Abuse

  André loves me and I love him, but it can never go any further between us—I’ve always known that. For a start, he’s into BDSM. It's a part of who he is and what he needs. He could never leave that behind.

  I was utterly powerless and abused as a child. Because of my past, I’m repelled by the idea of bondage or domination. After suffering a lack of freedom and choice for so many years, I need to be in control of myself and my actions.

  Also, as much as André loves me, he doesn’t need me. As far as I can tell, André doesn’t need anyone—people need him. Long ago, I realized whoever becomes my life partner, he must need me.

  I need to be needed.

  I shift my pillow around to put my face on a cool spot and sigh a deeply satisfied sigh. My nipples are tender, my ass is pleasantly sore and my pussy’s stretched and aching. Mmm. Thoroughly used and sated, my entire body hums from mind-blowing pleasure.

  How did I go for so long without sex?

  It’s been wonderful to break the drought.

  Yet, life has been demanding, exciting and full of change over this time. I’ve been learning so much, I didn't mind missing out. My attention was focused elsewhere so my need for sex was downgraded in priority. I received comfort and support in other ways, I guess.

  “Ma petite,” André says with a broad smile, striding naked back into the bedroom without the slightest hint of inhibition. His voice is soothing, his manner pleased. How does he manage to look so elegant, even without any clothes?

  The moment I see him, my heart skips a beat and I freely grin back.

  My body flushes with potent sensual memory.

  With desire.

  With love.

  André’s presence is like a powerful kind of music that stirs me, heart and soul.

  People read, write and talk about ‘finding’ themselves. I discovered who I was just by being around André. Whatever I thought, said or did, he gave me absolute acceptance. He represents safety, kindness and the warmth of honest friendship.

  I used to be a frightened mouse all of the time. Often I still am. I have to force myself to look people in the eyes. Every day I struggle not to hide, to face my anxieties, to speak and be part of the real world.

  Yet, I’m never nervous, shy or tongue-tied with André. I can be myself with him.

  He brings a glass of water, a towel and a warm washcloth back to the bed with him. He hands me the glass. I push up, finish the drink completely and slouch back down on the bed. I don’t move as he applies the cloth and towel, gently wiping away the aftermath of sex from my body.

  I’ve grown used to his care and attention.

  After cleaning and drying me, he straddles my hips and begins to give me a neck and back-rub. He's never massaged me before and I close my eyes, languorous with pleasure.

  “Oh, André, that feels so good,” I moan.

  He chuckles. “I am glad. This week, I am reminded of when you first came to me. Before you comfortably recalled how to use your voice, you wrote to me in your little notebook. Do you remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked if there was anything that particularly attracted your interest. You wrote, “I like sex and I’m good at it.”

  I give an inelegant snort and break into laughter. “I remember that conversation. How could I forget?”

  Sex was pretty much the one thing I felt comfortable with in life. In bed with a trusted friend was the only time I felt safe enough to relax and be myself.

  “I kept that piece of paper and dated it. Did you know?”

  I snicker. “No, really? Why?”

  “The goals and interests one has when one is young? They are later found to be the strongest driving forces in one’s lifetime. Not always, of course—yet often.”

  “Mmm,” I moan as he continues his backrub, hitting a particular spot, squeezing both shoulders at the same time. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Wounded as you were, I knew of your caring nature. I perceived the potential in you to become a gifted sexual surrogate even then, ma petite souris.”

  I blink. “You did?”

  “Mais, oui.”

  I met André after my best friend died. It was a dark period for me, a time of grief and madness that forever changed the course of my life. This period of despair could only be exceeded in horror by one previous event, on my twelfth birthday.

  Eight years ago, senseless violence stole both my mother and my baby brother away from me.

  Loss and grief are strange emotions. They’re like photographs that persist, stagnant in one’s mind. No way forward, no way back—just an unchanging image and constant state of misery.

