Priestesses
An Erotic Novel
Francis W. Porretto
Smashwords Edition
Copyright (C) 2010 by Francis W. Porretto
Cover art by Donna Casey (http://DigitalDonna.Com)
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==<O>==
Part One: Helen
Part Two: Martine
Epilogue:
==<O>==
Persons who have read A Dash Of Spice, and regular readers of Eternity Road, the Website I operate, will have seen several parts of this novel before, as independent stories. Some of those stories have been slightly altered for their employment here. I beg your indulgence; after having written so much, and for so long, about these women, it seemed right and necessary to give them the coherent narrative they deserve. Thus, I've created an episodic novel from those tales, and a handful of new ones, that unite them thematically.
Some years ago, I encountered a short fantasy, co-authored by Harlan Ellison and Robert Sheckley, titled "I See A Man Sitting On A Chair, And The Chair Is Biting His Leg." As you might expect from those two writers, it was funny and original, but for me the most valuable element in it was an apparently offhand encounter between its antihero Joe and a desire implantation salesman. The salesman tells Joe that the most challenging of all human things is to sustain desire. "Desires die of fulfillment and have to be replaced by new, different desires."
It had the resonance of an important truth. It rang especially strongly when I surveyed the people I know and their personal trials, most especially their sexual trials.
I'm a religious man, a Roman Catholic. (What, you didn't think Catholics are allowed to be interested in sex? Get serious.) I believe that God gives us what we need, whether or not we recognize it, at every moment of our lives. I pondered the desire problem from that angle for quite a while. How would God equip Man to face that one? For we are limited beings in every sense. We can't simply tell ourselves to yearn for opera (echh), or okra (ick), or being buried neck-deep in gravel (eeek!). Our proper desires arise from our nature; when we depart from them in an uncritical quest for sheer novelty, we inevitably wind up unhappier than before.
No, what God would provide is a route (back) toward wholesome desire: the sort of desire compatible with our natures, the fulfillment of which would sustain our lives and improve our understanding thereof.
But what if that sustenance took the form of specialists: persons whose special commission was to teach us how to locate and orient on our proper desires, including our sexual desires?
What if, indeed!
==<O>==
Martine Arnault hesitated at the door of Naughty But Nice, unsure what she would confront within. Helen had said only to "come quickly," a summons that had filled the younger woman with fear. Over the years the two had been on opposite coasts, their communications had always been carefree. Helen had never before given a sign that any aspect of her life, or of the calling they shared, was less than the best.
But Martine had never seen a CLOSED sign hung on the shop door at high noon, either.
She fished her key out of her purse, unlocked the door, and nudged it open. The showroom was deserted; the lights had been dimmed. No light shone through the beaded curtain to the mirrored inner gallery, where most of Helen's real work was done. She threaded her way through the aisles of goods, pushed through the curtain, and paused. The gallery was as dark and silent as the showroom. The door at the rear that led to Helen's private apartment was closed, but light glimmered above the sill.
Martine went to the door and knocked diffidently.
"Come in, dear." Helen's reply was muted.
The proprietress of Naughty But Nice lay in her bed, propped in a sitting position against two large pillows. Her journal lay open in her lap, with a fountain pen lodged in its crease. A single lamp burned at her bedside. Her cat Astarte, who'd always been near at hand whenever Martine had been present, was nowhere to be seen.
For as long as Martine had known her, Helen had never shown any sign of age or infirmity. Though she carried herself with a mature poise that made it plain that she was no dewy ingenue, neither her face nor her body had ever displayed the slightest concession to the passage of time. Neither had she ever developed even the mildest, most easily endured disease.
No longer. She's not well.
Even if it hadn't been apparent from the slackness in the muscles of Helen's face and shoulders, Martine would have known by the absence of vitality from her eyes.
She knelt by Helen's bedside and took her mentor's hand.
"How...long?"
Helen shook her head. "We're not given to know that, dear. Probably not terribly long, though. Do you have a while to spend with me?"
"Of course!"
"Good." She indicated the book with her eyes. "I find I can't summon the energy to write any further, and there are a few incidents I neglected to record. Would you be so kind, if I were to narrate them to you?"
The tears Martine had repressed up to then broke free.
"Helen..."
"I know, dear. I've been there, too." A ghost of a grin. "Not here, of course. Why don't you fix us each a cup of tea, and we'll begin?"
She's in a hurry.
Martine swiped at her eyes, nodded, and scampered for the kitchenette.
==<O>==
Part One:
Helen
==<O>==
"I'm out of ideas, Helen." Anita Martinez sighed her despair. "He practically refuses to look at me."
Helen stood and smoothed her leather miniskirt carefully, pressing out the smallest wrinkles with her fingertips. That day her entire outfit was leather, from her own shop. She was meticulous about its care.
"I can't fathom it, dear. You're a very pretty girl. There wasn't any problem when you were first married, was there?"
"No, although the sex never came close to what I'd always dreamed of, especially with Paul."
"For some it's a mistake to wait for the wedding night." Helen refilled her teacup and folded her arms. She looked sideways at Anita in a fashion that was coquetry personified.
She's devastating. Perfect bust, slender waist, gorgeous hips and legs. She dresses to show it, too. And at her age! Why can't a perfectly healthy twenty-six year old woman have a decent sex life if Helen can manage that?
Among the most jarring aspects of Anita's transition from the futureless aridity of her youth in Chiapas to the exuberant opulence of Los Angeles had been the discovery that the fabled sexuality of her new home was far more concerned with appearances than with performance. She'd expected the young American businessman who'd courted her, won her heart, and pledged himself to her before God to want to make love at every opportunity. Far from merely viewing sex as a duty toward her husband and a critical cement for their marriage, from adolescence she'd looked forward to it with an eagerness for which her confessor had called her a whore of Babylon.
