“Was that the first time she did that for you?”
I nodded. “It was incredible. I felt this sense of giddy vertigo – a sensation I can’t quite describe. I looked down and Claire was looking back up into my eyes. She had the length of me deep in her mouth, and her lips drew back and forwards as she bobbed her head. I reached down and tangled my fingers into her hair, and she groaned. That was it. That was all it took to send me over the edge. I erupted in her mouth, flooding come across her tongue. She swallowed hard, and she was smiling around my cock. I felt my legs trembling. I needed to sit down. I was sweating and shaking, but she kept me in her mouth and wrapped her hands around my thighs so I couldn’t move. Then I felt her tongue slowly massage my shaft, and after a couple of minutes I was stiffening again.
“When I was hard, she let me slide from between her lips and she took me back in her hand, kneading me with her long delicate fingers. ‘Now you’re ready,’ she said. She was breathless. She led me to the bed and laid me out on my back like I was some kind of erotic sacrifice, and then she straddled my waist. Somehow, while she had been sucking me, she had peeled off her panties. I felt the brush of her body across my hips and she was naked.
“‘Lay still. I’ll do all the work’ she said. Her voice wasn’t cruel or insistent. It was a soft gentle whisper. She let her breasts swing forward and I suckled one nipple into my mouth. I heard her gasp, and she arched her back in a slow voluptuous movement so that her pussy grazed against the hardened tip of my cock. I felt the heat and dampness of her, and her gasp became a low moan of wanting that I had heard so often before. I think she had an orgasm right then; I felt little wavelets shudder through her, and she screwed her eyes tightly shut, frozen for long seconds.”
I paused for a moment and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. I glanced at Leticia, but she seemed unaware of my scrutiny. She was staring off into the distance and I wondered what she was thinking, or visualizing.
“I think the idea of taking my virginity elated her. I think she saw it as a trophy of some sort. She reached down between our bodies and I felt the arm that was supporting her weight above me begin to tremble. Then I felt my cock slide deep inside her and she threw back her head and growled like it was a moment of triumph.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know what to do. My mind was reeling from the overload of sensations. Claire captured my wrists and pinned my hands above my head, then began to rock and undulate her hips, clenching and releasing her muscles, all the while groaning and gasping softly. She lowered her head and buried it against my neck. I felt her breath and then her mouth. She kissed and bit her way from my neck to my chest, and as she moved lower, the thrust and rock of her hips became faster, like a sensual gyrating dance.
“I felt myself racing to the edge, and every muscle in my body locked up. I forgot to breathe. Claire sensed it too, because she suddenly slid her tongue inside my mouth and kissed me so fiercely that she crushed my lip against my teeth and there was the taste of blood – and then I was lurching and heaving up off the bed as I came deep inside her.” I said it all in one long rushed sentence and then took a deep breath.
It was warm in the apartment. The air was still heavy with the day’s heat. I slid off my tie, rolled it into a bundle and stuffed it into my jacket pocket, then unfastened the top button of my shirt.
“Wow,” Leticia said in a whispered, dream-like voice.
I smiled. “Every young man should have a Claire Moreland in their life,” I said.
I meant it.
“Being taught the skills and thrills of sex by an older woman was one of the best things that could have happened to me, Leticia. I learned so much from her, and they were important lessons – lessons I still remember and apply even today,” I said sincerely.
Leticia looked surprised. “But she was crazy.”
I shook my head. “Claire wasn’t crazy. She was an intense, sexual woman. Sure, some of the things she did could be considered extreme, and I’m not suggesting every woman in her late twenties and thirties suddenly blackmail a teenager to be their personal sex slave. I’m simply saying that young guys would be far better at lovemaking and sex if they got their education from an older woman, rather than a porn website or one of their equally inept, inexperienced friends.”
There was more I wanted to say, but the sudden sound of a text message on my phone derailed my thoughts. I fetched the phone from my jacket pocket and read quickly.
Leticia was watching me with an expression of vague concern.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
“No,” I smiled. “Everything is fine.” I put the phone away and reached across the table for her hand. “We need to go,” I said. “Dinner is being served.”
She looked suddenly horrified. “I can’t go out like this!” she looked aghast. “I’m wearing old jeans and a t-shirt. I thought when you offered to take care of the meal tonight that we would order Chinese, or pizza. Jonah – I’m sorry. I can’t…”
I went round the table and pulled out her chair.
“Jonah, please,” she pleaded. “I can’t go out –”
I pressed my finger against her mouth, and her protest died on her lips. “We’re not going out,” I said calmly. “We’re going up.”
* * *
We rode the elevator to the top floor and when the doors glided quietly open, I took Leticia by the arm and guided her along the passageway towards a red door. Tiny, my driver, was standing in front of the opening, hands clasped in front of him, looking like a man-mountain – looking like a night-club bouncer. He was smiling. He turned and held the fire-door open for us and I led Leticia up the staircase onto the rooftop of the apartment building.