  “I was so lost,” I say. “It’s a wonder you saw anything of value at all. I was such a mess. I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”

  “I vow it was my pleasure.”

  “Merci, merci beaucoup, André. Je t'aime,” I say in French—thanks, thank you so much. I love you.

  “And I love you, little mouse,” he says, while continuing his massage. The man makes me feel even more boneless… if that’s even possible.

  Today my skilled and loveable Frenchman has been showing me the difference between clitoral and G-spot orgasms. They're both enjoyable, but each type of climax provides unique sensations.

  The big, mind-bending O comes from having both a clitoral and a G-spot orgasm at the same time.

  Using a dildo vibrator pressed against my G-spot, André simultaneously worked his tongue as fast as a hummingbird’s wings on my clit. My breasts tender and heavy, nipples erect, clit pulsing, pussy rippling—I’d sobbed with need, screaming with pleasure as I came.

  The resulting ecstasy robbed me of my ability to speak.

  I collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, my head in the clouds.

  With barely a break to regain any semblance of composure, André moved on with the intention of upping the ante. He was determined to show me the ultimate bliss of a combined anal, vaginal and clitoral orgasm.

  I’d had anal sex before and enjoyed it. Still, I resisted, moaning my disagreement with his plan. I was bushed. I was done—wrung out and spent. There was no way I could possibly climax again. In my exhausted and highly sensitized state, I just wanted to rest and recover.

  My protests only resulted in putting a devilish glint of mischief in his eyes. André loves a challenge.

  I find him utterly impossible to resist.

  So many things happened at once. The dildo stretched my vagina, vibrating away against my G-spot while André toyed with my clit. The sensation of stretching and utter fullness was powerful as he entered my back passage. My erect, aching nipples rubbed roughly against the sheets, while he began to slowly rock, deep inside of me.

  I’ve never felt so complete, so full!

  Wave upon wave of desire and pleasure spread through me. Together, we moved in a sensual rhythm—our bodies moving in time with our panting breath and racing heartbeats.

  Throbbing need became pulsing pleasure when he began to pound his hard cock deliciously, deep into my ass.

  Talk about an overload of erotic sensory input! Every part of my body buzzed with need and sensation. The building pleasure became so blindingly intense, it was excruciating. I could only compare it to pain.

  We were fused together through sensation.

  Ragged breathing. Burning heat.

  Moans, grunts and astonished gasps.

  By the time his talented fingers began to strum my swollen clit, I’d pretty much lost my mind. All that erotic stimulation triggered something primal within me. No longer human, I felt like a wild animal.

  The resultant all-consuming release seared my soul.

  I’d never experienced such violent, whole-body convulsions. For a moment, I passed out—I certainly disconnected from any working brain cells at any rate.

  It was at least a good five minutes before I remembered my own name.

  I’m here to tell you that the big, big, BIG, mind-bending O comes
from clitoral, anal and G-spot simultaneous stimulation. And if your partner climaxes with you, like André did? Well, all I can say is there should be a special name for that kind of powerful, mutual orgasm.

  One word wouldn’t cover it. Maybe something like, the elusive, mind-bending, over the top, taste of heaven, nirvana, ‘is this a fucking dream?’ and ‘can I die from pleasure?’ orgasm.

  There’s nothing like it.

  The French have an expression referring to the fireworks in the mind’s eye during sexual climax. Voir les anges. Literally, it means, “To see the angels.”

  I’m pretty sure I did, too. I certainly recall seeing multi-colored stars.

  André adores making a woman come, as much or even more than he enjoys climaxing himself. I’ve wanted him for ages and I know he’s been wanting me too. Years of anticipation enhanced our experience, heightening each touch, every kiss.

  He finds a knot on my right shoulder blade. I moan, close my eyes and absorb the sensations as he works on it.

  “It is good?”

  “God, yes. Très bon, merci.”

  His laugh is lighthearted but his magical fingers don’t stop.