"Don't you want to talk about it?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Helen. I let my mind wander a moment, that's all."
The shopowner's mouth curved slowly into a smile.
"You were thinking about me, weren't you?"
Anita sat back a little at that. "Well, yes."
"It's all right, dear. I consider myself a walking advertisement for my shop, and to be effective I have to look as good as possible. But you don’t have any idea what kind of effort goes into looking like this. Perhaps you should be grateful."
Anita giggled. "Helen, I know you're a lot older than I am, but men look at you, not at me. Even Paul prefers to look at you, which is why I never brought him here a second time."
Helen's smile grew slightly mysterious. "And you'd like to have that working for you, wouldn't you?"
"Well, naturally!"
The shopowner glanced over at her counter, where Astarte, her large, sleek black cat, reposed in seeming indifference. The cat raised its head from the counter and returned its owner's gaze. It seemed to nod.
"Most girls today haven't the patience or the discipline for what I do," Helen said. I suppose I could show you, but I'd doubt that you'd be willing to follow the program."
Anita examined the shopowner's face for a long silent moment.
I know a challenge when I hear one.
"Helen, would you show me, please?"
Helen looked her full in the eyes. She rose, went to the shop door, locked it, and flipped the sign to Closed. She strode toward the beaded curtain that led to the back of the shop, high heels clicking against the quarrystone tiles, and hooked a finger at Anita, beckoning her to follow.
***
"I had no idea you had a tub back here!"
"That's one of the advantages of doing business out of one's residence, dear." Helen slowly sponged Anita's back. "All the comforts of home. And if I get bored with business, or it turns suddenly slow, I can come back here and play a while."
Anita smiled up at her. "You've got the healthiest attitude toward business I've ever heard of."
"You haven't heard many, then." Helen put the sponge down and stood up. "Come on, time to dry and dress."
Anita rose from the tub and accepted a thick bath towel. When she had dried, she reached for her underclothing, but Helen stopped her.
"A new day is dawning, so let's have it dawn clean. Just come with me."
Anita followed Helen to a large dressing room. The walls were lined with mirrors. Several sported discreet knobs, indicating that closets were concealed behind them.
The mirrors made Anita momentarily uncomfortable about her nudity.
"Helen, those aren't two-way, are they?"
The older woman chuckled. "Not at all, dear. They're just ordinary mirrors to see yourself in."
"Why did you need so many?"
"I like a mirrored room. When I dress in here, I feel like the star of some fabulous show. Some of my better-heeled clients love it just as much."
Helen went to one of the closets and pulled out a satin-lined leather corset with a built-in bra.
"Ever worn one of these before?"
"Uh, no. Don't they hurt?"
"Not once you're used to them. I'm wearing one now."
Anita's eyes dropped momentarily to Helen's waistline, and the older woman chuckled.
"Most of it is diet and exercise, dear, but a good corset gives an invaluable finish to even the best figures, as you'll soon find out. Come here."
Anita obeyed, raising her arms to let Helen slide the corset down over her torso. The cups moved naturally into place over her breasts. The bottom edge of the garment came to just above her pubic bone.
"Keep your arms in the air." The older woman turned her around gently and began to take in the laces.
As the embrace of the corset tightened by gentle degrees, Anita watched her figure change in the mirror before her. Helen was right. Anita was well-toned and weighed no more than she should, but the corset was bringing out her attractions in ways more dramatic than unaided nature had managed.
"Let as much air out of your lungs as you can, dear."
Anita complied, and Helen performed a last tugging at the laces, taking in Anita's waist as far as it would go. She quickly tied off, moved to the side, and waited as the young woman studied herself.
"It feels...strange." She turned from her newly exotic reflection to look at her friend. "It feels good!"
"Not too tight?"
"Well, I can't take a really deep breath, but it seems to be all right." She turned back to her image in the mirror. "Are these really okay to wear?"
Helen smiled. "I wear one twenty-three hours a day, dear. Once you're accustomed, you'll never want to be without one. But we're not finished yet."
Anita basked in her reflection and the curiously pleasant sense of constraint from the corset while Helen selected more items from the closet.
"Now these might take more getting used to."
First the shopowner drew silk stockings onto the young woman's legs and fastened them to garters that hung from the corset. Next came a pair of marvelous boots. They were extraordinarily sleek and supple, bore five inch stiletto heels, and ran all the way up her thighs to the bottom of her pelvis. When Helen zipped them and buckled them at the top, her legs enjoyed the same pleasantly sensuous constriction as her torso, along their whole length.
Next came a high, soft leather choker that buckled closed at the back. Its gently snug grip on her neck sent plumes of warmth down her spine as she moved. It made her want to arch and stretch like a cat.
Finally, Helen drew long leather gloves onto her arms. They reached all the way over her biceps to just below her armpits, and were as snug on her arms as the boots were on her legs. Those, too, buckled closed at the top.
Anita was lost amid the new sensations. All the items were at least moderately constrictive. Yet their constraints were not unpleasant but powerfully the reverse. The corset had taken four inches off her waist, and had pushed her breasts up and forward in a most provocative way. The choker gently prompted her to hold her neck straight. The boots trimmed her thighs and calves, and compelled her to stand with all her assets displayed to best advantage. Even the gloves improved her appearance, smoothing and concealing the tiny pockets of sag that every human arm has.
"And this is how you do it?"
Helen nodded. "All my adult life, dear. I haven't been without a corset since I was sixteen. How does it feel?"
"I...I can't imagine ever taking it off."
She studied her reflection carefully. Only her head and shoulders, her derriere and her mons remained exposed. All else was sheathed in soft, lustrous leather. In an ordinary skirt and blouse, she exposed far more skin than this. Yet the garments had eroticized her more powerfully than ever before in her experience.