The night was still. A million stars hung in the dark sky, and a wedge of golden moon was rising from behind the distant hills.
The rooftop had been lit with hundreds of small tea-lights, their flickering flame spilling a soft glow as we stepped towards a candle-lit table set for two. A tall young woman was standing beside the table. She had long dark hair drawn back over her shoulder in a ponytail. She smiled politely at Leticia, and I pulled her chair out for her. She sat, in a bewildered daze, her eyes wide with wonder.
“I hope you like seafood,” I said. “Due to the limitations of our location, I had to select the dishes in advance.”
Leticia nodded numbly, and the waitress disappeared down the stairwell.
The city stretched out below us, the sounds of traffic rising and ebbing, the bustle of life somehow muted by our location and atmosphere. Pinpricks of light drifted across the dark landscape as cars and weary drivers made their way home from work, and the city streetlights ran away into the night like strings of sparkling diamonds.
“You did all this?” Leticia asked in disbelief.
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me too much credit,” I confessed. “I just had the idea. Everyone else did the work behind the scenes to make it happen.”
She tilted her head to the side, as if she were trying to see me from a different angle. She looked mystified, and she shook her head slowly. “You have a reputation for being a hard man,” she said. “Everyone I spoke to told me you were a ruthless businessman. A heartless bastard,” she said without any trace of guile.
There was a bottle of wine chilling in a silver ice bucket beside the table. I filled both our glasses.
“Guilty as charged,” I said agreeably. “Whoever you spoke to is absolutely correct.”
Leticia sipped at the wine and set her glass back down on the table, then leaned forward a little so I could see the candlelight reflected in her eyes. “Well I figured you would be a hard man away from your work too,” she confessed. “I expected you would be just as demanding and just as ruthless in your personal life – with your submissives, I mean.”
I frowned. “What makes you think I’m not?”
She looked surprised. “A candle-lit dinner on a rooftop? It’s not what I expected of the formidable Jonah Noble.”
r /> “You’re not one of my submissives,” I pointed out. “And you’re not a business rival.”
She smiled. “So what does that make me?”
I considered the question carefully. I tasted the wine. It was good. “Right now it makes you a mystery,” I said slowly. “A fascinating puzzle.”
* * *
The meal arrived and we ate in amiable silence. The seafood was superb and I suddenly remembered how hungry I was. By the time dessert arrived, the bottle of wine was almost empty.
“What are the rules when it comes to BDSM?” Leticia asked. Then she frowned down at her plate for an instant before continuing. “I mean, are there any rules? Is there some kind of structure or framework to BDSM and the way people do it?”
I wanted to laugh – I really did, but the expression on her face told me she was genuine and sincere.
“Haven’t you researched the subject? Isn’t that what a good journalist is supposed to do?”
“I researched you, sir. You’re the subject of my interview.”
I nodded. “Well to understand me, you need to understand the BDSM lifestyle. Not many people do. Most people have preconceived notions about the role of the Master and the role of the sub. I think if more people understood the reality, they’d be less inclined to classify the lifestyle as abusive, or demeaning. Those kind of comments come from ignorance.”
She gave me a little smile. “So, enlighten me.”
I sat back and thought for a moment. I wanted to get up from the table and pace, but I didn’t.
“The BDSM lifestyle is like…. like seafood,” I said in a moment of dubious inspiration. “And seafood comes in a hundred different forms. Some people like shrimp, but cannot tolerate the taste of fish. Some folks enjoy lobster…. The point is, it all comes under the broad label of ‘seafood’, and yet we all have different preferences. BDSM is the same. As far as the sexual aspects of the lifestyle go, some submissives enjoy being spanked. Others enjoy being tied or handcuffed. Others I have met enjoy other things completely. It’s a question of taste, and those matters are negotiated by the Master and their submissive, to ensure both – I repeat both – people involved enjoy what takes place.”
I paused for a moment and studied Leticia’s expression. “Does that make sense?”
She nodded, though I could see it was conditional. She had more questions. I went on quickly.
“The only generally accepted rules of sex-play in a BDSM relationship are that whatever the participants engage in must be safe, sane, and it must be consensual.”
Leticia waved her hands at me in a sudden animated outburst. “That’s what I don’t get!” she said. “That’s the part about BDSM that I just can’t get a grasp on.”
“What? That it must be safe?”
“No! The concept that such a relationship can be consensual. How, for the love of god, is that possible?” Two glasses of wine had made Leticia animated. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. Her gestures, the tone of her voice, the way she held her body – everything about her became a little more real, and a little less restricted. It was as though she had begun to relax, and lost some of her prim reserve.
It had not escaped my attention that she had called me ‘sir’ just a few minutes earlier.
Had it been an accident, or was it deliberate?
“Leticia, if you desperately wanted children, would you marry a man that despised children?”
“No,” she said. “That would probably be a deal-breaker, if I had my heart set on having a family.”
I nodded. “Of course you wouldn’t. And it’s the same with BDSM play. No submissive is going to want to submit to a Master who is obsessed with whips and handcuffs, if they hate the idea of being whipped and bound.”
