Reversal:Curio Vignettes 03(8)

By: Cara McKenna



“I don’t know.” I stroke her calves. “I like to please you. It would make me feel better to be that way. To feel…capable.” It’s hard to say these things. It’s been my job for so long to give women no reason to doubt my manhood, my skills, my command and reverence for their sexual experiences, inside my home. It occurs to me that the woman here with me now knows me better than anyone has in ages. She knows the veneer and the mess it hides. I suppose she must like the mess, but it scares me—being known.

“I know you’re capable. You don’t need to prove it to me.”

“I want to feel it.”

She sighs, seeming resigned for just a moment, before a fresh wave of determination straightens her spine and she sits up. “Let it be my turn to feel capable. In bed.”

I hold her stare, waiting for more.

“If the past few months have been my exposure therapy, with sex and men and all that, let’s test me then. Let’s see if you’ve trained me well enough to seduce a hot-blooded Frenchman.” She grins. If the idea intimidates her, she hides it well.

I hide something well, too—a heated, painful pang in my gut to imagine her going to bed with another man, eager to share with him the sexuality I’ve helped to foster.

You have her now, but you won’t keep her, not if you don’t get better. I think this woman loves me, but she’s not a saint. Her patience will wane sooner or later.

I mirror her wicked smile, faking the enthusiasm I wish I felt. “Is that what all this has been? Your training?”

“In a way.”

“And you’re ready to earn your certificate then?”

She smiles again, softer this time. “I’d like to find out.”

I nod, surrendering. And surely not for the last time tonight. “All right then. Let’s see how well I’ve taught you.”





Chapter Two



“Let’s stand,” Caroly says. “And start this properly.”

We do, and I shiver as she runs her hands and gaze up my belly and chest, over my shoulders, down my arms. I reach for her waist but she catches my wrists.

“You don’t get to do anything except be spoiled,” she informs me.

“Not even touch you? What a cruel deprivation.”

“Just let me be in charge.”

“Very well.” Worries nip at me. Will my cock respond, with all my precious control castrated? If it doesn’t, will I hurt her confidence as well as mine?

The questions drop to the back of my head as she strokes my sides, then my back, her small breasts under her soft cotton top glancing my chest.

Plenty of clients have requested this one-way breed of contact, women who crave a man’s body but fear his touch. It was different all those times. I simply embodied that role, became that obedient man for an hour or two. But Caroly wants me, just Didier, and I’m fidgety when asked to be still. If my hands aren’t kept busy, all their wasted energy goes directly to my hyperactive brain. I could take on a pleasing part, put on a show, make myself into the perfect submissive man…but then it wouldn’t be the two of us anymore. Not the way she wants. Not the way I want either, in all honesty.

“May I speak, or shall I be mute as well as limp?”

She smiles up at me. “You can speak all you like. Just don’t bother making any demands.”

She looks strange to me. New somehow. There’s a gleam in her eye, a wicked glint to match her smirk. She rises on her toes, holding my jaw as she kisses my mouth. It feels odd to accept a kiss, rather than give it. Like writing with my left hand.

Dropping back on her heels, she lets me go and nods to the bed. “Have a seat.”

I do. Caroly does what I might have next, moving the card table iced in half-melted pillar candles closer and lighting a dozen or more wicks. My fingers twitch, wanting to be the ones busy with the task.

She turns, still wearing that funny little grin. Still wearing everything but her shoes, but she remedies that, removing her jewelry, peeling her shirt up her long, long waist and over her head. Her pale skin is opal in the moonlight, cream in the cool dawn, golden now in the candles’ glow. Her brassiere is a shade darker, caramel satin edged in the same lace that minutes ago tickled my fingertips between her thighs. She’s full of interesting angles—the dip of her collarbone, the points of her elbows and the bones of her wrists, the strong lines of her jaw and cheeks. You might find this body on a runway, if never the cover of a men’s magazine. She’s a heron, at once graceful and awkward, long and rare and startling.

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