"So strange, to be so completely clothed, yet be and feel so...naked." She shivered and ran her gloved hands along her corseted contours.
Helen smiled gently. "It's a lovely ensemble, isn't it? I'd say it was made for you. Consider it yours. A gift."
"Helen, no! I couldn't possibly."
"Certainly you can, dear. Think of them as starters. You'll be back as a paying customer. We've only scratched the surface here. Believe me, there's lots of fun ahead. Oh, one final piece."
She held out a skimpy leather G-string.
"Tonight, when Paul gets home, this is the only thing he gets to take off. Don't let him remove any of the rest. I guarantee you, you'll love the results."
Anita giggled and took the G-string.
***
Anita strode home with a gait that seemed too slow and sedate for the joy that bubbled within her. Her new clothes were almost completely concealed. Only her choker, her gloved hands, and the bottoms of her boots were visible. Yet every man she passed turned to look at her, and quite a few of the women. In ultra-relaxed Los Angeles, so much open attention was a sign of something special.
Every movement made her freshly conscious of each of the special underthings she wore. All of it was delightful. She was amazed that there was no discomfort. Wasn't restrictive clothing supposed to hurt?
Why did it take so long for liberated little me to learn about this? Seems a lot of girls are missing out on something really special.
At home, she put up water for tea and sat at the kitchen table to read the day's mail. Presently, she sat over her tea, writhing gently in her new corset and loving the feel of it against her skin, dreamily composing a fantasy of how it would be that night with Paul.
***
Helen looked into Anita's eyes. "And how did it go?"
Anita shook her head in delighted wonder. "Helen, from the moment he came through the door, he couldn't keep his hands off me. He took one look at me, dropped his briefcase right there at the door and pulled me into a kiss that wasn't over until we'd landed on our bed." She shivered. "Now that's how to start an evening at home!"
"And did he think it was strange when you refused to take off your new things?"
"Well, a little. But after he got the idea, he really went for it. I half expected him to come in here looking for an outfit for him."
Helen's face shed all expression. "If he suggests it, will you discourage him?"
"Uh, no, I don't think so. Why?"
"Perhaps you should think further about that. Men are strange creatures, dear. We don't always understand them, so we don't always treat them the way we should."
"And how is that?"
Astarte had jumped into Helen's lap. She stroked the cat and smiled. "According to our respective roles. We are civilized. In a way, we're civilization itself. We manage the home, we rear the children, and we soothe the hurt and comfort the disappointed. They are warriors. They go forth to conquer, even the ones that do so in an air-conditioned office, under fluorescent lights. When dealing with a warrior, you have to know very precisely what you want out of him, and how to treat him so that you'll get that and not something else."
"Helen, that sounds awful."
"That doesn't mean it isn't true, dear." The older woman looked directly into her friend's eyes again. "Why do you think leather affects them so?"
"Because it looks and feels and smells nice."
"No! That's why you like it. They like it because it's animal skin. To them it speaks of conquest and power and control, all things that mean a great deal to any normal man."
"So sex is about...control?"
Helen nodded slowly. "Almost entirely, dear. First, our control of ourselves; then, our control of their desires." She lifted Astarte and set her on the table, rose and gestured at the racks of merchandise that filled the store.
"Many of the things I sell are articles of constraint. Take the shoes and boots, for example: all of them high-heeled, as radically so as one could possibly walk in. But what is a high heel for, except to force the leg into an elongated, pronounced, sexual position? I have as many male customers as female. The men's purchases are almost always for their women, and almost always of leather goods. They seek the sense of conquest, the agreeable, mutually pleasurable surrender, that a woman can give them, and that some of their women are reluctant to give. That's their special hunger, their base erotic need. Leather calls to them through it."
Anita absorbed it slowly.
"So what am I doing, then?"
Helen went to Anita and put her hands to the younger woman's face.
"Just as I said, dear. First, you're establishing control over yourself, eroticizing your own body, making it what you want it to be. Once you've achieved that, you'll gradually gain control over your husband's desires. In time you'll be able to make him burn for you with no more than a gesture or an artful glance."
"Helen, I don't think I want to control Paul. I just want him to want me."
Helen's eyes bored into hers.
"When he reached for your laces last night, and you forbade him to touch them, and he obeyed, how did it feel?"
Anita started to speak, then stopped herself and looked away.
Helen smiled. "Well, we'll see."
***
"Come on, Anita, take it off." Paul's fingers lingered on the cups, lightly stroking the soft, delicately glazed leather.
"No, sweetie, I like it this way. Come on, come back in where it's warm."
He bit his lip and looked momentarily away.
"Anita, it was fun the first few times, even if it was a little kinky, but you're beginning to go overboard. I haven't seen your tits for nearly a month. Now take that thing off and let me see my wife's body."
She stared at him a moment, then slapped his face.
The impact of leather against flesh rang through the room. He staggered back, more shocked than hurt, as she rose from their marital bed. In her boots, she was three inches taller than he. She stood with arms akimbo and glowered down at him.
"What's the matter, little man? Afraid Mamacita is hiding something? Can't stand not being able to see and fondle everything? It's not so long ago I could have flapped these tits across your face and you wouldn't even have noticed."
"Anita, what the hell's gotten into you?"
She laughed briefly. "Nothing I couldn't replace with better for the price of a phone call."
"Anita!"
She swung out and struck him again, this time with a closed fist. He toppled backward to land with a thump.
"It's just a sentimental attachment, I know, but time does things like that. Three years of...regular service leaves you expecting a little something now and then, and I wasn't happy without it. Well, if I have to learn to live without your attentions, there are plenty of other healthy young bucks out there who won't mind my little ways!"
She thrust one hand between her legs and fingered her clitoris until her juices flowed thick and hot. He lay and watched in disbelief and dismay.
