Marie Adeline - Secret Shared

He moved the dress off my shoulders so it bunched in back, over my cuffs.

“See? No wire, Officer.” Was my voice quavering? Where was my bravado now?

“I’m not done my search,” he said. He clearly liked what he saw, but I had never felt so vulnerable, being regarded like this so openly. “Come closer,” he said.

He opened his legs so I could step between them, the outsides of my thighs touching the insides of his. He leaned back, resting his head in his hands, and looked up at my face.

“For such a bad, bad woman, you look very, very good right now,” he said.

His eyes scanned my breasts, my skin, my hips. Not able to remove my bra, he reached up and lifted my breasts out and rested them pertly above the cups.

“Perfect,” he said.

My heart sped up. Being cuffed, being unable to touch him, or push him away, scared me a little. But he had such an open, warm face, and those eyes …

“I’m going to remove your underwear, Miss Mason,” he said. “I need to search all of you.”

He placed his fingers tenderly in my waistband, his face stern, and slid the panties down. I stepped out of them. I could feel his breath on my skin, my stomach. Then he pivoted my whole body and held my hips firmly from behind.

“What are you doing?” I asked, fear coming over me now that I wasn’t facing him. My eyes darted around the room.

“Checking all of you.”

He moved aside my dress, still bunched around my wrists. He glided one of his hands over my ass, like he was admiring a sculpture up close, gently kissing the places his hands touched. I shut my eyes. Slowly, agonizingly, I felt his fingers slipping between my legs where I knew I was already wet.

“Just making sure you’re not concealing anything,” he said, coiling his finger up inside of me. Ohhhh. His voice was cracking with the kind of helplessness that only desire creates.

Was this really happening?

He pulled me down onto his lap. Oh lord, I could feel his erection against my thigh, my hands now near it, and I felt a growing ache. From behind, he split my legs apart, burying his face between my arms, my shoulder blades. He pulled off my ponytail holder, releasing my hair down my back. I watched as his hand moved across the front of my body, his fingers finding me again, so wet I almost apologized.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Dauphine.”

“Yes …” I closed my eyes, leaning back into him, desire mounting as his fingers dipped and circled my wetness.

“I’m going to have to do some bad things to you. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” I said. I could feel his erection grow, my hips lightly, instinctively grinding against it.

“Time for this interrogation to come to a close,” he whispered, rising from the chair and taking me with him, moving towards the table.

He pressed me across it, my breasts against its cool surface.

“If I undo your cuffs, do you promise to be good?” he asked.

I nodded as he released me, placing one hand, then the other, on the table in front of me. I rubbed my wrists as he dropped his belt. I peeked over my shoulder to watch him tearing off his uniform, peeling up his white T-shirt so I could finally catch sight of what I had been feeling: a firm, broad chest, the overhead light illuminating every ripple, an expanse of smooth skin, a line of dark hair from his belly button, the thick crown of his erection visible over the top of the table. This is so hot.

“Look at you spread out like this for me,” he said, slicking a finger and dragging it down my spine to my ass, now high in the air. Oh my god. I closed my eyes as he navigated the fold between my buttocks, circling shamelessly around my dark nerve-intense pucker.

“Jesus,” I murmured, clutching the sides of the table as with every dip and tickle he sent a shock wave of pleasure through my whole body. I had never been touched there before, not like this, so openly.

“What are you doing to me?”

“Naughty things to a naughty girl,” he said, grabbing my cheeks firmly, widening the area he was pleasuring. He bent to take me in, all tongue now, slow and languid. The wicked sensations pounded through my whole body. I was pulsating, engorged, on the cusp of coming without him even going near my usual places. Oh god.

“Do you like that?”

Half delirious, I could only answer with a sound. Then I heard a drawer open in the table beneath me, the crackling of a condom packet.

“Turn around, Dauphine. I want to look at your beautiful face while I fuck you senseless.”

And I did, in a trance now, eagerly flipping around to face his perfect torso. I had never seen a man built like him before, ripples on top of muscles, hairless, made just for this.

