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I gathered him in my hands. The way he winced, his lip curling back, that’s what got me going. He stood up and tugged my ankles down, parting my legs around his knees. His kissed me, his body undulating over mine, both my hands now cupping his erection, caressing more urgently. He took my breasts into his hot, wet mouth and devoured them; this man was hungry for me. Looking down at my body through his disheveled hair, I knew where he was heading and what he wanted to do to me.
He took me by the waist with both hands. He made the moment linger, before sliding them under my ass cheeks, lifting them lightly, reverently, his fingers going from soft to firm as he spread me open to begin his feast. His tongue found my groove, gathering my lips in his, slicking me down. It was shocking and incredible. What is it about a stranger that lets you abandon all your rules and regulations? Or maybe it was this particular stranger, all appetite and want.
I moaned, my face pressed sideways into the pillows. The heat radiated through my body, made my skin prickly with desire. I peeked over my breasts as he stopped and felt around with one hand for the condom packet, the other hand still beneath me, then brought it to his mouth. He ripped it open and slid it on. I squeezed my eyes shut and could feel the head of his erect cock prodding into me, inching in, all the way in, his hands now gripping my hips hard as he began his slow, gorgeous assault on me. I saw nothing else against the black backdrop of my eyelids, but I felt everything … So this is what it’s like to be fucked hard and well by a beautiful man …
And this is what it looks like …
Later, in the safe confines of my bedroom, popcorn resting in a bowl next to me, the volume on my laptop low, I skipped fast through the stills Erik had taken of me, past the ones of me posing in the lingerie—some that I liked, some that made me wince and slap the screen shut. Then I came upon the naked shots, the ones with my legs spread, my whole body willing, eyes hungry. Oh my god, look at me!
I screamed into my pillow from joyful mortification.
And then I queued up the video, fast-forwarding to the part where Erik opened my thighs wide, hovering over me for a second to take it all in, his back muscles flinching, the close-up as he dipped to lick and suck my clit, my fingers pushing through his hair, my eyes closed. Holy Christ, the look on my face! Pure sexual ecstasy. Here it was: the reason men like to watch. I did look delicious, didn’t I. His head between my thighs, and oh, when he turned me over onto my knees (a not unflattering angle, if I may say), how he fucked me furiously, and how I clenched and stiffened before I came. I was peering at all of this over the top of my sheets, my face lit by the blue screen, my eyes big like saucers.
I made a sex tape! A fucking sex tape! Then came the part where Erik pumped into me, harder and faster, mercilessly, the shaft of his thick penis inching in and out while his fingers dug shadows into my hips. I could tell exactly when I was coming on the video, and I was coming again, now, my own fingers retracing his path as I watched myself being watched by him, his eyes on my back, while he drove into me again and again, calling my name, “Solange,” and saying, “Yes, oh yeah, oh god, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come now” … and he did. And so did I—again—falling back into the pillows of my bed in my own home, my eyes rolling back again in utter bliss. I froze the shot on Erik collapsing across my back, his arms wrapped around my waist, because there it was, evidence of my courage to do something I had never thought I’d do.
And it was all kind of beautiful.
In the morning, before I headed to work, I watched that video one more time, while the dishwasher hummed and the coffee brewed. Then I smashed that lovely USB stick into a thousand pieces in the backyard, burying the shards under an old pine.
CASSIE
When Matilda finally called and explained the dilemma, I just couldn’t say no.
“Cassie, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency,” she said. “We need someone who wasn’t at the induction.”
She explained how Bernice was facilitating a very elaborate fantasy involving a photo shoot for S.E.C.R.E.T.’s new participant but she fell ill. They desperately needed a volunteer to be there, someone whom the new candidate didn’t know and wouldn’t recognize. And just like that, I was back in S.E.C.R.E.T., this time not as a guide but as a fantasy facilitator. I didn’t have time to be a full-on Committee member, not yet. Maybe once the restaurant was up and running, and I had more time on my hands. It was the least I could do after all that S.E.C.R.E.T. had done for me.