“You’re saying submissives have a choice.”
“Of course!” I said. “More than that, generally speaking, in a BDSM relationship, the submissive is the one who holds the real power.”
Leticia shook her head. “How can that be?”
“Because BDSM is based on consent,” I said. “The Master cannot exert control and power over someone who does not willingly –” I raised my finger to emphasize the point, “willingly offer themselves. A Master without a submissive is a guy. Just a guy. He needs someone who wishes to submit to him, in order to become a Master.”
Maybe I was doing a poor job of explaining the lifestyle, and the roles of the Master and the submissive. Leticia looked more confused now than when I had started with my ridiculous seafood analogy.
I really needed to get some better material.
The problem was that I’d never felt the need to explain the lifestyle to anyone before. Whenever I had engaged in conversations about BDSM, it was invariably with someone who already understood the lifestyle. I didn’t have the ‘sound bites’ I needed to make a convincing case for someone like Leticia – someone who was outside the lifestyle, and with very limited sexual and relationship experience.
“You called the Master a guy,” she said softly. “Can’t women be the dominant one, and the man be the submissive?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. Generally the stereotype is a male dominant, and a female submissive. But certainly the roles are equally valid if reversed.”
For some reason I was getting annoyed. Maybe I was irritated with myself because I had failed to present the case for BDSM clearly. “But don’t start that political correctness bullshit,” I said. “I warned you last night. I’m not a fan. So if I call the Master ‘him’ and I refer to a submissive as ‘her’, you’re just going to have to deal with it. Okay?”
Leticia flinched. I saw hurt or disappointment cloud across her face. “Okay,” she said softly. She looked down at the table.
There was a long simmering silence.
I was the one who was simmering.
The shutters of Leticia’s cool reserve were back up.
Noble, you’re a jerk!
I checked my watch. The waitress was hovering discreetly in the background, waiting to clear away the table.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed, and shook my head. “I didn’t mean to snap. I got annoyed because I can’t explain the BDSM lifestyle to you in twenty-five words or less. Leticia, it’s not that simple – but no relationship, emotional or sexual, is easy to explain. It takes time to assimilate the information. I can tell you the facts and the way it works, but you can’t understand them instantly. It’s a process of awareness and understanding. That’s why I knew an interview could never be completed in one session, and why you would never get a real understanding of the lifestyle if you asked questions that weren’t insightful and probing – and very personal.”
She looked up, smiled faintly.
I stared down at the dinner plates. “It’s like – ”
Suddenly Leticia leaned forward across the table and reached boldly for my hand. She looked up into my eyes and her expression was almost pained. “Please,” she said softly, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “please don’t use another seafood analogy!”
For a split-second there was only brittle silence. Then I started to laugh.
And then we were both laughing and everything was all right again.
* * *
“Every night for the next three weeks I went to the guesthouse for sex,” I said.
We were back in the apartment. Leticia flicked on a lamp and then perched herself on a small two-seater sofa. I paced the floor between where she sat and the television. I glanced at her and saw her face lit by the gentle glow, and in that subtle light her features seemed to take on a new depth and dimension of beauty. I paused, distracted for just a second, and then continued speaking.
“Sometimes we would fuck, but most of the time she wanted me on my knees, licking her clit,” I said. “And if I didn’t do it right – if she didn’t come at least a couple of times – then she got angry.”
“Angry? How?”
“Threats,” I shrugged. “More threats to tell my father ever
ything. Then one night she threatened to go to the press. That was it. That was when I knew I had to wrest the power from her. She was like a stick of dynamite. Sooner or later she was going to explode, and I knew the damage would be extensive. In short – I didn’t trust her.”
“What did you do?”
I smiled bleakly. “I waited,” I said. “Then one weekend Claire said she was going to New York to visit family. Her sister had fallen down subway stairs. She left Friday afternoon, straight after study, and as soon as the cab disappeared out through the gates, I went to the guesthouse.”
“You broke in?”
I shrugged. “I had my key…”
“You broke in.”
I nodded. “And I went from room to room through the unit, looking for something – looking for anything I could use as leverage. I started in the bedroom. I went through every drawer and found nothing. There was nothing in the closets – I even went through the pockets of her coats and a couple of handbags she left behind. Nothing.”
Leticia wasn’t making notes. She followed me with her eyes as I paced.
“It was only a small guesthouse: no larger than your apartment,” I said. “There was a bedroom, a small living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. Eventually, I found what I was looking for in the kitchen.”
“What was it?” Leticia whispered.
“It was a diary,” I said. “She had hidden it in the air exhaust vent of the range hood that hung above the cooking hotplates.”
“God! She had a diary? She kept a record of everything you did together?”
“No. It wasn’t that kind of diary. It was a small, personal one – the kind of thing women keep in their handbags.”
Leticia sat back, and her shoulders seemed to slump as though she were disappointed.
“So there were no descriptions – no incriminating confessions like in the movies?”