The Aphrodite Experiment

"ARE you sure it's OK, darling" sobbed Rochelle, her beautiful green eyes brimming with tears. "Are you really, really sure?"

"Of course, beautiful one," replied Mel, stroking her hair, and drawing her closer to him. "Just because I've done stuff like that in the past doesn't mean I need to do it all the time."

"But... But... " Rochelle held Mel tightly, resting her head on his chest.

She would rather not have been reminded of things Mel had done in his past, but apart from that, she was forced to admit, you'd have to go a long way to find a more wonderful guy. His lithe, hard body never failed to turn her on, he was intelligent, witty, generous, protective, cultured, and - and this last was, she was forced to admit in her more self-aware moments, an absolute prerequisite where she was concerned - amazingly patient. No matter how often she threw one of her ridiculous tantrums, or made a spectacle of herself in public, or allowed her insecurity to override her common sense, or committed some intellectual faux pas, he never failed to forgive her.

Why, only a few days before, she recalled, they'd attended that reception for the Spanish Ambassador at Government House. How Mel had obtained the invite, she had no idea - somehow he seemed to know absolutely everyone of importance in the whole City - and of course, she'd made an exhibition of herself, as usual.

All had gone swimmingly, until she had dropped her clutch purse when going into dinner, and bent down to retrieve it. And the tight purple gown that she had been wearing - with no restraining garment underneath to ensure security of fit, for she'd been paranoid about VPL - had, with a loud ripping sound that could probably have been heard throughout the building, split apart at the back from neck to the back of her knees.

Any other guy, she reflected, would have been angry, furious about being shown up in front of the cream of society. Instead, Mel had been sympathy personified, escorting her gallantly from the building, lovingly attentive throughout the cab ride home, kissing away her tears. If anything (which she'd found puzzling in the extreme), his lovemaking had been even more ardent than usual that night.

And that hadn't been the first time such a thing had happened either, she thought, blushing as a series of memories surfaced. They'd been the time she'd attended the party, at the house of the Director of her company, and she'd accidentally attached her suspender to the tablecloth, and pulled the whole lot off, in a cascade of shattered crockery and spilt food and wine. The occasion they'd gone to dinner with his ex, and her skirt had been too short, and she'd spent the whole evening flashing her knickers to the other guests. The night, in Australia, when they'd attended an operetta at the famed Sydney Opera House, and her thigh highs had plunged to the ground multiple times. That time when...

And yet, after such events, there was never a scathing comment, never any coldness. Why, if anything, he was even more loving than usual!

Of course, Mel had his faults. He didn't like tennis, for one thing. Or romantic comedies, or markets, or the Bee Gees. Sometimes, he vanished on mysterious errands for days or weeks at a time, and refused to talk about what he had been doing. He would smoke those filthy cigars in bed. And Rochelle could never be totally, entirely, one hundred percent sure he was always absolutely faithful, though she had no concrete evidence to the contrary. But the way just about every other girl they met seemed to turn into a flirtatious bundle of desire, gazing at him as if the rest of the world did not exist had the power to arouse certain suspicions in her at times.

Still, these minor shortcomings paled into insignificance when compared to his virtues. He was the perfect guy for her, and she'd accept no substitute. Out of the sack or in it.

But it was in it that was causing her current angst. Not that there was any problem with performance, as such. Rochelle had never known she could be such a rutty wench until she'd met Mel, and some of the things he'd taught her had left her (metaphorically and literally) breathless. Their bodies were adventure playgrounds for each other, and sometimes, after he'd stayed the weekend, it had been all she could do to drag herself to her Honda to drive herself to work.

If anything, he was too imaginative. And therein lay (no pun intended) the problem.

Rochelle's upbringing had been, she was forced to admit, on the conservative side. As a shy, nerdy girl, with an absentee father, unable to gain social acceptance into the fast set during her school and college careers, she had been a late starter in the game of love, and a series of disastrous relationships had done little to redress the poor beginning. Somehow, while perfectly cognisant of the facts of reproduction, the more exotic side of concupiscence had always been a closed book to her.

She knew that in the permissive age in which she lived, such inhibition was rare. The gossip exchanged by her friends in coffee shops, bars and at parties, brought that home to her with a vengeance. This girl and her man dressed up as cats, and she'd learned to yowl convincingly as he withdrew. That girl and her lesbian lover were, alternately cowgirls in the old American West or a Sultan and "his" slave girl. Another pair of couples regarded themselves as a four-way marriage, and still found time to invite temporary guests into their bedroom activities for variety. Someone had had sex in a helicopter, while the pilot, heavily bribed not to notice, had flown her and a guy she'd just met over the city centre.

