Curio Vignettes 02 Craving (3 page)

Didier smiles suddenly, melancholy lifting like a blind. “And I used to have a client whose only appetite was to baste my cock with honey or sweetened cream and suck me clean, again and again.”

A shock of pleasure contracts deep in my belly. Didier raises a playful eyebrow at me, one that says,
I have a very strange job, don’t you think?

So many women he’s been with, with so many tastes I’ve never even conceived of. And I have a good imagination.

I picture the chest that sits at the foot of his beautiful old bed. It’s not off-limits, but I’ve only ever peeked inside when he’s in the shower, and afterward wondered if he noticed my acting shifty and shy upon his return.

The chest is full of toys, as he readily told me. I was his client then, after all, and those toys were as much for me as any other visitor to flat 5C. I was also a virgin at the time, though a terminally horny one, and I owned a vibrator. An unassuming, minimalist thing with a few speeds that I only ever used to stimulate my clit. Now I never use it, too spoiled by what Didier can do to me. Kind of like how I used to love Kraft Singles, but now that I’ve tasted fresh chevrotin from Haute-Savoie, it’s painful to imagine going back.

It took me a long time to work up the nerve to look inside the chest, and I hadn’t found what I’d expected. Garish stuff—that’s what I’d imagined, but actually many of the items look like art objects. No neon colors or veiny rubber dicks of frightening proportions. Beautiful things. There was a paddle made of beech and honey-colored leather, silk scarves as nice as you’d find at a boutique, a glass dildo swaddled lovingly in a soft towel. There were quite a few rolled towels, but I had a vision of snooping too clumsily and Didier walking in from the shower to find me blushing with shards of cock littering the floor at my feet, so I hadn’t peeked inside more than a couple.

The only thing in there that’s truly haunted me is what I know must be a strap-on. Given that he has a perfectly serviceable cock of his own and all his clients lack that apparatus, I can only assume it’s for… Well, for stuff I don’t entirely get.

“You know the chest, by your bed?”

He smiles, a weird little smile I’ve only rarely seen him wear, all mischievous, like he ought to be licking his lips. It makes me want to smile myself.

“Yes,” he prompts.

“What do your clients like to do with…you know. The stuff in there.”

“Their tastes vary as widely as the objects. Have you looked inside?”

I nod, blushing.

“Did anything spark your curiosity?”

The strap-on springs to mind, but that’s more confusion than curiosity. “I only saw the stuff on top, really. I was afraid I’d put things back messily and you’d know I looked.”

“Did you think I’d be upset that you looked?”

“No, I was just embarrassed. Or afraid you’d think I was interested in something I wasn’t ready for.”

“But now you bring it up, so does this mean maybe you’re interested?”

Pandora’s box
, my brain whispers. What if we open it up and I find out I’m some crazy kinky woman, with weird fetishes no regular man will ever abide? Or worse, find out I’m utterly, incurably vanilla and be stuck worrying that for this man who probably maintains a rotation of a dozen or more regular lovers at a given time, no one woman could ever provide enough variety?

But I didn’t come to this flat—not tonight or that first evening, back in March—looking to maintain my sexual status quo.

I drain my glass, nodding as I swallow. “I think I am.”

Chapter Two

In the bedroom, Didier lights candles and draws the curtains, blocking out the twinkly skyline and the round shapes of roosting pigeons. I sit cross-legged at the edge of the bed, fidgeting with my nails.

“I will show you what I have,” he says, setting a chair before me then hefting Pandora’s sex-toy chest onto the chair. “If something sparks your interest, perhaps you would like to hear about the sort of woman who requests it?”

“Sure.”

“And if our bodies end up being all we need from each other tonight, then we are not so very unfortunate, no?” He gives me a teasing look, quieting my buzzing nerves some.

“Sounds good.”

He sits, leaving room between us, and leans forward to open the lid. “Here. You choose, my little curator.”

