Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (14 page)

“Nymphomaniac:
a woman as obsessed with sex as an average man.”

— Mignon
McLaughlin

~~~

Renata
Koreman

My low heels
click loudly down the stairs as I trot down to the lower floor.

I live in an
apartment above a veterinary office. Diana, the local vet, is my landlord, good
friend, sounding board and boss. She works for André too sometimes, not as a
surrogate, but as “Mistress Diana.”

A sudden vision
of the petite woman with her bright bottle-red hair, standing in four inch
stilettos and a latex cat-suit or corset, while impatiently tapping a riding
crop on her thigh, cracks me up.

I can imagine any
number of men—or women for that matter, worshiping at her feet.

Other than
knowing her as an extremely confident and competent vet, I haven’t witnessed
that side of her personality. She saves her dominance for the bedroom.

Diana took one
look at what Mitten could do and hired me as a part time assistant on the spot.
I get to live upstairs. For that and a minimum wage, I bathe animals; clean and
disinfect cages; sterilize surgical equipment; and generally help out.

Dressed for work
in a trim skirt and blouse, covered by an open lab coat, Diana’s rummaging
around in the storeroom at the exact point where my stairs end. Her striking,
mid-length hair is tidily placed on top of her head in a braided, chignon
twist.

Ten or maybe
fifteen years older than I am, Diana’s protective and caring. I could say she
even “mothers” me—certainly far more than my own mother did—but she’d be upset
if I told her that.

I’m a little awed
by her confidence and experience.

“Oh, hi hon,” she
straightens up and greets me cheerfully. “You look amazing. Too good for a mere
mortal. Hot date?”

“Kind of.”

I shrug, give her
a feeble chuckle, and force myself to meet her eyes. After all this time, even
with someone I know, I still long to avert my gaze. It feels safer and more
comfortable somehow. I don’t like crowds, a raised voice scares me, and I still
need to spend time each day in my box.

I’ve come a long
way, but really I’m a big fake. Head and heart, I don’t feel like a real woman.
I’m still such a mouse. Maybe that’s why my cat and I get along so well.

I’m not normal.

I go through all
the motions, a kind of “fake it until you make it” kind of deal. André says
I’ll improve. I just need to give it time and make myself be part of the world.
He encourages me to go out and talk to people. He inspires me to face life.

I’m working on it,
but I have to work really hard every day.

He wants me to
take a self-defense course. Nope. I can’t see that happening. Violence scares
me.

Mitten jumps up
on a box beside Diana. Diana spreads her arms encouragingly, a cue my cat knows
well. Mitten instantly stands up on his back legs and raises his arms. With his
little white paws open and ready, he looks as if he’s expecting a hug.

Diana giggles and
sweeps him on to her chest, petting and praising. She pats her shoulder, and
obediently Mitten climbs up with a little push from Diana.

Grinning, she
says, “I may be the vet, but you’re the Mistress of the animal Kingdom, Renata.
I’ll never get over how remarkable Mitten is.” Her eyes narrow as she studies
me. “Maybe there’s a hidden Dominant underneath that quiet, meek exterior of
yours.”

I shake my head.
“Maybe.”

No way. I’m a
self-doubting, worrying, marshmallow.

“Diana, do you
ever tell people… what you… like?” I ask tentatively.

Raising an
eyebrow, her eyes narrow as she gives me a searching gaze. “What? That I enjoy
dominating men or women, singly or in multiples during sex?”

I’m blushing, I
feel heat burning my face, but it isn’t because I’m embarrassed about the
subject. It’s because she’s so… penetrating. Right now, I feel exposed. It must
come with her dominant personality.

“Yeah,” I manage
to say.

Diana smiles and
her good humor washes over me. “Let’s just say, it never comes up in ordinary
conversation.” Her lips quirk. “Why do you ask?”

The memory of
Uncle Bob’s cruel words are still in my mind. I shrug. “Because I never tell
anyone
I’m a sexual surrogate. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it—I’m not, but I
don’t want to be called a ‘whore,’ a ‘skank’, a ‘ho’ or a ‘slut.’”

