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?”
“Because women are intuitive! They know their male lovers will take it personally and feel a sense of failure if they do not climax. A woman who loves her man will not wish to hurt his feelings. This is a matter difficult to discuss. Like all things in life, the problem observed is not the real problem. It is secrecy and an inability to talk openly about a subject that makes such things a problem. And why can this issue not be easily discussed?”
“The delicate male ego?” I cautiously suggest.
“Just so.” André flashes me a broad grin. “When a man’s feelings are hurt, it can be more damaging for him than it would be for a woman. Men despise weakness and vulnerability. Women are used to it, often experiencing such emotions—oh—many, many times! They have learned to endure such trials. But men? They are supposed to be big, strong and self-reliant. In this culture, they cannot be perceived as being emotional. Such is considered unmanly.”
“I see.”
“It is a great generalization and as such it is not a perfect truth, but I tell you—men are rarely in touch with their feelings. They put their faith in logic. Logic is most worthy, especially for those who need a firm grasp of control. Yet, the mind is a very poor substitute for the truth in one’s heart.”
I nod my agreement. It’s a stereotype that women are emotional, while men are logical. I think I’m both, but am often swept away by my feelings.
“When men feel inadequate in bed they have an urge to weep and speak about it—yet they do not know how to do so. Instead, they become enraged. They blame their partner, they blame their job. They strike out blindly. Such fury can quickly fall into a sense of failure and depression.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Mais oui! It is a very great secret. Women feel insecure, but they are aware of it. Men feel insec
ure but they deny such feelings. They become angry or give up, hiding their emotions—first from themselves.”
“But not all men.”
“Not all men, of course. But the men I will send to you? Their emotions will be underdeveloped. As a surrogate, your clients will need constant encouragement and reassurance. To give such requires finesse. Never lie. Never exaggerate. All must be sincere. Honesty is vital, as I have told you oh, many times before.”
I nod. André advises me to say nothing if a secret must be kept and never lie. I’m also beginning to think he intentionally got me to compliment his sexual prowess, either to see if I would or for some other reason.
When teaching me, André can be quite subtle. He’s only seven years older than I am, but he’s a million years wiser and more experienced.
“How did you train your cat?” he asks. “You did not focus on what was wrong when interacting with Mitten, did you?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t work. If I pointed out what he did wrong, he'd focus on that. It kind of broke his trust in me. I guess I just found it easier to notice and praise everything Mitten did right. It made him proud of himself. He wanted to please me.”
“Très bien! Make your surrogate partners feel special, but only if you find something truly special, comprenez-vous?”
“Of course. False flattery is merely another form of lying.”
André shoots me a warm smile. “I vow, you are a genius! A cat is much like a man in this way.” Cupping my head in his hand, he kisses me on the lips, a swift response. “You will be a most excellent therapist.”
“Merci.”
“Do not expose weakness directly. Try not to correct them. Let them learn naturally at their own pace. If you must speak—as an example, perhaps if they are too rough—do so in a manner that is easy for them to receive.”
“Right.”
“The first clients I send you will be extremely vulnerable. I trust you with them as you are naturally empathetic.”
“Merci encore.” Thank you again.
My cheeks heat at his praise. He gives me so much, and I feel unworthy.
André knows exactly why I blushed. He knows me so well. I’m inexplicably embarrassed by compliments, something I never had experience with until later in my life. Together, we continue working through my own brand of ‘crazy’ as best as we can.
“Now, I wish to speak of power games,” he says. “Most men will not wish for you to assert your dominance. Do you recall how you felt when you played the Mistress with me?”
“How can I forget?” I snicker. “It was only yesterday.”
“But how did you feel?”
“I liked being in control. It was great fun.”
André wanted to give me a taste of dominance and submission. I hated the idea, but I finally agreed to play the role of his Mistress. He responded to my direct orders in bed. It was strange at first, but then I began to get into the swing of bossing him around.
There were moments when I enjoyed the power I had over him. Times when I reveled in the heady sensation of total control.
André studies me, aware of my thoughts. His slow smile is warm and friendly, but his eyes are knowing.
“But of course, for you, it was only a game, no?”
“It was.”
“Perhaps we can continue, as long as you feel yourself to be playing a game. What did I tell you about submission?”
“If I give up control, in part it’s an illusion. I have the power to say ‘no.’ I can safeword at any time.”
“C'est très bien,” he murmurs. “That is very good, ma petite souris.”
André reaches over and trails a finger from my forehead, down my nose and past my lips. His firm palm is warm as he inches forward to cup my cheek.
“In life, there are always power dynamics. The supervisor is above you, yet there is a supervisor above him, no? The rich person has more power and confidence than one who is struggling with debts. When I look at the world, I see power and control. Vast power inequities are wrong, n'est-ce pas? Such create injustice. You have experienced this.”
