Brazen by Cara McKenna Page B

dick and slide the coffee table on its Oriental
rug a few feet farther away from us across the hardwood. I move and I kneel,
settling between his legs, sliding his underwear all the way off. I can tell
from his twitching right hand that he wants to touch himself, that his
abandoned erection is paining him in its insistence. I smile to myself,
thinking of his suffering and push his knees a little wider.
    “Scoot
forward,” I say, and he obeys.
    His smell is
as uniform and as unique as any of the others’. Personal yet
universal. Potent and ten times as intoxicating as the
wine. Summer is nearly over and his tan is just starting to fade. His
thighs are pale and I like the contrast of his white skin against the rich
brown leather. I like the contrast of the deep mauve of his cockhead and his
blushing cock against the dark hair between his legs. I stroke his inner thighs
as I think these things and I make him wait.
    I can feel
the trouble-man’s eyes on my back. I touch the underside of the helpless man’s
dick, and he whimpers again. I wonder if the trouble-man is arrogant enough to
be touching himself without permission. I pretend that
he’s the one at my mercy because these boys are interchangeable.
    Or they’re
supposed to be.
    “You look
good,” I say to the man spread wide before me. I stroke him until the pre-come
glistens at his slit, until his groans become maniacal. Now he’s ready. I’m
ready. I hold him tight in my fist and lower my mouth to his head. He tastes
like he smells. Like desperation and youth.
    I’ve tasted
this man before, several times. He’s been coming here for a few weeks and he’s
good. He has a perfectly suckable cock, not too big
around, but enough to feel powerful in my mouth. He never disobeys the
no-thrusting rule, never gives me cause to gag, never
grabs my hair and tries to set the rhythm. He is an exceptional student. A star pupil. I hope the troublesome newcomer is taking
notes. I decide to reward the obedient man. I milk him with one rough hand and
flick my tongue over his head rapidly, the way he seemed to love the last few
times. His thighs tense and I see the knuckles of his fisted hands go white.
    I know, I
know. This sounds so detached. What’s in it for me? you might be wondering. Well, there’s no accounting for kink. No link between what
we want to want and what we actually do. And this is what I want. I
haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’m getting off on this. Somewhere beneath my
tasteful, tailored housedress, I’m as wet as a lake. I was dutifully (read,
grudgingly) on board with the whole monogamous sex thing for twelve years and
my ex-husband, for all his faults, was a good-looking man and a good lover. A courteous and respectful lover, sometimes to a fault. But
this, right now…isn’t this exactly what I thought about all those years when my
eyes closed and he took me with his mouth or his cock? Some beautiful younger
man, muscles strained as I pleasure him, the perfect marriage of dominance and
submission. Giving and taking. I like balance. I’m very good at yoga.
    And since
you’re probably interested, I’ll be forty next month.
    And yes, if
I’d worked a bit harder at promiscuity at an earlier age, I suppose I could
technically have been this boy’s mother. Still, as lurid scandals go, I know
mine is vanilla. But this is Beacon Hill, I’ll remind you. My taboos are
fittingly conservative in keeping with the address and the decor.
    Now back to
the matter at hand. In hand.
    As all of
this is going on, as I’m teasing this handsome young man into hysterics, I’m
wound tighter than a bedspring between my legs. I’m on fire. But I can’t show
it. I won’t give away my arousal in front of these boys or touch myself or let
them touch me. The stark utility of it is what gets me high. Again,
contrast—cold control versus hot, quaking helplessness.
    But in my
mind, the rules are null and void. In my mind, the trouble-man surprises me. He
sneaks up from