Diana laughs. “You’re
so young! Don’t forget ‘harlot,’ ‘hussy,’ ‘tramp,’ and ‘fallen woman!’”

To my surprise,
anger I didn’t know I had building up inside, breaks free. “I just don’t get
why men get pats on the back, winks and admiration for having sex,” I say, in a
raised voice. “A promiscuous man is sought after! He’s called, ‘Casanova,’
‘stud,’ ‘lady-killer,’ ‘heartbreaker,’ ‘playboy,’ or ‘player.’ All of the terms
for oversexed men have sexy, cute connotations—while we women are looked down
upon and labeled mean names for having sex!’”

Diana nods
understandingly, but I’m on a roll so I just keep going.

“I don’t get it.
Language reveals so much about a culture. Men who sell women are called ‘pimps,’
which doesn’t sound too harsh. Men who pay for sex are simply, ‘Johns,’ which
is a common name for a man. What’s bad about that?”

I throw up my
hands in frustration. “In short,
men
don’t have a number of special,
nasty names for being sexually active or enjoying sex.
Women have them all.
Why is that?”

Diana laughs. “I
don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so many words, all at once.”

I blush again and
avert my gaze. This time
I am
embarrassed.

“I think it comes
back to human history,” Diana says, ignoring my obvious discomfort. “In the
past—without birth control, women
needed
to keep their legs together.
Before the invention of antibiotics and condoms, sexually transmitted diseases
may have ended the human race. These out dated patriarchal rules of
‘must be
a virgin until marriage’
are no longer relevant.”

“Do you think
people’s views are changing?” I ask.

Her perfectly
shaped eyebrows raise up in surprise. “Of course! Don’t you?”

I shrug, because
I’m not so sure.

“Women are
becoming liberated and attitudes
are
changing,” Diana says. “What women
want now isn’t just sex, but
great sex!”
Our eyes meet and we snicker.
We’re both examples of that.

Diana places
Mitten upon a high box, so he’s at eye level. He rolls over and looks at us so
adorably, we immediately begin to stoke him. Who could resist Mitten? Neither
of us can. With all of this affectionate attention, he curls up and begins to
purr loudly.

“When it comes to
mind blowing orgasms,” Diana says while rubbing Mitten under his chin, “women
are reading about them, talking about them,
and
they’re actively
pursuing them.”

I choke on a laugh.
With a smug smile, she chuckles too.

“Anyway,” Diana
asks, “have you seen how many bestselling erotica books are out there? Most of
them are written by women.”

“Yes,” I say,
“But too often, the heroines are in their early twenties and are still virgins.
Really?
Is
anyone
a virgin at twenty-four? If so, the poor things
have been missing out.”

“True. I’m sure
it happens, but I don’t know anyone who made it past seventeen.”

“See?” I say,
happy to make my point. “The heroine is frequently portrayed as
absolutely
naive
and has never even heard of oral sex. In this world of the internet,
this is—dare I say—a bit hard to swallow.”

We both giggle.

“Seriously,” I
add. “Even female erotic authors tend to write about women who are virginal or
have only had ‘one or two relationships’—and those are long term. If a
character in a book has had significant sexual experience, she’s considered a
slut.”

“The myth of the
perfect and pure, virginal woman has been going on for centuries,” Diana says.
“There’s no such thing! Women are human beings with needs of their own, just
like men. Still, little girls are raised on this fairytale fantasy. It’s no
wonder grown women fall for society’s ideal, judging themselves and other women
when they don’t measure up. Why would they think any differently? They’ve been
brainwashed! But don’t worry.” She gives a dismissive wave of a hand. “The
human race will come into the 21
^st
century…
eventually.
”

A gurgle of
laughter peels from my throat. What she is saying is funny, but the way she says
it is even funnier.

Her eyebrows rise
up and down suggestively. “When it comes to sex,
‘practice makes perfect;’ ‘learn
something new every day’
and
‘try before you buy,’
—are my mottos.”

I snicker.

“Anyway,” Diana
says. “It’s not
what
people say, but
how they say it
and what
they
mean
by it.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve had sex with André, right?”

“Sure.” I nod,
while scratching Mitten’s neck.  André and I’ve made love many times. Why not?