I smile at that. It does feel a bit like opening a crate of new arrivals at the museum, and my anxiety turns to giddiness. I choose a rolled towel, unfolding the soft terrycloth to reveal the same smooth glass dildo I’d peeked at weeks ago.

“I saw this one. It’s beautiful.” It’s crystal-clear save for a ribbon of deep blood-red spiraling through the core. There’s the vague suggestion of a head, but other than that it’s pretty innocuous, an eight-inch cylinder, slightly curved and slightly tapered. I turn the gleaming glass around in my hands so the candles’ glow lights it from within. Knowing Didier, caring for these objects goes far beyond the chores of sterilization. I bet he polishes this glass reverently with a soft cloth, oils any leather he owns, buffs any brass or copper rivets the way he dotes on his precious watches and clocks. I bet he wraps them in the cleanest, fluffiest towels and stows them gently, as if putting them to bed.

I pass him the dildo. “Do lots of your clients like that one?”

“They do. I like it as well. If I’m in charge of choosing, I often pick this one.”

I hadn’t thought of that—surely many of his clients would leave the decisions up to him. I remember what we did the last time we pretended to be other people. He’s perfectly capable of taking charge. He’s perfectly capable of being whatever a woman wants.

“Do…”

“Yes?”

“Do any of your clients ever…” I stare at the dildo. “Have any of them ever used it, you know…”

“On me?”

I swallow, nodding.

“They have.”

“Do you like it?”

“If it excites the woman I’m with, then it excites me.”

Of course, that old refrain. I’ve heard it a dozen times or more, and I don’t know why it rubs me wrong. I suppose because it makes me feel incidental, wrecks any starry-eyed belief I want to hold that he and I are perfectly suited.

“But it feels good?” I ask.

He nods. “Physically, yes, with the right preparation. And psychologically… It’s a bit like a drug, I suppose. Not that I have very much experience with such things.”

“How so?”

He eyes the glass. “You start to tinker with gender roles, with dynamics as basic as who is penetrated…you feel a bit out of control, but also uninhibited. It’s like Halloween, maybe. It feels awfully wicked, modifying your identity for a little while. Shunning what society expects of you.”

“What does the woman get out of it, do you think?”

He makes a thoughtful face. “I think for some it is simply a kink, picked up from who knows where.”

I nod. I’m not a stranger to gay pornography. In fact, it’s the only kind I’ve really watched much of, since the men tend to be far nicer looking and there aren’t any women for me to compare myself to. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on, beyond the mere presentation of naked, aroused men. The idea of a guy getting sodomized doesn’t turn me off, but…

I glance at Didier, the man who embodies my entire non-solo sex life. He’s always been my teacher in this, the one who knows what he’s doing, and me the vessel. I’m not ready to see him as a vessel, so I reach for another object and a change of topic.

“What about this?” I ask, turning the paddle around in my hand. Its blond wood grip is perfectly weighted, full of authority, the business end made of thick leather, flaring out like a fish tail. It’s not too big, only as broad as a spatula. Not too scary. “Do you use this a lot?”

“Fairly often.”

“On your clients
and
on you?”

“Yes, both. Typically the former, if only because typically women’s appetites tend to lean toward the submissive.”

It’s weird to hear him talk about bondagey things. I always knew he must dabble in that, but he and I have always been so…basic. All at once I feel very naïve. “How hard?”

“Depends,” he says, taking the paddle from me, studying it as though he’s never seen such a thing before.

I imagine him using it on me. I’ve felt his palm before—not very hard, but a sharp little slap on my hip once or twice when he was behind me. I liked how it felt. Like a kiss of pain and heat, but even better because I never asked him for that. It was proof he has desires that don’t hinge on a woman’s express request.

“I’m interested in that one,” I say, and set it elsewhere on the bed. “And maybe these.” I draw a pair of silk ties from the box and set them beside the paddle. It’s liberating, choosing things, admitting to being curious. And it’s fun, like shopping. I’m good at shopping.

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.