His disbelief ended when she straddled his chest, squatted over his face, and planted her mound on his mouth. When he tried to push her off, she ground herself against his face with savage force, cutting off his breathing, until he lapsed into quietude.
"Drink it up, little man. If that's all you're good for, then that's how I'll use you from now on. Lap! Drink!"
She rocked back and forth, grinding his face with her mons until she exploded into orgasm. Her gasps of satisfied delight completely drowned the sound of his sobs.
When she had recovered her senses, she dragged him off the floor by his limp, useless tool and thrust him naked into the night, savoring his pitiful entreaties. When the door was closed and locked against him, she laughed and laughed until she slid to the floor and cried.
***
Helen looked up from her journal as the door opened.
"Anita! Paul! What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to shop, or just to visit?"
Anita propelled her reluctant husband to the counter with a firm hand planted in the middle of his back. She moved to stand beside him, one hand clamped on his neck.
"Both, Helen. My, ah, lesser half has decided he'd like some advice from you on underclothes. Some of the kind you prescribed for me."
Helen's eyebrows rose. "I hope all is going well for you, Paul?"
He started to speak but Anita cut him off.
"Better than he deserves, which is why we're here. Can we get him outfitted in a single day?"
Helen stared at her for a long moment.
"Anita, this isn't what I meant by control."
"Oh? What else could you have meant?" She indicated her husband with a jerk of her head. "This worm hasn't got sense enough to appreciate what I've done for him. He doesn't respect my prerogatives. I intend to break him of that nonsense before another day passes."
Helen pursed her lips. She lowered her gaze to the counter, where Astarte sat as if reviewing what her mistress had just written. When the cat rose, jumped down from the counter, and disappeared through the beaded curtain, Helen laid down her pen, circled the counter, and stood staring Paul Hudson in the eyes.
"What did you do?" she murmured.
He looked away.
Helen swung openhanded, catching Paul solidly across the jaw. His head rocked back as his tears sprang forth.
"You're young, fit, and well to do," Helen said. "You're a free, independent citizen of the finest country on Earth. You owe no one, and no one has any hold on you. But you can't be a man to the woman who's bound herself to you?"
With that, Helen wheeled and cracked Anita across the face twice as hard. Caught completely by surprise, she stumbled backward and crashed onto her rump.
"And what about you?" she snarled. "With all the advantages you have -- nearly all of which flow from him -- you can't command yourself well enough to master your husband's desires without trying to 'break' him to your saddle?"
Anita gaped up in disbelief at the raging proprietress. Helen stood over her, arms akimbo, as if daring her to rise or offer a reproof.
"What's your name?" Helen's voice was soft, but anger still crackled through the words.
"An...Anita Martinez," she sniffled.
"Oh? And where were you born?"
"Guyjazul, in Chiapas."
"And where do you live today?"
"Los -- Los Angeles."
"And why do you live in Los Angeles, Anita Martinez? Instead of in the vermin-infested place of your birth?"
Anita was stricken speechless.
"You owe virtually everything you have to this man," Helen said. "Yet you've refused his name, you've said almost nothing to me about him that wasn't a complaint, and now you think to make him your plaything. Where did you learn such ingratitude?"
"And you," Helen said as she turned to Paul. "With all that you have and have achieved, how did you become a spineless wimp? Are you capable of dealing with your wife like a man, or are you a mendicant in your own household?"
She scorched the couple with her glare. Neither dared to speak.
"I suppose I bear some of the blame for this," Helen said. "I knew you were a self-centered ingrate from your whining, Anita. And I knew from what you told me that Paul ought to have given you much more of his attention, and demanded a much higher price for it. But I took my wishes for you in place of thought.
"You," Helen said to Paul, "learn to be a husband to your wife, neither neglecting nor abusing her. And you," she said to Anita, "don't come back until you're Anita Hudson in thought, word, and deed. Now get out."
==<O>==
"A recent disappointment," Helen sighed.
Martine shuddered. "Unique, I hope."
"Nearly so. Most women don't have Anita's problem."
"Which is?"
"Distinguishing erotic control from the other sorts."
"Oh. But you know, Helen," Martine said, "I would have had a problem with that too, until you..."
"Took you under my wing?"
Martine nodded.
"That wasn't your major affliction, dear. Otherwise, I would have dealt with it first and foremost. What you suffered from, I would call fatigue anhedonia."
"Huh?"
Helen smiled faintly. "You were too tired to want anything. You'd started to fall out of love with yourself. Once that was past, your little neuroses blew away like dandelion seeds."
Helen resettled herself against her pillows and stared silently at the ceiling for a long moment.
"Fatigue is usually treatable. There are worse problems by far."
==<O>==
Adam tried. She had to give him that. His touch was as light as swansdown, almost worshipful in its delicacy. But she was unable to suppress her reflexive cringe whenever his fingers brushed over her breasts or her mound. Her hands darted to block his against all her efforts to restrain them. When he finally gave up, sagging away from her as if exhausted by his interminable, frustrating ordeal, all she could do was weep.
He lay silent next to her for several agonizing minutes as the tears washed down her face. It was well that the darkness was absolute, for she could not bear to look at him. Her failure was complete, her excuses threadbare. She owed him whatever he might ask in compensation, and more.
They had been married for five weeks.
I made him wait nearly three years, out of nothing but fear. How much longer can this go on before he gives up and leaves me?
"I'm not going to leave you, Mary," he said.
Her head whipped toward him with painful speed. "How -- how did you...?"
"Know what you were thinking?" He snorted gently. "What else would you be thinking just now?" The covers rustled as he turned toward her. His arms went around her and pulled her against him with characteristic gentleness. "It's all right. I still love you just as much as I ever did. We'll work it out in time."
