The Blue Orchid Program

"Well, then...?"

She had no answer. So certain and commanding in her normal life, both as wife and mother and as a doyen of society, she was nonetheless like a child with him, especially when it came to matters of love and sex. She loved trusting his knowledge and expertise and she loved putting herself into his hands and doing as he said. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it.

"Now tell me the truth," he went on, taking off his tie. "You didn't enjoy it? There was nothing that excited you, that made you feel inside?"

She tried to think, tried to recapture what she felt when Paul had kissed her, when she'd first put her hand on his cock. She remembered the thrill of his hands on her body and feeling her own body respond. She remembered the terrible nagging anxiety she'd felt from the first, an anxiety that had gnawed at her ever since the idea of this trip to the Pavane had first been mentioned: that he wouldn't want her, that nobody would want her, because of her age and the stiffness of her character and her total lack of experience in playing the sexual flirt. She remembered that most of all, and how she had steeled herself for rejection.

And then she remembered the need she felt in Paul's touch, his kisses, how she could feel the honest desire that had swept all that anxiety away and how left her wanting so much to please him, out of simple gratitude if nothing else.

Lucien was watching her with a crooked smile as he unbuttoned his shirt, seeming to know every thought that was going through her head.

"It excited me that he wanted me," she said at last. "But now that I know you put him up to it..."

Lucien laughed. "I didn't 'put him up to it'! I didn't tell him what to do, or how to act, or anything like that. I told him to make himself available to you, that's all. And from what I understand, that's all he did. Pretty much what all men do all the time, once you know how to recognize it. The rest was all you."

Lucien slid himself onto the bed and took her in his arms, held her against him.

"He said you excited him. He said you were fantastic."

Claire scoffed to hide a blush. "Oh, please, Lucien! I'm old enough to be his mother!"

"Yes, and so what? Perhaps you are. What of it? You continue to completely ignore how exciting that can be to some men. All you think about is how you're not 19 anymore. You never think of how sexy it is that you're an older woman, and that what you offer is so much greater and more valuable than what a younger girl can give."

Safe in his arms, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"My poor baby. How many times have I explained this? You're a fully grown woman. You're mature. You have a lifetime of experience behind you, good love affairs, bad love affairs; pain, breakups, joys, lessons learned, experiences. You have substance and soul: presence! To share all that with a lover is intensely sexy and erotic. You have a life, a reputation, character, personality and feeling. My God, you are the Duchess!"—he smiled, using his nickname for her that captured the regal and officious nature of her social persona. "To give all that to a man--or a boy, or anyone for that matter--is no empty gift. For a young girl, what does it cost her to jump in bed with some guy? A little kissing, a little fondling, a little of the old in and out, maybe some silly acrobatics, and bingo! All done! Time to jump up, get dressed and go home, and they both forget about in in a couple of days.

"But you...? To even catch the attention of a woman like you, let alone incite your desire..."

"But I don't have much experience," she said.

She could feel him smile, feel his hand squeeze her closer. "And isn't that why we're here?"

He pulled her close, his left arm around her shoulders, his right hand working itself into her open blouse and finding her breasts.

Claire let his words sink into her. He'd told her the same things before, and she didn't know how true they were but neither did she care, because she knew his words were mainly for himself. He liked reminding himself of who and what she was, and inevitably, his words ended with his carnal arousal and sexual desire for her. So however it worked, that was enough for her, that was sufficient. His arousal was always enough for her. It was all she ever needed.

She knew what would come next, and she was already shamefully ready for it.

Lucien's lecture trailed off into a series of sweet, cloying kisses on her face. He tightened the arm around her shoulders to pull her close, and his hand inside her blouse squeezed her breast and massaged it, then slid it around on her chest in a way that made her curl her toes in her shoes. She had no defense against this man, nor did she want one.

He withdrew his hand and stood up and finished undressing. She tried not to stare but her eyes were greedy for the sight of him, watching his every movement.

He dropped his pants and shorts and climbed back onto the bed. She was just able to make out his magnificent cock, thick and hard and coming for her, without doubt. Lucien drew the blanket off her and knelt on the bed as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and drew it off her shoulders.

"Get up," he said softly. "I want you to undress for me

He made her stand and take off her skirt, then skinned her mini-panties down her legs and he'd her hand for balance as she stepped out of them, until finally she was clad in nothing but the corset and stockings, whereupon he led her back into the bed.

No matter what he told her or how many times he said it, she just felt odd wearing the sexy underthings he loved, and she felt even odder undressing to expose them. She was simply not comfortable as a sex object or pin-up girl, showing off a body she knew had seen better days. It was not the way the Claire she'd known for so long had ever dressed or acted, not even in fun, not even in her imagination. And as much as Claire wanted to please Lucien and be what he wanted, she couldn't keep that old, familiar Claire from occasionally reappearing and re-inhabiting her body at times when Claire's new self just felt too stressed or conflicted, the disconnect between who she wanted to be and who she knew she was just too great.