My instructions for my first fantasy were to go to the Warehouse District that following Sunday. Matilda suggested I wear a blond wig and heavy makeup just to make sure I wouldn’t be recognized. The task: act as a photographer’s assistant. I was excited, thrilled for the distraction, though I had to admit, when Matilda told me the new S.E.C.R.E.T. participant was the Solange Faraday from Action News Nightly, I was gob-smacked. She was someone you’d never think would need an organization like S.E.C.R.E.T., but I had to remind myself that she was a woman just like the rest of us—like me, like Dauphine, like Kit and Angela once, too, a woman who needed a little sexual boost.
This fantasy indeed had been an elaborate undertaking. First, S.E.C.R.E.T. had to convince the network to hire a new photographer named Erik Bando to shoot its billboards, without giving away the ruse. Angela recruited and trained him. Erik charged the network nothing, S.E.C.R.E.T. covered Erik’s costs, and the network photos, in the end, were stunning. Plus, Matilda was right. Helping with Solange’s fantasy was a total trip and it (mostly) took my mind off Will. There was just one problem. I had to do her makeup! What a mess I made of that! I was grateful Solange took charge and slapped my hands away.
In fact, she impressed the hell out of me. And playing the part of a bossy blond, becoming this other person, someone more daring, sexier and more confident than I really was, was not just thrilling; it inspired an idea, one I desperately needed to run by Will before the opening night of Cassie’s.
We had decided to open on New Year’s Eve. And the weeks leading up to the big night were a blur of menu planning, food testing, equipment buying, plus hiring and training new floor and kitchen staff. And somehow, through it all, Will and I were mostly able to avoid each other, communicating almost entirely by text. Many of the tasks we did separately: Will purchased the steamers and fryers, I interviewed chefs, hired the sous chef and the bartender. Will negotiated discount parking at the lot up the street; I made batches and batches of homemade praline ice cream, trying to perfect a unique house recipe, until Dell thankfully stepped in to help. All the while I worked a few shifts at the Café training Maureen, Claire filling in here and there.
I was so busy I forgot to make plans for Christmas. I would have been happy spending it with Dixie, batting her away from the recipes and supplier lists strewn about my kitchen table. But Matilda convinced me to spend it with her and Jesse, who was at his own loose ends because his son would be at his ex’s.
It was a cozy affair, if a little awkward. We gathered in the eat-in kitchen at the Mansion. Matilda thought it would be fun to use the house for purposes other than sex. After all, it was a stunning location, and the kitchen featured top-of-the-line appliances. She answered the side door in jeans, slippers and a sweater, looking radiant and eerily young without any makeup, her red, shiny hair down around her shoulders. I was overdressed in my sparkly top and heels.
“Cassie, you look lovely,” she said, taking my
coat.
“Suddenly I feel like a walking Christmas tree.”
“I should have told you pajamas would be appropriate.”
I handed Matilda a bottle of mid-price champagne and marveled at the smells wafting out of the kitchen.
“Claudette made a beautiful turkey,” Matilda said. Claudette was the live-in help at the Mansion. She was not only discreet but clearly a talented cook. As I followed Matilda to the kitchen, I took in the enormous appliances working overtime and the pine table already set with a basket of biscuits, a tureen of soup and a big bowl of salad.
“Last time I was in this room …” I said, not able to finish my sentence because just then Jesse walked out of the powder room, where my fourth fantasy had played out, the one with the famous hip hop star, the one that involved oral sex while a big pot of gumbo simmered on the stove.
Jesse wiped his wet hands on his sweatshirt. “Last time you were here, what?” he said, kissing the side of my head. “Nah, don’t tell me. I prefer to imagine it. Hope you brought your appetite.”
It had been more than two months since Latrobe’s, and I hadn’t seen much of Jesse. We’d texted now and again, and made vague plans to see a movie, but nothing solidified. We were both ridiculously busy, but mostly I didn’t want to know too much about his involvement in S.E.C.R.E.T. Problem was, though helping with Solange’s fantasy had taken my mind off Will, it sent my thoughts right back to … sex.
Now, with Jesse on my right looking all kinds of hot in his red plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoos, hair slicked back, face cleanly shaved, it was hard not to sneak glances at him. I squirmed in my seat, watching the muscles in his jaw clench as he chewed on a breadstick. God, he was sexy. I forgot how much I loved watching him eat. He worked with food, so he had a passion for it, and he was nothing if not a man of appetites.