His patience was extraordinary. She'd sensed it upon meeting him, a special aura of unhurried contentment that reached out to calm everyone in his company. It was a big part of why she loved him. The day he proposed to her, after two and a half years of sexless courtship, had been the happiest day of her life, unmatched even by her wedding day. But it had become a reminder of her inadequacy too pointed to be endured.
His breathing had quieted into a faint sighing snore, the sleep sound of a healthy young adult. As she listened to him, she felt her tears spring forth again.
How can he bear it when I can't?
She could not take his forbearance at face value. He'd had lovers before her; he'd been candid about it. He had to be suffering from her neglect of his needs.
He was too good a man to be treated this way, by the woman he'd loved enough to remain chaste for so long. Out of simple justice, to say nothing of her love for him, she would have to fix it -- fix her -- or set him free.
***
Mary was walking home from her bookkeeper's job, straining not to think about the evening to come, when she spied the shop.
It was unobtrusively placed on the north side of Altamura Drive, just a few yards from the turn toward the main thoroughfare. The store window was tastefully dressed in pink and pastel blue, as if the store sold baby-care goods. It displayed a modest assortment of nightgowns and camisoles in silk and satin. All were at the edge of demure, neither tacky nor bawdy. But the placard at the base of the window:
Naughty But Nice
...suggested that there was more to see inside than a few chin-to-ankles nightgowns. She put her hand to the knob and went in. The interior was pleasantly cool, dimly lit and decorated in shades of sundown and sand.
The merchandise she found inside was a far cry from what hung in the window. There was more there than silk and satin nighties, a lot more. There were garter belts and corselettes in vinyl and black leather. There were peephole bras and open-crotch panties fringed with lace. There was all manner of hose: patterned, fishnet, shining, glittering, and sheer. There were shoes in a hundred fanciful styles, all with very high heels. There was apparatus whose like she'd never seen before, whose relevance to feminine underthings she could not imagine.
A rack against one wall held devices that looked exactly like erect penises, in a dozen different colors. She shrank away from it at once, groping behind her for support. Her hand landed on something rubbery and velvet-soft. It was a life-size model of a woman's vulva.
It was not the sort of establishment a twenty-five year old virgin afflicted by deeply driven sexual fear would normally enter by choice.
She was about to back out when a beautiful woman stepped through the beaded curtain at the back of the shop and came toward her at an easy gait. She was tall, buxom of chest and hips, and had a beautifully tapered waist. Her walk was a sensuous ripple, as if she were luxuriating in the feel of her skin. Her leather vest and miniskirt fit her like an aerosol coating. Her five-inch stiletto heeled pumps seemed to cost her no difficulty as she moved. Behind her strolled a large black cat.
"How are you, dear?" Her voice was an alto coo. "Can I show you anything in your size?"
Mary had been ready to cut and run, but the shopkeeper's voice and relaxed demeanor calmed her as if by instant hypnosis. She started to speak, stopped, and threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the display window.
"Well...ah...I was admiring the peach satin nightie you have in the window, but on reflection I really don't think..."
The shopkeeper smiled knowingly. She crossed her arms over her breasts and allowed her eyes to travel the length of Mary's slender body. Her gaze took in Mary's cardigan, her blouse, and her calf-length wool skirt. She shook her head once.
"No, dear, neither do I. Your charms need a bit more emphasis than that nightgown could give them." She held out an elegantly manicured hand. "I'm Helen."
Mary took it and shook it hesitantly. "I'm Mary Gorrell."
Helen inclined her head in a micro-curtsey. "Welcome to Naughty But Nice, Mary." She did not release Mary's hand. "We have some selections in stock that would flatter you much better than the ones in the window. Would you permit me to show them to you?"
Mary's sense of relaxation deepened. A smile grew on her face as her remaining anxiety drained from her.
"Why not, if you think you have something that would suit me? Adam won't be home for a few hours yet."
Helen cocked an eyebrow. "Is Adam your husband?"
"Yes."
Helen looked down at the cat. The animal returned her gaze briefly, then jumped onto the store counter and settled into repose, eyes watchful upon the store's door.
Helen turned gracefully and shifted her grip on Mary's fingers, to lead her by the hand through the beaded curtain. Mary did not resist.
"Then let's see if we can find something naughty but nice for him to come home to, shall we?"
***
Never thereafter could Mary be certain what had opened her up. Mere minutes after passing through the beads into Helen's back sanctum, she'd allowed the shopkeeper to undress her clear to the skin and immerse her in a huge clawfooted tub. She sank into languor as Helen sponged her with warm, lilac-scented water.
"Is this something you do for all your lady clients?" she murmured.
Helen smiled. "No, dear. Some don't need it. But you did. You were tight as a bowstring. That's no condition to be in when you're about to try on goods like mine." She set down her sponge and leaned over to look into Mary's eyes. "What had you in such a state, anyway?"
Without willing it, she let it all come out. Her fumbling adolescent experiments with petting and the guilt they cost her. Her father's terrible rage when he caught her and her fifteen year old swain. The painful, humiliating course of self-scourging he insisted on and monitored. The fear of men and her body that had plagued her ever afterward. And of course, the tragedy with Adam, sweet, gentle, infinitely patient Adam whom she loved more than life.
Helen listened without speaking; indeed, without batting an eyelash.
When Mary had run down, Helen sponged Mary's torso a few more times, then squeezed out the sponge and tossed it aside. Mary started to rise from the tub, but Helen raised a hand, and Mary settled back again.
"We're not quite done, dear." The shopkeeper went to an unobtrusively placed cabinet and returned with a can of shaving gel and a razor.
"Did I do that bad a job on my legs this morning?" Mary leaned over and squinted at her limbs, saw nothing.
Helen smiled. "This isn't for your legs, dear. Just relax."
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Helen spread shaving gel over Mary's pubis and rubbed it gently to a thick lather. Mary simply watched, incredulous but unmoving, as the shopkeeper applied the razor to her mound. Helen worked methodically but carefully to clear away the curls over Mary's vulva.
