The Blue Orchid Program

All her life she'd been a figure of dignity and authority, at ease giving orders and making decisions. But now, put in a position where she needed to ask for something for herself--or at least invite, or just encourage--she was in a panic: lost, with no idea what to do, no clear idea of what she wanted, and with a terrible fear of looking foolish and needy and even pitiful.

Paul was finishing his walking tour of the suite. He came back and stood in the door to the bedroom. "Will there be anything else, Madame?" he asked.

A tip, she thought. That was the usual cue they used to solicit a tip, and on instinct she went to ger bag and opened her wallet. How much to give him? she thought, and on impulse she took two fifty-Euro notes and held them out for him.

He took them with a smile, but then, noticing their denomination, he stopped. "Well thank you so much, Madame, but I really can't take this much—"

"No," she said. "Take it. Take it, Paul. I want you to have it, because I want you to do something for me. I want..."

He didn't have to look at her to see her uncertainty, her awkward embarrassment. He'd seen the same thing so many times before: an older woman, married, dedicated, now released from her marriage vows by either death or abandonment, betrayal, desperation or sheer loneliness, forced into this strange and unfamiliar role of being the aggressor, the initiator. And it was always the ones with the most dignity, the most self-regard, who had the hardest time. They had the most to lose.

He dropped the bills on the carpet -- just let them fall like autumn leaves -- went to her and slowly took her in his arms—slowly so she could experience once more the full sensations of being embraced by a man--and when his arms encircles her back and he pulled her body against hers, Claire felt like she might swoon.

He was so young and strong that Claire was suddenly aware of her age and the unseemliness of their contact, the lewd sexuality of their unnatural contact. But the feel of his lips as they found her mouth said nothing about age or respect or politeness, or about anything other than crude, lustful sexual desire, a message that was reinforced when he turned her enough to get his hand on her breast and squeezed and massaged with selfish pleasure.

Claire gasped, shocked at how good it felt to be used for a man's pleasure, as a mere sex object and body and something to be enjoyed. She hadn't known what she'd wanted or what she was expecting but she knew it hadn't been this, nothing this raw or carnal, but Paul somehow reached right under her expectations and desires for vague tenderness and connected directly with her crude animal soul. He grabbed her ass through the skirt and pulled her hips against him and she felt his hardness—hard! hard for her!--and the realization that she could still somehow invoke such physical desire in a man was both a thrill and a deep relief that rolled through her body like thunder, freeing her instantly from her most consuming and paralyzing fear, turning all her lights green and setting all her signs to 'go'. Boldly and not even thinking about it she reached down and grasped his cock through his pants and found him hard and thick and hot.

"Oh my God!" she murmured between kisses. "Oh my God, this is insane, this is crazy, this is amazing! Paul --! Wait, Paul. Wait! What are we doing?"

He had her backed up against the wall and was leaning against her, his cock still held in her hand and pressed against her belly so that she could easily feel it throbbing, pulsing with blood. At the same time he was unbuttoning the sheer blouse, pulling the lacy bra of the corset down over her big tits and starting to feed on them, holding one then the other to his mouth, nuzzling and licking and sucking her nipples in a way that was making her lose control so precipitously that it made her feel as if the floor had dropped out from beneath her stomach; feelings so sharp and sudden that they frightened her. For all her frustrated fantasizing and imaginings she'd never suspected she still had such powerful emotions inside her, or that they could be accessed and manipulated so easily.

His mouth on her tits made her crazy with a need she couldn't control, and she wrapped one leg around his legs, instinctively trying to pull him against her famished cunt, at the same time instinctively rising up on tiptoe to try and get him to penetration angle. With him lifting her up with his hands on her ass and leaning his weight against her at the same time, he almost reached the critical elevation, and Claire was able to bend his cock down far enough to feel him close, throbbing against her mound and in her hand like a living thing.