I propped myself up on my elbows, boldly watching as he unspooled the condom. He yanked my hips down to the edge of the table, teasing my cleft with his slickened head, inching it inside of me, then out again, never taking his eyes off me. He stopped every few seconds so I could yield to his thickness, helped by his wetted fingers across my clitoris. When he was fully inside, I collapsed back on the table, his hands now caressing my breasts, freed from the bra. My nipples responded, tightening under his touch. When he saw how turned on I was, he moved with greater urgency. I reached back and grabbed the other edge of the table for better leverage and then we became a blur of frantic thrusts. Oh yeah. So good.

Then came the first wave, as his thrusts found my sweet spot deep behind my pelvis, and I lost it, my arms flung behind my head, bringing my wall down, letting go of that residual fear. Our eyes met just at the apex when my orgasm struck hot and fierce, then his did too as he pumped me hard and fast, murmuring, “This is all for you, Dauphine. This is for you.”

He jerked and shuddered at the end, but remained in me and above me, coated with a gorgeous sheen of sweat, as I clenched and spasmed around him. Slowly my breathing steadied.

He smiled. Laughed.

“Wow,” he said.

“Did you get … all the information … you needed, Officer?”

“Yes, and then some. Now I have something for you.”

He eased out, then bent down to take something from one of the pockets of his uniform pants, which were lying on the floor by his feet. When he rose, he was dangling a gleaming charm between a thumb and forefinger.

“What does it say?” I asked, still splayed across the table.

“Courage. And rightfully so, Miss Mason.”

He shot the charm into the air with his thumb like a coin, letting it fall on my damp stomach. Then he slapped a hand over it.

“Heads or tails?”

“What do I get if I call it?” I asked.

“Anything you want, Miss Mason.”

“Tails.”

He slowly lifted his hand from my stomach and peeked beneath it.

“Well, what do you know,” he said.

His eyes scanned my body, and he lowered himself to kiss the charm on my belly. Farther down he went and I closed my eyes. His mouth worked me into another fever, bringing me back to that incredible precipice, that ecstasy, then letting me fall over it again.

Afterwards, I lay on the table, my fingers entwined in his thick golden hair, his breath on my stomach, my other hand dangling over the side of the table, clutching Courage in my palm.

I ASKED MATILDA for a last-minute meeting a few days after Dauphine’s cop fantasy. Being her Guide meant spending less time with my own, but my one-night stand with Mark had left me feeling a little off.

As she made her way to where I was sitting in Audubon Park, she looked the picture of Southern gentility. She had on a straw hat, dark glasses and an off-the-shoulder coral-colored sundress that showed off her red hair and the smattering of freckles across her smooth décolleté. She was nearing sixty but looked as fresh and sexy as someone half her age. And by the way she walked, you could tell she knew entrances were her particular talent. It was her idea to meet near the pickup soccer pitch by the Saint Charles entrance. She moved towards the bench, and even the players during a breakaway had to stop to take her in.

As we sat together, I caught her up on Dauphine, explaining how she was learning to give over control.

“That’s a tough one, control,” Matilda said, eyeing the soccer game. “Too much and you never allow yourself to know others. Too little and you never truly know yourself. How about you, Cassie, how are you faring out there in the wilds?”

“Fine. Good. I … I did it. I had sex,” I blurted out.

“Oh? How lovely. With whom?”

“Some guy I just met,” I said, sounding oddly triumphant. “The one from Ignatius’s that day. He’s not really my type. But sexually, he was fun.”

“So you’re not going to see him again?”

“I don’t know. He’s almost ten years younger than me. Young. Self-centered. Sexy, though. Maybe I will see him again. The beauty of it is, I don’t care whether I do or not. But the sex was incredible.”

“So you don’t want to hear from him again?” Matilda asked.

“Not really … I don’t know. Does that make me a slut?”

Matilda turned her whole body towards me, her attention fully off the soccer game. She looked as though I’d just slapped her.

“The word slut, unless employed by iron-clad feminists or ironically by irony experts, has no business coming out of a woman’s mouth, do you hear me? Not when she is describing her own sexual behavior and especially if she’s describing another woman’s. It’s the kind of word that can scar, Cassie.”