"One of the first things I learned about sexual pleasure -- I mean, really learned, through experience -- is that you must take command of your body." The razor glided smoothly over Mary's mons veneris. "You have to assert your will over yourself, as odd as that sounds. You have to insist that your body will be an instrument of delight." Helen paused to look into Mary's eyes. "That's what you want it to be, isn't it?"
"Uh, yes, I suppose so." A little of the tension was returning.
Helen noticed it and smiled. "Relax, dear. I promise you'll like the results. Hair in the genitals is an impediment to sensation. But we don't have to let it be. See, I'm just about finished." Two final strokes of the razor, and Mary's pubis was as bare as a newborn's. She bent over to stare at the change as Helen pulled the plug from the tub drain. The water gurgled out, carrying Mary's pubic hair with it.
She couldn't believe how velvety her mound had become. The forbidding patch of tightly curled hairs was entirely gone, leaving only smooth, unblemished flesh that begged to be caressed. It was as if she'd been transported into a stranger's body.
She reached down to touch herself for the first time in ten years.
Helen stopped her, and she looked up in puzzlement.
"Not quite yet, dear. Bear with me a moment."
Helen returned to her cabinet, and returned with a tall, thin bottle containing some sort of cream.
"Let me rub a bit of this into you before you go exploring."
Without preliminary, Helen dispensed some lotion from the bottle onto her fingertips and began to massage it into Mary's mound.
The caress of Helen's fingers was a compound of all the joys of the flesh. The lotion contained some warming unguent that made a pleasant heat travel from her loins all the way to her toes and her brain. Helen's ministration brought her from her state of total relaxation to a rising pitch of excitement that her father would surely have condemned. When the shopkeeper parted Mary's labia to stroke her clitoris, her face and chest were flushed, her breathing was quick and ragged, and her legs were as widely spread as the tub would permit. No twinge of guilt or shame rose to block her joy. Her climax was a passage from a gray and unsatisfactory world into a realm of utter bliss.
***
"How can I ever thank you?" Mary's tears flowed freely, but she regretted them not at all.
Helen smiled and squeezed her hand. "By coming alive, dear. By learning to love yourself as you deserve."
"Is this how I can do that?"
"In part," Helen said. "It's about will. You accepted your father's will in place of your own, at a very vulnerable age. It's long past time for it to give way."
"To Adam's will?"
Helen shook her head. "To your will. To your desire for pleasure and fulfillment." She leaned close to Mary once again. "That is what you want for yourself, isn't it?"
Mary nodded mutely. Helen sat back.
"Then it shall be so. The transition will require some help, though."
"A therapist?"
"You could say that. But I was thinking of myself."
A thread of Mary's unease returned. "Are you a lesbian, Helen?"
"No, dear, not exactly. But I'm an experienced woman. I know the stages one must go through to defeat a condition like yours, and I can lead you through them. I'm also rather authoritative, as you may have noticed. I can provide a substitute voice of direction that will ease you away from your father's bequest of pain and shame."
She rose, went to her cabinet again, and returned with an odd-looking device, a short, slightly curved rubber cylinder mounted on an oval leather strip, from which dangled several strands of elastic.
"Come out of there and step into this, dear." She spread one of the elastic loops and beckoned Mary into it.
A moment later the cylinder was nestled in the opening to Mary's vagina. Helen stepped around her, snugged the straps, and Mary gasped. The leather oval settled between her labia, holding the little device firmly inside her. She felt a trickle of fluid begin inside her, in response to the unaccustomed intrusion. The sensation made her want to flex and rub her loins against something unyielding.
"This is called a French nub," Helen said. "It's short enough not to press against your hymen, but it fills you enough to start your lubrication and keep you in a state of pleasant tension. It was designed to sexualize virgins, to enhance their desire for their husbands. How does it feel?"
"Wonderful," Mary murmured. "It makes me want to...to touch myself."
"That's the idea, dear. But not quite yet. Let it work on you. Wear it for the rest of the day." An undertone of command sang behind the words. "It will make your evening with Adam more...memorable."
Slowly, Mary donned her clothes and readied herself to go. Helen watched and said nothing. When she zipped up her skirt, the nub sent a quick current of pleasure through her. She shivered, and Helen smiled.
"What do I owe you for this?"
Helen shook her head. "It's a gift, dear. Use it well."
Mary looked at her incredulously. "Are you some kind of angel?"
Helen's smile turned mysterious. "Perhaps."
***
As she waited in their apartment for Adam to arrive, Mary's excitement built continuously. She could feel the nub at every moment, whether she was in motion, sitting, or standing still. The delicious sense of her lubrication running along her inner walls, trickling past the nub and soaking into her white cotton panties disturbed her not at all. Several times she started for the bedroom, intending to doff her skirt and press the nub into her smooth flesh in quest of a second climax, but Helen's command rang in her head, and she restrained herself.
She was sitting in the kitchen over a cup of rose hip tea when she heard Adam at the door. She thought of going to meet him, but a tingle in her loins suggested that she stay where she was.
A moment later he appeared in the entrance to the kitchen. He looked slightly abraded by his day, as he always did. His eyes lit on her face, and his usual smile acquired a touch of curiosity.
"How was your day, sweetie? You look a little...different."
She raised her eyebrows and set down her cup. "Different how?"
"Uh, maybe a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?"
She rose from the table and went to him. "Oh, definitely okay. Much better than that, in fact."
He opened his mouth to say something else but never did. She took his head in her hands and planted her lips squarely on his, while pressing her mound against his crotch as she had never dared to do in the three years past.
***
"Dear God," Adam gasped. "What brought that on?"
She trailed her fingers over his chest. "Didn't you like it?"
"Of course I did! But what made such a...a difference from last night?"