He was so virile, so hard and potent, young and strong. The feel of his hard, veiny cock gave sudden life to all the half-formed hazy sexual images that haunted her: visions of stiff young cocks rearing like stallions, pulsing as they spurted rich hot streams of semen onto Claire's face and tits till she was dripping with it, painted with it, decorated like some perverted fuck-master's human Christmas tree with cum instead of tinsel as Claire saw herself mounted on some stud and bouncing on his cock while surround by a crowd of faceless cocks impatiently awaiting their turn. Pictures of her post-coital pussy dilated, stretched, ruined, leaking a steady, unending stream of potent seed. They were images that shamed and excited her beyond bearing, and with a feeling of thrilled panic she realized she was losing control of herself: losing control of her body.

She'd never lost control of herself. Never even come close. In all her years of marriage, in all the crises and challenges she'd faced, in all the episodes of polite and caring sex she'd had with Roger back when they still had sex, and even in the incredible session she'd had with Lucien, nothing had ever come close to this desperate and devastating need. Her body seemed to just push her conscience and concerns aside and act on its own animal instincts. She threw herself at Paul, desperate for more of his ravaging touch and consuming kisses. And while on the one hand it was a thrill to feel such uninhibited desire, at the same time it roused a deep-seated sense of panic within her. This was not who she was. This was not the Claire she'd always known. She couldn't possibly allow this boy to see her in the thrall of such whorish desires.

She had to stop, resist, put the brakes on somehow. Lucien would be there in a matter of hours, and he would know. Of course he would know. It was utterly beyond her character to even try to deceive him and so of course he'd know. And despite his admonishments that she fling herself into the spirit of the place as soon as she got there, how could she face him? To meet her lover in the very bed where she'd just fucked a bellman was more than she could possibly handle.

"Wait," she gasped. "Wait, wait. Paul... Paul!"

She let go of his cock and levered herself away from him, brushed her hair away from her eyes. Near panic, the idea came to her:

"I want to do something to you. I want you in my mouth. Please. I've never— I mean, you'll have to show me, but please...?"

Paul knew more than he was saying, and it was easy to see from her present condition of flustered uncertainty and nervousness that she felt in over her head. He too was aware of Lucien's arrival schedule and the predicament she'd be in if he took her to bed, and—most of all—he was well accustomed to serving the needs of his guests before his own.

"You've never done oral?" he asked.

"Just a little. Years ago, when I was fist married. But never... Never all the way."

"Come here," he said, and grabbed her hand. He pulled her down on the bed and sat next to her, pushing his pants and shorts down to his ankles. He put one arm around her shoulders and caught up her breast in his other hand, immediately dipped his head and started sucking.

Claire'd been ready to get on her knees, and this side-to-side sitting arrangement surprised her, but she wasn't about to complain. She loved his implacable hunger for her body, his selfish, greedy touch.

Paul drew back a bit to regard her. He'd unbuttoned her blouse enough that her breasts were quite visible, a bit low, but still lush with erotic promise. Her face was still beautiful, but in the manner of an older woman who'd seen life and showed its wear. To Paul, who favored older women, the emerging lines and imperfections were signs of an inner richness of character and experience that no girl his own age could know, and with it came a kind of sexual dignity that still, even in her present state of high arousal, couldn't hide her haunted hunger and need for love. It was that dignity and presence that so excited him: the thought of breaking through that public persona and finding the genuine passions of the real woman.

He took her hand and put it back on his cock. "Here," he said. He covered her hand with his and showed her how to pump and how hard to squeeze. "Harder, harder. You can't squeeze him too hard. I want you to get me close with your hand. Get me close and then I want to cum in your mouth."

She thought his words would make her swoon. She was already beside herself with the crude, carnal thrill of what she was doing. She'd thought that using her mouth would at least give her some sense of control over him and isolate herself from these feelings of overwhelming, debilitating pleasure, but pumping his cock like this was somehow even more lewd and demeaning then if he'd fucked her. It was primitive, primal, and obscene: treating him like a mechanical pump and she no more than an unskilled maintenance man. Paul's head was at her breasts, sucking and licking and making her moan and shudder, and all she could do was beat him off like some slave or servant.