  “Is this a special birthday backrub?” I murmur. “Or do you do this to everyone you’re with?”

  I feel him shrug. “I enjoy taking care of those with whom I am intimate. It is a selfishness, I fear. It pleases me to please them.”

  I giggle over that. He selfishly gives others pleasure. Who wouldn‘t love André?

  For months, he’s been teaching me how to talk to people and how to be a counselor. Now that I’m no longer a teenager, he’s discussing important sexual aspects of being a surrogate. André has gone over a number of management techniques for various situations such as impotence, premature ejaculation and performance anxiety.

  Sexual therapy can be quite subtle. Going at the client’s own speed is important, beginning with simple eye contact, perhaps touching fingers, then the face and so on. Like me, many of my clients may be hurt from trauma, abuse or both.

  Since I’ve experienced abuse, I’ll be able to relate and truly understand them. The majority of my work will be about building trust and intimacy.

  I’m a good listener and André is quite a performer. He’s been acting as various surrogate partners might act during sessions. He's pretended to be shy or embarrassed, throwing up his hands up in panic and saying things like, “I cannot speak of this!”

  You’d think I’d have laughed.

  Yet, André was so realistic when he play-acted as a client. It wasn’t difficult to keep a straight face—except when he pretended to be someone with a foot fetish. The way he ardently kissed my feet completely cracked me up. It also tickled!

  I smile as I recall how passionately he threw himself into each role.

  Lightly karate-chopping my entire back, he sends chills up my spine. His movements begin to slow, growing slower and then stopping. I’m warm and tingly all over.

  André is finished with me, I think.

  “You once told me you were good at sex,” he says, resting a caressing hand on my lower back, intriguingly close to my buttocks. “Happily, I have found this to be an accurate claim. Even more importantly, you are able to connect with others. It is a gift. For all the reserve you were forced to endure as a child, there was a brave and loving woman hidden inside.”

  My heart melts when I hear his words. My eyes sting and for a moment, I can’t speak past the sudden lump in my throat.

  “You always say nice things about me, André.”

  “But of course! Yet, I do so only if they are true.”

  Finished with my massage, he climbs off of me and lays beside me on the bed, propped up on one elbow. I roll over and lie flat on my back, with my head on a pillow.

  Our faces inches apart, I look directly into his expressive eyes and give him a loving smile. Normally, it's a terrible struggle for me to meet someone’s gaze, or to speak openly and to show emotion. Yet, with André, It's natural. I trust him so deeply that I can easily do these things with him.

  My brows furrow in a frown. I’m full of self-doubt, as usual. “You don’t think I’m too young and inexperienced to be a surrogate?”

  He tilts his head and studies me with appraising eyes. “Your inexperience we correct day by day. I am not many years older than you are. Must one have grey hairs on their head, before they are wise?”

  I snort. “Of course not, my uncle is proof of that. He's totally grey and has clearly been hit with the stupid stick more than once.”

  André laughs loudly without restraint, the free and joyous sound fills my heart. I grin like a crazy woman.

  He grins back. “Just so. It has nothing to do with age! A good therapist must be non-judgmental and open-minded. They must be attentive listeners. The surrogate must be comfortable with sex and her own body. Yet, most importantly, the surrogate must have a loving and generous heart. A heart such as yours.”

  “Merci, André.”

  He presses his lips to my forehead, the affectionate gesture warming me from head to toe. Compliments make me uncomfortable, but right now I’m in admiration overload. I can’t help but be pleased by all the praise he’s showering upon me.

  André’s lips tug up into a smile. “I could train someone, perhaps, to be comfortable and experienced in the act of sex, yet the naturally generous spirit? The selfless drive to help others? Impossible! Such kindness comes from within. It is a rare and precious gift that cannot be taught.”

  I consider this for a moment, and know what he says is true. I’m super-sensitive. When I see people suffer, I hurt.

  Another thought forms in my mind. “Is it OK for me to practice before I’m fully qualified?”