She thought of telling him about her afternoon, decided against it. "Couldn't it just have been the right time?"
He propped himself on an elbow and stared at her in the dimness of their little bedroom. "Just like that?"
She nodded.
"Did it hurt when I...you know...broke you?"
She shook her head. "I didn't even notice."
"This is a miracle," he breathed. "I was beginning to lose hope."
"Want to do it again?" She felt naughty for suggesting it, but it was a very nice sort of naughty. Helen would surely approve.
"Uh, not right now." Her newborn confidence wilted. "I have a bunch of paperwork I have to get through before the morning." He noticed her disappointment and his expression clouded. "Is that okay? I mean, the night is young."
She forced herself to grin. "Sure, sweetie." His look of contentment returned as he levered himself off the bed and made for his pile of clothes.
But it wasn't okay, not really. Not at all.
***
Helen pursed her lips. "I'd hardly call his reaction inadequate, dear."
Mary grimaced. "I guess. But I'd got so...so..."
"Hot?"
"Well, yes. I wanted to love him all evening and night and well into the morning, until neither of us could do it any more. I mean, I'd gone to...to all that trouble, and --"
"Trouble?" Helen's gaze became challenging.
"You know, with the nub thing."
"Would you really call that trouble, dear?"
Mary quailed at the interrogatory tone. "No, I guess not." Yet she'd been honestly disappointed. Let down. And she had no words in which to express it. "What about your other customers, Helen?"
The shopkeeper flipped a hand. "I put up the CLOSED sign when you came by, dear. We won't be disturbed."
"Oh." Mary felt confusion rise within her.
What does she get out of this, anyway?
Helen sat forward. "You're wondering how I can afford to do this, aren't you?"
"Well, yes."
"I'm quite well off, dear. The shop is more like a hobby than a means of support."
What a hobby!
"You had an unusually strong reaction to our session yesterday, and to the nub," Helen said. "You had a lot pent up and ready to pour forth. Adam hasn't been quite as constrained as you were. How long did you say he courted you?"
"Three years."
"And you're sure there were no other women in his life during that time?"
"Of --" She halted in mid-affirmation. Helen waited, looking expectant.
How sure am I really?
"I guess I'm not absolutely sure. But since we married, he's been home at the same time every night, without fail, so whatever he might have been doing before, he's faithful now. He's got to be!"
"I'm sure he is," Helen said in a tone that suggested that the matter still allowed for some doubt. "After all, if he'd wanted to stay footloose, he wouldn't have married you. Yet he's not overflowing with desire, the way you are now, and you'd like to fix that, wouldn't you?"
Mary nodded vigorously.
"I think I have an idea." Helen rose and went to her cabinet once more. Mary stood as well.
This time she brought back a curious looking contraption of leather and steel rings. Surely it wasn't meant for her to wear, as the nub was.
"Fair is fair for everyone, isn't that so, dear?" Helen held the device before her, examining it with narrowed eyes.
"I...guess so."
"And you're wearing your nub today, aren't you?" Before Mary knew it, Helen's fingers were palpating her groin, probing gently for the little device. The rush of pleasure through Mary's loins brought her near to a faint.
"Yes." Involuntarily she undulated her hips against the pressure from the shopkeeper's fingers. When they withdrew, Mary was red-faced and hugely disappointed.
"Then perhaps Adam should wear something too." Helen handed the device to Mary, who took it gingerly.
"These metal rings go around his penis." Helen pointed at them. "The largest goes behind his balls, and the narrowest near the head. Then you wrap this strap around his balls, and pull this one up between them to meet the eyelet at the bottom of the largest ring. It will keep him as excited and ready for you all day as your nub keeps you."
Mary looked at the apparatus dubiously. "How am I supposed to get it on him?"
"After you've made love tonight. He won't resist, I promise you."
"And how..." She faltered and started fresh. "How do I get him to keep it on?"
Helen held up a small padlock. The haft was just barely small enough to fit through the eyelets that were to secure the device on Adam's body. Mary's mouth made an O of realization.
"You'll have the only key," Helen said. "Except for my spare, of course."
***
It was three weeks later that Mary Gorrell next visited Naughty But Nice. Helen looked up from her reading and smiled brightly.
"Mary! What a nice surprise, dear. Come in."
She swept into the store like a victorious general, squatted before Helen where she sat, and planted an enthusiastic kiss on the shopkeeper's lips.
"You are a genius."
"Why, thank you, dear. So my idea for enhancing Adam's interest worked out well for you, then?"
"You know it! He's always hard, never wants to stop until he falls dead asleep. It's been heaven!"
"I'm glad. Did he resist?"
"A little. But when I told him that he either wore it full time or got no nookie from me at all, that was all it took." Mary smirked. "I make him get right back into it the moment we're finished. It's an incentive to keep going."
Helen's face was curiously solemn. "I see you took a very firm line with him."
Mary nodded. "I just thought of what you would say if I wimped out."
"If you had, I would have been cross with you. But do please remember, nothing is forever. Once Adam's desires rise to equal yours, the regime should change." Helen smiled. "But what can I do for you today? Some nice lingerie or a pair of bedroom shoes, perhaps?"
Mary fluttered her fingers. "Maybe later. I was thinking of a bath...and a shave." Helen's eyebrows rose. "That tub of yours is large enough for two, isn't it?"
There was a moment of profound silence.
"Thinking of broadening your horizons a little more, dear?" Helen said
"Nope. You broadened them for me." Mary stood and peered at Helen from under lowered brows. "You knew what you were doing all along, didn't you? I mean, that we'd get to this point. With each other."
Helen was silent for a long moment. The beaded curtain to the rear gallery crackled slightly; the cat Mary remembered from her previous visits poked its head through the curtain, surveyed the room, and withdrew.