He spread her knees apart and before she could stop him, he'd pushed the crotch of her panties aside and slid a finger into her pussy, embarrassingly wet and swollen, despite any change of life. Again, like making her beat him off, his crude penetration of her cunt was shocking for its utter lack of respect or concern for her. And yet it was that very crudeness that sent thrills up her spine and made her gasp out loud. Fingered like a common slut or pre-teen trollop! What if her society friends could see her now? They feared Claire's power and judgement like school children feared their teacher, but what would they think of her now?

But the shock of what she was doing and the lewd spear of pain and pleasure from Paul's finger only seemed to drive her deeper into her sexual trance, made her hotter, made her pump him harder and revel in the feel of the iron-like stiffness of his cock. When he brought his mouth to hers she didn't even think before plunging her tongue into his mouth to engage his and slide and caress around and against it.

Paul was moaning, muttering, "Oh yes, Madame! Fuck! Do it! I'm close Madame, I'm getting close!"

Madame! He called her Madame. How embarrassing was that? How degrading? In the hotel, all women were Mademoiselles. Yet here she was seducing or letting herself be seduced by this hot young stud, so what did that make her? Should she correct him? What would she tell him to call her? Mademoiselle? Ms. Arisette? Claire?

No, she let it go, and already it was too late, for Paul suddenly pulled her down on her back, laid down next to her and demanded, "Suck me now! Hurry!"

She scrambled up onto her knees, combed her disheveled hair out of her face and without a second thought took his cock deep into her mouth, possessed by an irresistible but totally unexpected hunger that made sucking his cock now the most important thing in the world. She'd never understood cock-sucking, never understood why women did it other than as a favor for their men, but now an urge struck her that was almost blinding in its hunger, deep and insistent, and she thrilled to the feel of his cock between her lips and filling her mouth. It was so alive and excited and demanding and she immediately started sucking and slurping at him, almost out of her mind with excitement, bobbing her head, flailing her tongue, cherishing his tool even as she surrendered to it and begged for its ultimate release. She was moaning. She heard herself moaning and slurping and making wet, obscene sounds and couldn't believe it. She'd become an animal, a beast, a slut, salope, whore!

And then his hands were on her scalp, his fingers sliding through her hair and taking possession of her head, holding her hair and working her up and down like she was some masturbation aid, a hole to be fucked for the pleasure she afforded. It was crude, savage, demeaning, and yet his force and the very callousness of his treatment inflamed her and thrilled her with the rough desperation of his need.

And suddenly he stopped pumping her, tightened his grip on her hair and held her still and unmoving as he began fucking up into her mouth with insane urgency, slamming his cock into the back of her throat and making her gag and cough, filling her eyes with tears. And then with one brutal thrust be pushed his cockhead into her throat, and just froze there, trembling, his hips arched off the mattress, and she felt him harden, harden as his entire body went rigid, and with a deep, rough groan he began to throb; throb and pulse as he spit his cum into her mouth and throat.

Thinking about it later she would feel shame, shame and confusion over her reaction at feeling him cum in her mouth, but at the moment she was aware of nothing but a sense of soaring satisfaction at the hard jets of his release and the gamey, slick, slimy, buttery feel of semen, the wild, salty taste of his potent young seed. She had done it, done something she'd never done in her life, something she thought she might never be able to do. And then it was the image she had of herself, of the Claire she'd always known, so proper and chaste and irreproachable, now with her red lips pressed into the nest of his black public hair and her eyes half-closed in ecstasy, feeling her pussy clench in orgasmic thrills with every spurt of his male seed that spilled down her throat and filled her mouth.

And for the first time she realized that this persona she had built for herself as Claire Brionne d'Longville Arisette, pillar of society, loyal wife and mother, had also been a prison that kept her locked up inside. But sex had helped her escape, sex had given her a glimpse of another world outside, frightening and powerful, but one she would explore.

All her adult life she'd heard stories about women who did this sort of thing—sluts, whores, deviants—and now she was one herself. How strange. How curious. How amazing.

III.A. Lucien

"Hello, Clarisse ..."

