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.
9
CASSIE
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.”
I was stunned. I’d never heard her use such a sharp tone.
“That word has been used as a weapon against women all around the world, since the beginning of time, to keep us feeling unworthy and separate. It can have especially tragic consequences for young women. Some shut down; some lose their confidence; some lose their desire to explore their sexuality; and still others end their lives over sexual shame.”
I’d never really given the subject much thought, but I have, in my life, felt that shame, that sense that there was something wrong about wanting and enjoying sex. But since joining S.E.C.R.E.T. that shame had been fading. In fact, it seemed ludicrous to hold on to any of those old ideas. Then something else occurred to me.
“If shame is so toxic, why isn’t S.E.C.R.E.T. more public? That would be a way to fight the stigma, the double standard. Why should ‘slut’ be an insult to women and not necessarily to men?”
“Let me ask you something. If we went public, would you admit to being an enthusiastic member of a group of women that arranges sexual fantasies for other women? Would you like to share with the world all the marvelous men you’ve met and all the marvelous things you’ve done with them, in S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
She lifted her sunglasses to look right into my eyes. She had me. There was no way I could face that potential scrutiny.
“We can’t change the world, Cassie, but we can liberate one woman at a time. Reduce her shame. That’s all we can do. Now, tell me all about this young man you slept with.”
“Well, let’s see. I like him. I like being with him. But when I’m not with him, I don’t think about him. Then I feel guilty because I should have more feelings for him, shouldn’t I?”
“Should. Shouldn’t. Who cares,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I think it’s perfectly healthy, perfectly necessary, that a thirty-six-year-old woman like you has terrific sex with a younger man from whom she wants little else. Let me ask you something: were you honest with him about what you wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Was the sex consensual?”
“Of course.”
“Did you use protection?”
“We did.”
“Well then, good for you! What fun it must be to be back in your body, to simply experience a man. So, no more talk of sluts, all right? No judgment. No limits. No shame. That applies to how you think about yourself too.”
It felt like a good time to bring someone else up, someone who I did want to see again, for whom I still had lingering feelings.
“How’s Jesse?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Is he next on Dauphine’s fantasy list?”
“I believe he is,” she said, looking out over the field. “He was your number three. We think he should be Dauphine’s as well.”