on his hands and knees and beg for her forgiveness, he had to get her back.
André shrugged. “The mother is beautiful and a most gracious host.” He frowned. “This problem of the Will; do you think that your father is punishing you?”
Paul took a deep breath, and an even deeper drink of Scotch. The fight, the Scotch, and the comfortable atmosphere, put him into a chatty mood. André was a good listener, and was even better at asking thought provoking questions. Somehow, the Frenchman drew him out. Paul explained how he’d spent his life trying to gain his father’s love and approval, to somehow
meet his dad’s expectations.
“Was he always like this?” André asked, his eyes intent and shrewd. “Or was there something that happened? A change in his nature, perhaps? Do you remember?”
“When I was nine years old, I got a brand-new BMX bike. I’ll never forget that day. It started out so great. But somehow or another, I managed to leave my bike on the driveway. As it happened, my dad ran it over, damaging his car. It wasn’t that big a deal, when I look back at it now. At least it shouldn’t have been. Maybe a hundred dollars’ worth of damage? But my dad really lost it.”
Paul went into details of how everything seemed to change, from that point on. If only he’d never left his dumb bike out, his dad wouldn’t have lost his temper like that. It didn’t matter though, because nothing could make it up. At length, he ran out of things to say, after telling the story in detail.
“Mon ami,” André said, “have you ever heard the expression, ‘looking through a child’s eyes?’”
“No.”
André told him that he had attained a degree in psychology, and had observed human nature over many years. “The child, through no fault of its own, and through the very nature of being a child, is egocentric and self-absorbed,” he said. “Thus, if the daughter does not make her bed, and the mother yells, and the father beats the mother – then the daughter believes all that happened is her fault. Why? Because she did not make the bed, do you see?”
It seemed sensible, so Paul nodded.
André bent toward him, with open hands. “When one is a child, one sees…” He paused and spoke a flurry of French then said, “When one is a child one sees and comprehends, through a child’s eyes, no? When a child becomes older, they learn that other people are in their universe, too. And that these other people, they also cause things to happen.” He sat up very straight, and raised a finger.
“I submit to you, that your father came home that day already enraged, well before he drove over the bike. As a child, it is all about you. The story you told, it was from the eyes of a child, do you see? You speak to me of your problems with your father, and how he was always angry with you?”
Paul jumped slightly, in surprise, when André slammed his hand down on the table. “Non! It was never about you,” André said passionately. “I am most curious about your father. I believe that he was, and has always been, angry with himself. It is this that you must discuss with him.”
Paul poured himself a third Scotch, rubbed his chin and frowned. “You don’t think it had anything to do with the bike, the damage to his car, or even me?”
“Mon ami,” André said with his hand over his heart. “Such is very clear. I cannot say what caused this anger, but I most assuredly can tell you what does not.”
André picked up a glass. “This? It represents you, an innocent child.” André put it down in the middle of the table. Then he picked up the salt and pepper shaker. “And this is your mother,” he put the salt shaker next to the glass. “This is your father.” He put the pepper shaker down, so the three items were grouped together at the table.
“Et voila,” André said. “Observe, this is you, and your parents.” He took the glass that represented Paul, out of the equation by placing it on the bench beside him. “You, the child, are gone. The anger has nothing to do with you.”
He picked up the pepper shaker, and looked at it with narrow-eyed interest. Then h e held it out on display to Paul. “Why is this man so angry? We do not know. I believe that it is a secret. It is undisclosed, yes, but it is also something perhaps disreputable. It causes shame, you understand?”
Paul nodded.
André’s eyes glimmered with interest. There was something in those eyes that made Paul uneasy. “It is a dark secret, mon ami. So one must ask, does this secret belong to him?”
He picked up the salt shaker, and examined it. “Or does this secret belong to the mother?” He held the two shakers next to each other. “Or to someone else? All we know for certain is that it has kept this man angry for many years. Do you see?”
Paul finished his glass of Scotch. It went down smoothly, adding to his buzz. How many had he had? His mental acuity seemed on par, except he was perhaps a little slower to catch on.
Man, this was a day of revelations. What would happen next? An alien invasion? Big Foot stopping in for a beer? Somehow, for the first time in many years, André directed Paul’s thoughts away from his own childhood sins and perceived faults.
How can a nine year old be held that responsible for anything? Enough to change the dynamics of not only a father-son relationship, but that of an entire family?
Although he was noticeably getting drunk, everything seemed much clearer now. Somehow making sense for the first time. Why had his dad been so angry all the time?
Like any kid, Paul had put his dad on a pedestal, and was crushed to find that his father had feet of clay. Never once did they honestly talk about personal things. His dad wasn’t much on sharing, and neither was he.