I love him more than anyone. Besides, he’s taught me everything I need to know
to be any good as a surrogate.

 I was sexually
active from fourteen years old and I came to live with André three months
before my eighteenth birthday. He’d been seven years older. Yet, despite my
desire for him, my pronounced hints and direct requests, he’d refused to touch
me.  I’ll never forget what he’d said at the time,
“Ma belle, pardon. I
refuse to make love with a teenager.”

 “If I know
André,” Diana says with a wicked grin. “I’m sure he’s called you a
‘slut’
during
sex. You weren’t upset by that, surely? When André uses the word, it’s a term
of endearment. When
he
calls you a slut, he’s flattering you with the
truth.”

“A slut is a
person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical
proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.”

— The Ethical
Slut

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I’m startled by
an instant visceral memory that blasts through my mind and body. For one long,
intense moment I’m back there, naked, aroused and bent over a bed, with my clit
throbbing. I’m writhing from a sensuous, aching sensation low and deep in my
core.  

“You are a
gorgeous, insatiable slut,
ma petite souris,”
Andr
é croons,
his voice husky with admiration and raw lust.

“Yes, yes!” I
moan loud and long.

André’s an
amazing lover. It’s the things he says—the things he does. He’s between my
quivering legs, running his hands up my thighs and gripping my hips. Long
gifted fingers trail over my sex, purposefully spreading me open for him.

Blood rushes
through my veins, drumming in my ears. My entire body’s heated and sensitized,
both skin and core. Legs spread wide, ass in the air and my feet on the floor,
I lay on a few pillows, facing a full length mirror. André loves mirrors; he
likes to watch and be watched.

Our eyes meet—his
hold me captive. Heavy-lidded with arousal, there’s a trace of determined
intent in his dark, compelling gaze.

I can’t look
away.

My heart pounds,
my body’s on fire. His eyes remain locked on mine, watching, always watching,
as he bends forward. My muscles tighten in anticipation. André’s sensual lips
curve up when I can’t bite back a low moan. I swear I could probably come at
the sight of his dark head between my thighs.

I start to
tremble when I feel the firm, wet heat of his talented tongue dancing over my
clit. Sensation rocks through me as I gasp with pleasure.

Diana laughs and
I snap out of the potent, erotic memory.

“Jesus,” I say.
My knees are week. I suddenly feel faint.

Diana grabs me by
the arm, steadying me. I look down at her, this small, powerful woman, and
offer a faint smile. “OK. You’re right. I think being called a slut isn’t
always a bad thing,” I say in a shaky voice.

She grins.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Just then, my
cellphone signals an incoming message—Gustave is waiting, parked right outside.
I told him to text me when he arrived. A true gentleman, he doesn’t like to do
this, but I don’t feel he should have to walk to my door to get me.

Quiet as I
usually am, I can be stubborn about things like this. I kiss Mitten goodbye, thank
Diana, and wave as I go out the door.

Gustave holds the
passenger door open for me. Smiling, his eyes scan my face, my casual, wavy
hair style and my lime green sheath dress. “You look very beautiful, little
mouse,” Gustave states in French, using André’s nickname for me. It’s something
he often says to me.

We chat about
inconsequential things on the quick drive to André’s place.

I wait for my
client in one of André’s luxurious bedrooms. André isn’t available at the
moment, but Gustave will bring Joshua in to me when he arrives. I’m already so
ready for him. Hot and bothered. Turned on from that one memory of being with
André.

The room is
decorated with layered blues, accents of white and elegant, European-style
old-world furnishings. Too bad Joshua can’t see it. All is ready, even the bed
covers are pulled back.

I smile when my
eyes stray to the luxury dog bedding I’ve placed in a snug corner for his
Seeing Eye dog, Max. Its cotton teal cover matches the bedroom. This room is so
beautiful.

My sigh is
grateful and content, yet also bittersweet.

How did I get
here, to this place where I’m loved and appreciated? I don’t feel like I deserve
it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll wake up back in that psychiatric hospital, and
this will all have been a delicious dream.

I won’t ever be
normal.

I drew the short
straw with my mother and father, and then with my foster father. Consequently
as far as I can tell, I’m pretty well the opposite of everyone else.