  “Ma petite souris, there is no law against it in Nevada. There are perhaps sixty registered sexual surrogates in the entire United States. Do you think that is enough to assist the many, many who are troubled?”

  Stunned, my mouth drops open. I shut it.

  André smiles at the surprise on my face. “It is shocking, no? You are needed, little mouse.”

  “I see.”

  “Besides, a full refund for dissatisfied clients is written into every contract.” One of his elegant eyebrows arches smugly, and he adds, “I have never been asked for a refund.”

  I snicker, not at all surprised.

  “Do not fear. I will oversee your work. Of a certainty, you will make, oh-so many mistakes, but your clients will be forgiving. Something done to assist someone in need is better than if nothing is attempted, yes?”

  “Yes.” I’m still tingling all over. Great sex followed by a great massage. Does life get any better than this? I'm in heaven, sharing a cloud with my beloved André.

  “Thank you, André,” I sigh. “That felt fantastic.”

  “The backrub?” he asks, with an air of innocence.

  My eyes widen in surprise. I study his face curiously. For all his sexual expertise, I suspect André’s fishing for a compliment. He’s so self-assured and sexy. Still… he is a man. Despite their confidence, or pretense of confidence, people and especially men seem to need—or at least appreciate—reassurance.

  “I’ve never had better sex in my life, André… but you know that already.”

  There’s mischief in his expression. “And yet, it does no harm to hear it, ma petite.”

  I laugh, because this is true.

  “You have discovered much this week, no?”

  I grin up at him. “I’ve also had a lot of fun.”

  “As have I,” he says with a naughty glint in his dark eyes. “I wish to discuss men with you. What do you know of the ego?”

  I frown. “Do you want the textbook definition?” I ask, thinking of the psychology course I’m taking.

  “No.”

  “Well then, I guess you mean a person's sense of self-esteem or importance.”

  “Bon. The ego, it is our concept of self, n'est-ce pas?” he says. “It is our sense of self-worth. To work with
men, you must know it is oh-so easy to bruise the ego. Such an injury will cause negative repercussions. It will push your client away, which you do not wish to do.”

  “Right. Is it true the male ego is more fragile than a female’s?”

  “But yes! We men are much more childish than women in this respect! When I say childish, I mean immature. Most men do not allow their emotions to grow to adulthood. Women, they are used to dealing with their moods, no? Women experience strong emotions daily—if not, most certainly at least monthly.”

  I giggle and André gives me a wry smile.

  “Women tend to embrace their feelings more readily. They do not reject them. Men? Often we do not know how to express our feelings, or we are too frightened to do so.”

  “Frightened of what?”

  “Of oh-so many things—rejection, failure, vulnerability.” He shrugs. “Exposure or making a fool of oneself. Perhaps the fear of being ridiculed, belittled or hurt.”

  I snort. “Everyone’s afraid of those things!”

  “Very true, yet men conceal these fears, even from themselves.”

  I nod my agreement. “Do you think men are cut off from their emotions because ‘real men’ are supposed to act tough?”

  One graceful shoulder lifts in a shrug. “It is of course a possibility, but who can say? It is certainly more acceptable for women to display their emotions. You have seen women cry?”

  “Many times.”

  He raises one dark eyebrow. “Have you ever seen a man cry?”

  “Only once,” I say, my mind becoming caught in the memory. “Jamie cried very, very quietly, and only in front of me. He’d been rejected by the man he loved. I wept too, from seeing so much hurt reflected in his eyes.”

  When I return my gaze to him, André nods. “Unrequited love is very painful, ma petite souris.”

  “Yes.”

  “Men, they have the emotions, oh yes! They feel deeply and are most sensitive—particularly concerning matters of the heart. Yet they hide, they become irritated, they deny and push such sensitivities away, yes?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you know why so many heterosexual women fake orgasms?”

  My brow furrows at the abrupt subject change. “No, why?”