It was true that Paul spent his whole life focused on himself and his own actions. How he’d let his father down, by not living up to some vague notion of what it was to be the perfect son. Paul felt unworthy, unloved and undeserving. Until their huge blow-out three years ago, he’d never stopped trying to be who he thought his dad wanted him to be.
Years of emotional fallout, based on misguided assumptions made when I was a child. It seems so clear now. Why couldn’t I see it?
André said, “Plato wrote that we can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark, but the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. Your father, my friend, he hides something.”
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” Paul said with a sigh. “Dad doesn’t really talk to me, but maybe I haven’t been asking the right questions.” His jaw flexed with sudden determination. This Will bullshit was the final straw. He fully intended to get answers from his father, sick or not.
André nodded. “It is very well. Now, may I ask why you said to me, ‘All women are untrustworthy bitches, they lie and cheat and will nail anything that moves?’”
“I was just angry, André,” Paul said, finishing another glass of Scotch. “That’s all. I’d just heard the news about the Will. I was still furious about Emily tricking me as Candy, and then going out with you!”
It started with a snort, graduated to a chuckle, and suddenly there was no holding it back. Paul cracked up laughing. That was probably an effect of the alcohol, but somehow it all seemed particularly hilarious. Especially, as the Frenchman had spent his evening at a family dinner.
André waited patiently for him to stop laughing, his lips in a slight smile, his expression one of polite interest.
“Sorry about that.” Paul said eventually, his speech somewhat slurred. “I think I should probably slow down drinking. What did you say?”
“You were speaking of ‘untrustworthy bitches,’ I believe.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, I haven’t had much luck with women,” Paul said, shifting restlessly on his seat. “I’m honest with them. I tell them right from the start that I don’t want commitment, you know? I don’t want a relationship. What is it about women? The second you say that you’re not interested, they suddenly have to have you, you know?”
André nodded. “Oui. I have observed this to be true for some women. For some men, too. The forbidden and unattainable is most attractive.”
Paul snorted. “That’s right! At first, they seem accepting. They say, ‘Sure, Paul. I don’t want anything permanent, either.’ But what women say and what they mean are two different things, you know? Somehow, I always end up breaking their hearts, and I fucking hate that. I don’t want any woman to get wrapped up in me.”
Paul bent over the table, closer to the Frenchman. “Do you know why?” He spoke low and slow, as if imparting a great secret. “Because I never seem to be able to get wrapped up in them.”
He stared at the last drops of amber liquid in his glass, and carefully poured himself
another. Only once, in high school, had he ‘gone out’ with a girl. It lasted two weeks. Man – that had turned ugly. Since then, he’d been careful, always keeping them at arm’s length. Never trusting, never confiding. Women fell ‘in love’ with him, and it always ended in tears.
Dominating a willing submissive in the club, that was safe. And chicks couldn’t get attached when he was traveling. Casual sex was harmless enough, and there was never any shortage. Women practically threw themselves at him wherever he went. It had always been that way for him. Sex was always good, but Paul knew there was something missing.
Until his dad got sick, Paul had been living the life most men dreamed of. Yet somehow it fell short. It was all fun, all of the time. He had a steady supply of sex without strings.
I’m empty inside, he thought, exhaling heavily. He wondered what was wrong with him.
André nodded. “Ah! I understand. I have seen this, oh, countless times. You have injured many, and do not wish to be hurt yourself, perhaps. Yet, you are unhappy, yes? Very unhappy. In truth, I pity you. You search for the thing that will make you whole, but nothing gives you peace. Is it the risk of being hurt that you hope to avoid?”
Paul shrugged, but couldn’t seem to find an answer. “Um… No. Maybe. I honestly don’t know.” But that wasn’t exactly true. He did know one thing. The idea of being constant with someone over time, of staying with one person… it scared the crap out of him. What if it all went to shit?
“Emily only wants you,” André said. “What causes her devotion? Who can say? And yet, from your actions it is clear that you cannot have her. You are doing all you can to push her away. Why?”
Paul frowned. “I wanted to try to have a relationship with Candy. To take the risks involved of hurting her, of getting hurt. But with Emily? Jesus, André. That’s rough.”
“You do not feel that you deserve her, perhaps?
“I don’t want to screw it up,” Paul said, his voice rose in frustration. “Women want me. They fall ‘in love.’ That’s just the way it is – the way it’s always been for me. I’ve never found a woman I wanted. But Emily? She’s always been so damn kind and sweet. She’s too good for me. I’m the kind of person that doesn’t like anybody, but she genuinely likes everyone. I don’t want to hurt her worse than I have. What if it all turns to shit? I’m pretty much an asshole, André.”