Another pair, when behind closed doors, were Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia, and yet another Snugglepot and Cuddlepie! And what, (she had learned from rumour) could be done with a shower curtain and bottle of baby oil, a silk handkerchief, a pair of handcuffs, or an electronic nerve-stimulator, did not bear thinking about... especially for a girl that could not face even the most mild of double-entendres without blushing beet red!

And Mel, she knew, would have been more than happy to do such things. He'd even come up with a few suggestions that made the other activities she'd heard about (except, perhaps, the Snugglepot and Cuddlepie one) seem positively pedestrian. But, somehow, Rochelle's lack of confidence had let her down, and she'd never quite managed to bring herself to agree to doing any of them!

It's so unfair on him, she reflected, her tears welling again. Other girls do kinky things for their guys. I should be doing them for him!

"It's OK, Roche, really," soothed Mel. "Being with you is ecstasy personified. Your shyness is a real turn on, actually."

"Oh don't be ridiculous," she wailed. "Everyone knows that guys like sexy women. Women like Madonna, or Pink, or Shania Twain, or Beyonce. Confident, sexy, uninhibited, in-control women. Women that ooze sex (she was quoting from the latest edition of Cleo) from every pore!"

"Shania Twain?" His jaw dropped.

"Well, you know what I mean. The sort of women in those porn movies Jack and Suzie watch. I... I feel like some useless little virgin at times. I don't know how you put up with me!"

"Have you ever heard me complain?"

"No, but that's not the point. Y-You're too understanding to complain. That doesn't mean you don't have a right to! I mean... Mel, what are you doing? Mel! I'm trying to have a discussion here. I... I'm baring my soul, and... Look, that's distracting! Yes, I am enjoying it, but that's not the... Mel! Stop that. It's only been ten minutes, you can't possibly want to... it... ooohhhh, Meeeellllll..."

*****

It was an exhausted, yet thoughtful, Rochelle that arrived at work the following Monday. While Mel had temporarily banished her sexual self-doubt, the separation that day to day living enforced meant that it could never be entirely vanquished.

Her ritual morning check of her email, was accompanied by a background of a voice from the next cubicle. Emma, one of the clerks, holding a long, complicated phone call about her weekend recreation, complete with details about the precise temperature of the melted chocolate, and how they'd managed to remove the residue from her boyfriend's hairy chest afterwards.

One of the emails, itself, was a cheery note from her friend Adrienne, concerning a kinky photography session in which she'd indulged with her boyfriend, accompanied by the appropriate illustrations - and which the furiously blushing Rochelle had instantly deleted.

On taking herself down to the staff canteen for a pre-work coffee, she'd fallen in with Felicity, from Purchasing, who had regaled Rochelle with an anecdote about what she'd got up to with her new boyfriend the previous Friday night, and how the seven inch heels had proved quite comfortable after the first hour or so.

Then, upon returning to her own floor, she'd overheard Jarrod from Purchasing describing in full detail how he'd gained membership in the Mile High Club. Even Mr Branigan arrived with a satisfied smile on his normally lugubrious face, suggesting that, his wife being away for the weekend, he'd visited a certain lady in the less respectful part of town, who (according to her advertisements) offered French lessons, Indian massage and "severe correction", whatever that might have been!

I must be the only person in the whole of Edenglassie City who does it normally, she moaned to herself. She sat, brooding, the pile of work in her in tray unnoticed and neglected. This can't go on. I... I'm sure Mel loves me, he proves it constantly. But how long is he going to stay around? He's got to get tired of someone as sexually boring as me, eventually. And it's pretty obvious that he gets plenty of opportunities to... she tried to forced her mind into other tracks, this line of thought being just too depressing.

Morning tea time arrived, without her being able to dissipate her anxiety. By now, however, a resolution had firmed in her mind. This state of affairs, she told herself, must not be allowed to continue.

Arriving at a decision, she stood up, tugged down the hem of her pale green blazer in a determined manner, straightened her skirt (a white knee-length number), and picked up the phone.

"B-Brianna," she said, biting her lip. "Are you free for morning tea?"

*****

"I didn't even know that was physically possible," whispered Rochelle, half an hour later. "I mean, wouldn't the pee just dribble out again?"