At the sound of his voice Claire immediately woke up. She was asleep on her side, facing away from him. The bedroom was dark; the clock on the nightstand said 9:00. Paul was gone but somebody had covered her with a blanket she held clutched beneath her chin. She could feel that her clothes were in the same state of dishabille as when he'd done with her

Lucien sat down on the side of the bed behind her, and she had no doubt that he knew exactly what had happened.

And as if she needed further confirmation, he asked, "So I understand you met Paul? It went well? He was very impressed and said you performed admirably, but that you didn't take him all the way. I hope that wasn't on my account? Still, I'm quite pleased with you, darling. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you. Did you manage to enjoy it at all?"

She rolled over to see him, his glorious figure outlined in the glow from the bathroom light, sitting on the side of her and leaning over her as if she were a child. He still wore his leather overcoat, his hair and shoulders sprinkled with the rain they could now hear falling outside: a springtime shower falling on the budding trees and emerging flowers, a sweet sound in the night.

But before she could find words to describe her confused and ambiguous feelings about what had happened with Paul, Lucien bent down and took her in one of his devastating kisses that began so tenderly but soon consumed her in its lush sensuality and open desire, seeming to pull her very soul up to his lips. She always had to take a moment to catch her breath after one of those kisses, and after she did, she sat up, holding the blanket modestly against her chin and leaning back against the ornate brass headboard.

"Lucien! So you know him?" she asked. "You know this Paul? You arranged all this?"

He took her hand, gazing at her fondly. "I thought I made it all perfectly clear, my darling. Didn't I tell you that things would begin as soon as you registered? That anyone around you might be in on the program?"

He smiled and brushed some hair out of her face. "Ah, Duchess! You're so sensitive to the slightest nuance when it comes to etiquette and social protocol, but the subtleties of sexual behavior still elude you. Yes. Paul's worked with me for some time, and I've asked him to assist me with your program. He's very good, don't you think? Mature for his age? Bright, sensitive, personable?"

"Well yes, I suppose he's nice. Or so I thought. But now that I know he was just carrying out your orders, I'm not so sure. If he was just acting, humoring me, then how can I have any idea of what he's really like? Lucien, it makes me ashamed. I mean— it's very troubling. I hardly imagined you'd be arranging sexual trysts between me and absolute strangers! And so early on in our relationship!"

He stood up and took off his coat and hung it up. "Duchess, I made it quite clear what this Blue Orchid program would involve, and why I felt it was vital for you and what I believed it would accomplish. I told you in some detail what would be expected of you and why I felt those things were necessary. And I told you numerous times that this would be challenging and intense, and that your old behaviors and reactions would no longer serve you here. We went over this time and again, darling, did we not? And you eagerly agreed."

She nodded. She couldn't tell him what a poor listener she was when he spoke. She couldn't tell him that, lying in his arms or longing to be there, she would do anything he asked, anything to please him, and had given little serious thought to what would actually be demanded of her. She couldn't tell him any of these things.

"Yes, of course," she said finally. "And I understand how important this is to you-- To me as well, of course," she hastily added. "I know I'm just a beginner at these things and can scarcely give you what you need, and that I sorely need experience—"

"Claire, it's more than that."

"Yes, yes, I know that too. It's my golden opportunity to discover my true sexual nature, and that such knowledge will transform me and change who I am. Though honestly, I wonder about this last part. It's only sex, after all, and there are things much more important than sex. And I wonder, given what we have between us—"

"Yes, there are many things much more important than sex, and what we have between us is certainly one of them. But don't underestimate the power of the erotic to change you, or remake your life. You are at present not a truly complete person, Claire. Your libido, your true sexual engine, is missing. That's why we're here, to discover it, to develop it and nurture it and make you whole."

He came back to the bed and stood by her and took her hand. "And think of it this way: if what we have is so much bigger than just sex, why be so concerned with what happened with Paul? Do you think I would make you have sex with others if I weren't so absolutely sure of our feelings for each other?"

She could have said something, and had those words come from anyone else, she might have. But with Lucien, she just shook her head.