With my
upbringing, the simplest things most people take for granted—such as talking
and looking other people in the eyes—are still a real challenge. I think this
is because I’ve always associated those actions with
negative
events in
my past, like my scary father.

On the plus side,
I’ve never,
ever
had negative associations when it comes to sex. To me, physical
love—like a smile or a hug—costs nothing. It’s a
gift
I can share with
others.

I lost my
virginity with Jamie. My foster brother, two years older than me, was born with
a vagina and a tiny penis. He felt himself to be a man, but like me he preferred
sex with men. Jamie loved me. More importantly, he
needed
me. We needed
each other.

Jamie’s congenital
defects and sexual identity issues, helped me in a strange way. It made me
grateful that at least physically, I’m not different than everyone else.

Jamie was so good
for me. He never made me think sex was bad, dirty or something to keep secret
or be ashamed of. I was never told to ‘save’ myself for marriage, or that
having sex is a “sacred act’ a woman can only share with her husband.

While I prefer sleeping
with men, I’ve enjoyed the softness during sex that only a women can provide. I
just don’t get why people think the whole sex thing is such a big deal.

Sex is one hang-up
I’ve never had.

André and I have
had long talks about how crazy people are on the subject of sex. They’re
secretive and ashamed of their bodies and their natural desires. It’s such a
waste. Nobody cares that some prefer chocolate to vanilla. Why should it matter
what feels good, as long as it’s consensual and no one gets hurt?

Women are raised
to believe men have only ‘one thing’ on their minds and to ‘be careful.’
Warnings may be needed in society today, but girls should be told that it’s
wonderful and normal to have sexual desires.

When young women
first feel sexual urges they often
judge themselves
as ‘whores.’ Even
virgins can feel dirty for their thoughts. They feel like ‘bad girls’ if they
simply masturbate.

When women who experiment
with sex are called cruel names, they tend to believe it to some degree. This
contributes to low self-esteem and feelings of being “less valuable” or “unworthy.”
Lack of confidence and self-worth makes these women easy targets for abuse.

Luckily, I’ve
never waited around for my one “true love” before enjoying the pleasures and
benefits of sex.

Sex doesn’t scare
me.

It’s anger, a
raised voice, and violence that does.

Graphic violence
viewed by children on prime time TV, is perfectly acceptable in society. But
can they see even
partial
nudity? Nope. The message is obvious—hide your
body and be ashamed of it.

I saw an
interview with George R. Martin, the author of the wonderful “Game of Thrones”
series. He said,
“I can describe an axe entering a human skull in great
explicit detail and no one will blink twice at it. I provide a similar
description, just as detailed, of a penis entering a vagina, and I get letters
about it and people swearing off. To my mind this is kind of frustrating, it’s
madness. Ultimately, in the history of the world, penises entering vaginas have
given a lot of people a lot of pleasure. Axes entering skulls? Well, not so
much.”

The Hunger Games,
a fascinating series, is rated for children twelve-years and older. That’s
because there’s no sex and no swearing. But man, oh man, I was disturbed by the
explicit details of violent deaths met by children.

What does that
say about our society?

Graphic violence?
Sure! No problem! Love? Not so much.

In our attitudes
toward sex, André and I are exactly alike. Sex is fun, it’s good for you, and
people should uninhibitedly enjoy it. Making love not only releases happy
hormones, it helps people build healthy, lasting relationships and a better
self-image.

From what I can
tell, when sex goes in a relationship—soon after the relationship ends, too.

For me,
everything about sex is associated with
positives
, like being with my
foster brother and my first real friend. Making love is a source of comfort and
stress relief. I want my clients to know the joy and pleasure it brings. Sex is
as natural as eating, breathing or sleeping.

It’s also the
most fun a person can have with someone they care about.

Under André’s
instruction and supervision, I’ve worked with a number of people as a sexual
therapist. Each session is a journey of joy and wonder. Like a snowflake or a
fingerprint, sexual surrogacy is different and unique every time.

A rush of
excitement thrills through me. I’ve never had the opportunity to enjoy sex with
a blind man.

What will Joshua’s
first time be like?