"You're really getting off on this, aren't you," laughed Brianna. Rochelle would have blushed, save that her face was already so heated, it was not biologically possible without moving into the realm of the spectrum known as infra-red!

"I'm j-just interested, that's all," replied Rochelle, biting her lip. "Honestly, Brianna, some of the things you're saying! You'd think this entire city was the fantasy creation of some sick individual who needs a year's therapy before he could even be allowed in polite society!"

"It's not all like that," replied Brianna. "I'm sure there's a lot of couples who do nothing but the missionary position every third Friday night, and stuff. Look, Roche, you asked me for advice, so I guess I should speak freely. Most guys expect their women to be a little bit kinky now and then. It needn't be every time, but you know... variety of expression, and all that. Maybe you should read some books. There's some really interesting stuff out, you know. Ever hear of The Story of E by Paulette Rigerre? I get no kick from sham pain - give me the real thing by Flip Milton and Milly Braun? Mouth of Aphrodite by Enneus Noon? Or those Henry Miller books, you know? Tropic of Capricorn.

"I thought that was about astrology!" wailed Rochelle, totally out of her depth. "Oh, Brianna, I feel like a middle-aged prude!"

"And where are you going to get one, at this time of day?"

"Don't be flippant, please!" Rochelle was on the verge of tears again. "It's no joke when you're a... a quiet kind of girl, who's had a sheltered upbringing. Mum was pretty strict. And it was no good asking my sister Madlyn for advice, she used to just sneer at me and mock. I didn't even have a boyfriend until I was well into my twenties. Mel's only the second guy I ever... you know... did stuff with."

"Rochelle, don't take this amiss," Brianna replied, "but you do seem a bit back- urm, I mean, inexperienced for a woman your age. Now, don't get me wrong, I've seen you and Mel together, and it's obvious he totally adores you," (unfortunately, she added under her breathe, for she wouldn't have minded a taste of him herself), "and a guy would have to be totally superficial to junk a girl just because she's having some sexual issues, but - "

""Excuse me! Sexual issues?"

"Well, lack of sexual confidence, then. What I'm saying is, you seem to be on the right track. Maybe you should try to widen your -"

"Brianna!!"

" - repertoire. Try some fancy dress-up games. Toys, perhaps?"

"Toys? You mean model aeroplanes?"

Brianna sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. "No, Rochelle, not - hmm, hang on, now you mention it. No - wouldn't work! Too uncomfortable." She brought herself back to the conversation in hand. "I mean things like vibrators, handcuffs, - " She mentioned a few other devices that Rochelle had never heard of. "Maybe you could get a tattoo or some piercings, or something. Or fancy underwear. Hmm, perhaps not. You have enough trouble with normal underwear."

"Bri, that's not helping!"

"Sorry. There's Chremastiophilia. BDSM. Dacryphilia. Rimming. Vore. Piquerism. Sexual role play. Autoplusaphilia. Forniphilia - that's pretending you're a piece of furniture!"

Rochelle's jaw dropped.

"You're making that one up!"

"I'm not, honestly. Klismaphilia. Mucophilia, but that one's pretty revolting. Mysophilia. Troilism. Narratophilia - fuck, I love that one. Somnophilia. Tricophilia - though that can get a bit hairy. Worming - that's not what you might think, by the way. Algamatophilia. Omarashi. There's all sorts of things you can try."

"I don't even know what most of these words mean! Have you done all these things?"

"Some of them. I don't think you're meant to do them all."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to pretend to be a dining room table!"

"Spectrophilia. Dendophrilia - ever read A Melon for Ecstacy? Algolagnia. Autogynaphilia."

"Will you please stop saying all these bizarre words! Brianna, it's all right for you. You're a confident type of girl. With me, someone only has to mention anything sexual and I start blushing!"

"Well, is there anything he's asked you to do, and you went along with it?" (Brianna prepared to take mental notes - you never knew your luck for the future!) "You aren't giving me much to go on here."

"Well, he said he'd like to have a shower, and then for me to dry him with my hair."

"That's a start. What happened?"

"I tried, and I got embarrassed. I sort of froze."

"Hmm, maybe you should try pyschrophilya."

"What?"

"Never mind. Anything else?"

"Oh, we do different positions of course. And he likes me to wear certain clothing. Stockings, tight skirts, heels, that kind of thing. But I think most men are like that. And we have sex in the shower, and in the car, and other places. And he once said he likes it when I get all sweaty. I'll be honest, I blushed then, too. And, we do, you know," she lowered her voice "oral."