My brows pull down as I recall my father, as well as the bullying I received at school. I was a child, under the control and mercy others—people who did not have my best interests at heart. People who callously hurt me.
“Yes, I know all about that,” I say.
“But you learned the wrong lesson!” he protests. “Not all control is bad control! Not all power is bad power! These are the truths you need to understand.”
I frown, trying to process what he’s telling me.
“Ma belle, decide to return to a state of helplessness—but this time, enjoy it! Become familiar with vulnerability by choice! These emotions are neither wrong nor right. They create sensations and feelings one can experience in life. Be at the mercy of someone you trust, someone who you know will only give you pleasure. Then your fear of such powerlessness will be banished.”
A moment of fresh panic washes through me.
Dread.
A stab of pain in my chest.
I blink and stare at him, but say nothing.
I don’t know what to say.
“I was pleased to have you as a Mistress,” he murmurs. “No harm would come to me by your hand, for you care for me, no?”
Nodding, I swallow nervously.
“When it comes to power, there are people who have it, people who want it and those who wish to relinquish it.” The sexy cadence in his voice beguiles me, distracting me from the disquiet in my heart.
André smiles. “Many find it exhilarating to simply let go.”
His easygoing manner changes completely. Suddenly, he’s in-charge. I gasp, giddy with sensation. The frightened mouse in me reads his intent.
“Dominance and submission are not about overpowering one’s will, ma petite. They are about having fun and satisfying needs.”
Raw power shines through him in every possible way. It's in his expression, in his manner and in how he holds himself.
Dominance.
Mastery.
His eyes are hard upon me as his solid male body presses against mine. His hand leaves my face—one long finger trails down my neck and continues down along the valley between my breasts.
I bite my lip.
“To give up control can be rewarding,” he says, his accent is thick, sultry and seductive. “And empowering.”
He rests his palm casually between my breasts, a sign of both possession and ownership. Raw sexual heat radiates from him in palpable force, while his hand ignites my flesh with passionate fire. My breathing and heart rate speed up.
André’s entire demeanor is imposing. It excites me, yet it scares me, as well. I thought I was paying attention to him before.
He has all of my attention now.
“You have taken your pleasure in dominating me, ma petite. It is your turn to know and embrace the joy of submission. Spread your legs for me. Now!”
I can’t fight the almost harsh authority in his command. Instinctively, I do as he asks—but I don’t like it. Arousal and anticipation mix with fear and discomfort. It's confusing and unsettling, to say the least.
Drawing in a deep breath, my head spins with a kind of drunken lightheadedness. André says when BDSM is done correctly, it can be excellent therapy. We’ve discussed this so many times and in so many ways. If there was a university degree on BDSM, I’d probably be a PhD by now.
André won’t attempt to bind me or force me to do anything—he knows better than that. He wants to control me. I trust him. I know he won't hurt me.
Why then, am I so frightened? Do I really want to face this fear?
“Very nice,” he croons softly when I obey him. His voice rolls across my skin like a loving caress.
“Now put your hands above your head. I wish to see you open and exposed to my fingers, my teeth, my tongue and my cock,” he says in his firm voice of comman
d.
I freeze. My arms remain firmly at my sides, my fists clenched. My heart skips a beat—I feel a large extra thump in my chest, then my pulse really begins to pound. A strange noise fills my head, a silent scream of panic.
I feel trapped, anxious and afraid.
I can’t do this.
I don’t like this feeling.
I don’t want to be ordered around or forced to do things that are not my choice.
André shifts upwards, his body above mine. He’s so much bigger than I am. So much stronger. Like my father. An intense urge to run and hide slams into me. I feel like a frightened child again as his piercing gaze locks upon mine.
“I… I… I don’t like this, André,” I stutter in protest, my voice raised high from nerves. “You… you want to take all my control away from me!”
His genuinely startled look stuns me.
“Mais non!” he says. “Je t'assure, I have no wish to take your power and control from you.” He inches away, giving me space. His striking features break into a broad grin, while his dark eyes sparkle with amusement.
“You don’t?” I ask timidly.
“Non,” he mutters, cursing under his breath rapidly in French. “Am I a thief? This is what you think of me?” He asks, clearly insulted. “That I would steal something so valuable through force or from a sly attack in the dark?”
André rubs his knuckles along my cheek, an intimate and loving gesture. “My petite souris, never. Never! I vow, I have no desire to take your power from you.” His features are beautiful, his expression angelic. “I wish for you to give it to me freely.”
Chapter 1.
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
― Kurt Vonnegut
~~~
Two years later…
Renata Koreman
I’m seated in the airplane beside Grant, my shoulders hunched, eyes averted and my hands clasped tightly together. I’m freaking out, partially because I’m out of my comfort zone—new situations and new people make me nervous.
But that’s not my only problem.