Accuse
By
Nikki Sex
Copyright 2015 by Nikki Sex
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Acknowledgements
I want to give a very big thank you to my Beta readers: ET1 Elaine, Nancy Dittmar, Shermaine Dowling, Trish Good, Mike Riley and Lawrence Southwick.
Thanks to my editor, S.H. Beans and my proof editors, Trish Bacher, Donna Repsher, and Traci Roe.
Also, many thanks to my wonderful Street Team André’s Angels who believe in me, encourage me and have helped me to succeed by spreading the word!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23.
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
Chapter 31.
Chapter 32.
Chapter 33.
Chapter 34.
Chapter 35.
Chapter 36.
Chapter 37.
Chapter 38.
Chapter 39.
Chapter 40.
Chapter 41.
Chapter 42.
Chapter 43.
Chapter 44.
Chapter 45.
Chapter 46.
Epilogue
Prologue
Results of a 2005 American Survey:
What do women need to do to conform to cultural norms? Be nice, be thin, show modesty by not calling attention to oneself, be domestic, care for children, keep sexual intimacy contained within one committed relationship, and use all available resources to invest in appearance.
What do men need to do to conform to cultural norms? Winning at all costs, emotional control, risk-taking, violence, dominance, playboy behavior, self-reliance, primacy of work, disdain for homosexuality, pursuit of status.
— Boston College Research
I lie on my stomach, out of breath and panting. My pulse is racing, but it’s beginning to slow.
“Excusez-moi, ma petite souris,” a quiet voice says from behind my back. Excuse me, my little mouse, he says.
André has always called me that from the first day I met him. I’m 5’10,” not at all little or mouse-like in size. Yet, ‘little mouse,’ suits me.
I grew up in the shadow of a violent father, which resulted in me being fearful of everything. I became nervous around people and could only stutter—when I was able to talk at all.
I’m so much better now. I can hide my fear around strangers. I can meet their eyes and talk to them, but I’ve still got a long way to go.
André presses his lips to the skin between my shoulder blades in farewell. I shiver as his simple touch causes a flare of sensual fire to flash down my spine. He gets up from where he’s been lying on top of me, and strides with confident grace toward the bathroom.
I watch him leave, admiring his broad shoulders, narrow hips and tight, muscular ass. He's so manly, yet so beautiful.
Languid and utterly boneless, I notice a sheen of sweat on my forearm. What a workout! The man has killed me with pleasure, but what a way to go. A liquid sensation of delicious erotic release thrums through my whole body with every beat of my heart.
Each and every aching desire I have has been well and truly appeased.
I’m done.
Well done.
Char-broiled in fact.
It’s been a big day—in fact, it’s been a big week. This week I celebrated my twentieth birthday, something I’ve been waiting for what seems like forever. I haven’t been intimate with anyone since my best friend Jamie died.
During the last five days with André, I've more than made up for any lack of sexual activity. It's been spectacular—well worth the wait.
When I was homeless, I had sex all the time. I wanted it. I needed it. Sexual intimacy made me feel loved. It’s funny, but since I met André, I haven’t had sex—and yet, I feel more loved than I’ve ever felt before.
I’ve lusted after André for a long time, but he always refused my advances. I’ll never forget what he said the first time I asked him to take me to bed. He looked at me with a kind expression and those ridiculously long, black eyelashes.
Instinctively, I knew he wanted me—just as I wanted him.
“Ma belle,” he had said tranquilly, despite the hunger in his dark eyes. “Pardon… I refuse to make love to a teenager.”
Thus, we both had to wait. I first came to live with André, three months before I turned eighteen. Consequently, I’ve had a powerful case of the hots for him for years. He’s starred in countless erotic fantasies.
Five days ago, I finally left my teens behind. The day I turned twenty is a day that will be forever etched in my memory. All sense of restraint between us was gone. Passions that had built up during our time together were finally set free. The resulting raw, animal violence of our passion astonished us both. We struggled and fought, straining to get closer, our bodies sweating and molding together into one.
He took me in every possible way, just as I took him. André and I went at it like rabbits, all day—all night. We even ate in bed.
It was amazing.
It was also the best birthday gift anyone could ever receive.
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 as
pects 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.