"Well, your relationship sounds healthy enough. And you say you're enjoying it, and so's he. I'm not sure what's not to like."

Rochelle thumped the table with the flat of her hands, causing tidal waves in their coffee cups. "Because, quite frankly, I'm sick of always being the sexually backward one who everyone feels sorry for!" She rounded on Brianna. "I want to know for sure I'm keeping my man happy! Brianna, I want to be kinky!"

Brianna thought for a moment.

"Rochelle, do you have a biro?"

"What?" Rochelle's blush deepened even further. "Y-Y-You surely don't mean I should ask Mel to put a pen up my -?!!"

"Twit! I want to write down the urls of some web sites. Better check them out on your own computer at home, though. You really don't want these appearing in your browser history at work."

*****

"For heaven's sake, Suzie, is that the best you can do? We're not getting anywhere!"

"Rochelle, I feel really uncomfortable doing this."

"You're uncomfortable?"

Suzie sighed.

"Look, Roche, I regard us as friends, and, truly, I'm always ready to help out with girl stuff. I know that sometimes you need a friendly eye to check if your slip's showing, or you might be having trouble with a sticking zip, and it's an established fact that getting a bra adjusted just so is a two-woman job. And no girl can be truly sure she hasn't got a VPL without a friend to check for her. But this..."

"It's just a corset, Suzie. Women used to wear them all the time until fifty years ago. Get over it!"

"Yes, my grandmother had quite a collection, I seem to recall."

"Well then!"

"But hers weren't made out of leather!"

"Suzie, you have to remember, the Galley Slave is Edenglassie City's top BMDS club."

"I think that's BDSM, actually."

"That's what I said. The point is, I can hardly turn up there dressed in a suit, or a skirt and blouse, can I? My street cred would vanish in a puff of smoke. And stop calling me 'Rochelle!"

"But your name is Rochelle, Rochelle."

"My name," hissed Rochelle, "Is 'Lady Steel Orchid!' Who ever heard of a Dominatrix called "'Rochelle Kaitlyn Heath' "

"The word is Domme. And You're going to be in agony before the night's out, in those boots."

"Oh, don't be so damn strawberry!"

"The word you're looking for is 'vanilla'. Rochelle, are you sure about this? I mean, OK, laced thigh boots and the corset maybe, even if they aren't really you. But carrying a whip around isn't exactly socially acceptable, even in the downtown area on Friday night. And as for these wristbands. I'm not sure those studs are exactly legal."

"Idiot. They aren't real steel. They're made of plastic. They - Suzie, will you stop that giggling! OK, have you got all the laces tight."

"Yes, there's just this main one now."

"That's called the 'staylace'. You pull that one tight and - ooffff!"

"You said you wanted it tight!"

Rochelle's face was purple. "Not that tight, you moron. I can't breathe!"

"That's rather the point, I think." Suzie stood back and observed her handiwork. "Well, it's certainly doing its job - though, in your case I rather think a corset's the last thing you need. You do realise they're meant to draw in the waist and make the hips and boobies look bigger, right? Which, in your case is really gilding the lilly!"

Rochelle tugged the corset down at the bottom, then, wriggling, pulled it upwards.

"I am wearing this garment, Suzie, to identify myself as a member of the lifestyle - not to push up my... " Rochelle blushed. " - my breasts!"

"It's a kind of interesting look, I admit," continued Suzie. "You smell like a brand new car, you know that? What with the boots, the leather skirt, the corset. Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"A bit. But I've only just started wearing it. I'm sure I'll get used to it," she performed a further series of gyrations, hitching it up again, then tugging it downwards, "eventually."

"I still don't get it, though. You say you're doing this to make yourself more intriguing to Mel, But he's not even going to be there! He won't even be back in town until Wednesday."

"Yes, well... " Rochelle looked a little shamefaced. "Just in case anything does, you know, go wrong. I prefer to try it out, first. If it works out, I plan to spring it on him as a surprise."

"It'll be that, all right!" Suzie admitted.

*****

Upon her first investigation of the alternate lifestyle sites suggested by Brianna, Rochelle had been shocked and repelled. For a shy and sexually naïve girl, some of the ideas, attitudes and implications had verged upon the nauseating. Regarding her sexual credibility as being at stake, however, she had persisted, and gradually a kind of horrified fascination had taken the place of her initial repellence.