"I expected it," Helen said, "if it was to happen, just after our first encounter. I've seen many frightened virgins in my years. Quite a few of them needed to acquaint themselves with pleasure through the body of another woman. Nothing else could unlock them. But you're past that point, Mary. You don't need anything more from me."
Mary's mouth fell open. "You...you don't want..."
Helen shook her head. Though her refusal was plainly absolute, her eyes were kind.
"No, dear. All I want is for you to learn to be a wife. I've given you all the help you need. Now go and learn the rest."
==<O>==
"I have a hard time believing you met a lot of girls like that," Martine said. "L.A. must be the most sexual place in the history of the world."
Helen smiled. "It is, dear. But remember how old I am. Most of those years, sex was treated as something dark and dirty, unworthy of a decent person's serious attention. Not like the great gift God intends it to be."
"I guess some gifts take more appreciating than others."
"Oh, indeed," Helen said. "But there are other factors, too. Have you ever heard the phrase 'barrier to entry?'"
"Like a hymen?"
Helen chuckled. "I knew that was the first thing you'd think of. No, I meant in a business context. A new firm will always face a set of obstacles: expenses and hurdles it has to deal with before it takes in its first dollar of revenue. How great those obstacles are depends on the nature of the business. Some, like your old trade, require very little. Some, like building cars or airplanes, impose huge costs and burdens of preparation before the real work can begin.
"Mary's barrier to entry -- entry into sexual completion and mutual delight with her husband -- was her father's legacy of fear of punishment. Robyn Jamieson's was quite different."
==<O>==
"Who recommended you to us, dear?"
"Uh, Nadine Lorimer." Robyn was unable to quiet her nerves all the way. It showed in tiny fidgets of her hands and feet. The fingers of her right hand kept twisting at her wedding ring, despite her efforts to keep them still. She wasn't sure what had disoriented her more: that Nadine had sent her to an erotic novelties store for this interview, or that there was such a conventional businesswoman's office immediately behind the racks of lingerie and leather.
"Nadine's been a member for more than two years, almost since our beginning." The woman smiled pleasantly, if somewhat distantly. "How did you meet?"
"We belong to the same health club."
"I see. My name is Helen, by the way." The two shook hands across the width of the antique cherry desk.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Helen. Are there many women in the cooperative? Nadine didn't say all that much."
Helen smiled more warmly.
"More than I would have expected when I started it, dear. It began as something of a lark, but it appears to have answered a need. I expect that I'll be splitting the group in half sometime soon, to make for more intimacy and easier management." She sat back in her highbacked leather chair. "What else did Nadine tell you about us?"
Robyn thought a moment.
"She said you were a group of women who helped one another to pursue private goals in strict confidence, that the organization was non-profit, and that members were expected to contribute in proportion to their benefits."
Helen's smile quirked with mischief.
"And what had the two of you been talking about just before that?"
Robyn made a dismissive flip of her hand. "Oh, just trivial stuff. Nothing important."
Nadine had guessed Helen's age at around fifty. However old she was, she was strikingly lovely: thick, midnight black hair, flawless skin, a full bust and long, lean legs, and the posture of a reigning queen. Her assets were set off by a style of dress that was erotic, to say the least: a tight red satin blouse, a glove-leather black miniskirt, black stockings and ankle boots with five-inch stiletto heels. She was also authoritative beyond the ability of a twenty-eight year-old such as Robyn to withstand. She looked directly into Robyn's eyes and bore down slightly on her words.
"Robyn, ours is an organization with a very specific focus. If I'm to know whether you're right for us, I'll have to have your cooperation in finding out. This is, after all, a cooperative."
Robyn colored and giggled nervously.
"Of course, I'm sorry. It's just that...well, you know how girl talk can be. It always sounds perfectly ridiculous to anyone who wasn't there at the time."
Helen said nothing, but kept looking directly into Robyn's eyes. The younger woman swallowed and looked a little away.
"It's really sort of embarrassing."
"It's all right, dear," Helen said softly. "Take your time."
"It was about...fantasies."
"Sexual fantasies?" The older woman's tone conveyed nothing but polite, friendly interest.
"Uh, yes."
"Nadine told you about one or two of hers, and you responded with one or two of yours? That kind of talk?"
"Yes." Helen didn't seem put off; Robyn felt her nerves ratchet down another notch. Still, she couldn't bring herself to discuss the actual details. "Things we'd like to do someday, if they were possible."
"Oh, all things are possible, with planning, preparation, the right helpers and the right equipment."
That got Robyn's attention. "What do you mean?"
Helen's smile turned mysterious. "Think again about what Nadine told you, dear. We help one another pursue private goals, in strictest confidence."
"You mean...?"
The older woman inclined her head. "Exactly."
"But, aren't you all women?"
"Yes, dear. It could never work, otherwise."
"Isn't that a limitation?"
Helen chuckled. "Much less of one than you might imagine."
Robyn's head was beginning to whirl.
"I...I can't tell my husband about this, can I?"
Helen pursed her lips. "No. In fact, you'd be well advised to keep our existence entirely to yourself, whether you decide to join, or not."
The older woman rose from her chair and began to stroll randomly about her office. Robyn watched her, thinking furiously.
"I can see that you're going to need to think about this a bit before you decide. That's all right. Take as long as you want. But you're here because of that conversation with Nadine, who must have thought there was something you needed that we could help you to achieve. Nadine is a very smart girl. How long have you been married, dear?"
The question took Robyn by surprise. "Four years."
"Any dissatisfactions?" Helen had stopped ambling about and was once again looking her full in the eyes.
"Well, a few."
A thousand. We must have made love a thousand times, and I've never yet gotten the charge I've been waiting for. But it can't be Larry's fault!
"We all have them, you know. Sometimes they're not even things we could explain to another woman. Or would be willing to try even if we could. You might say it’s the basis of my business."