And she felt that happening now, her uneasiness and embarrassment rising too fast as Lucien helped her undress before his eyes, taking off her skirt and skinning down her panties until, by the time he helped her step out of the puddle of clothes like some middle-aged Venus emerging from the waves, she knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't be the sexy nymphet in corset and stockings and lewdly high heels, and Old Claire had come back to rescue her from her humiliation. Her posture went from the soft curves of the shy lover to the hard defensiveness of the old, brittle Claire, who faced the world from behind her shell, with shoulders up and back, head and chin lifted erect.

She couldn't help it. It was instinct, automatic, and so utterly frustrating that she wanted to cry, had she been capable of crying.

Lucien noticed. He'd seen her do this before. He knew this was her default value, the persona she reverted to when things got too sexually threatening, or when he pushed her too hard, as if someone new had entered the room.

"What are you doing Duchess?" He tried to sound jocular, keeping it light. "Relax, angel. Can't you?"

Claire made several attempts to shake the stiffness from her body, shuddering her body as she'd seen athletes do before a race, fighting back tears and forcing a smile. But once the shaking stopped she was still in the same ramrod-straight position.

"Oh my God, Lucien!" she wailed. She knew this wasn't who he wanted to be with. "I'm so sorry. What's wrong with me?"

Lucien smiled. "You're anxious, aren't you? You're very nervous. Why so anxious, Duchess?"

"I don't know. Lucien—"

"You're worried about pleasing me? About being what I want?"

"I'm sure I'll be fine. Just hold me Lucien? Kiss me? I feel so exposed. Let me get my robe...?"

But instead Lucien went to the dresser and picked up a valise Claire had not noticed before. He brought it back to the bed and opened it, began rummaging around in it.

"We haven't talked about this," he said as he worked. "You haven't asked me about the Blue Orchid program as much as you should have, and I haven't talked about it either. And that's because I wasn't quite sure which way to take it. Understand, the Orchids are all just extended sexual role-playing experiences, and I wasn't quite sure which role would best serve our purposes. You could possibly play a seductress—the training would be good for you--or a cheating wife, although you're really not the type. You'd be perfect as a business executive or boss of some kind, had you a healthier libido. You're definitely not the bimbo or Lolita type; you might be a spy or detective, perhaps even a Domme..."

He pulled out a gleaming leather cuff set with four silver rings and a heavy silver buckle, trimmed in red piping. He picked up Claire's limp right wrist and began buckling it on, and Claire just stared at it, fascinated, as if he were doing this to someone else miles away.

"Because you are a dominant in your real life: always in charge, organized, commanding, powerful..."

He found the second cuff more quickly, and started buckling it on to her other wrist, weaving the strap through the silver buckle and cinching it snug. The cuffs were wide—a good inch and a half—and lined with something soft and felt-like. They felt impossibly good.

"But that's where they would be wrong, my angel. Very wrong, I can see now."

Lucien looked directly into her eyes as he finished the second cuff, and then, seeing just what he expected to see, broke into a wide grin.

For Claire had a look in her eyes like she was just awakening from a long dream and seeing the world for the first time. She stared at the cuffs as if they were things she remembered from a long time ago, things that had been lost somewhere and now returned, and now she was complete.

"Perfect, aren't they?" Lucien asked her.

Claire nodded dumbly. And then the implication of what the cuffs meant broke upon her like a wave on the shore.

But before she could even speak, Lucien produced a bright, chromed, double ended snap-clip, and neatly fastened her wrists together.

Some kind of panicky thrill coursed through her body and she couldn't tears her eyes away from her wrists in the cuffs, the silver buckles and rings, the clip connecting them. Lucien took hold of the clip holding her wrists and slowly drew it towards him, and Claire had no choice but to follow like a slave, half-hunched over, knock-kneed and partially stumbling.

There was no more Old Claire. Not a trace of that ramrod-straight, icy and composed pillar of elite society. Clad only in the garb of a prostitute or sexual plaything yet with her wrists bound together, Claire was now something else. She was at Lucien's mercy, at his command, and the façade of coldness and dignity fell from her like scales

Words failed her; the emotions were too strong. She only wanted to serve: that's all she could think of. She only wanted to be used, defenseless as she was, posed, pushed and pulled into whatever position he desired, taken, penetrated, possessed, and made to give pleasure. The cuffs had started a flood of emotions she couldn't stem and didn't want to stem, and in a few seconds had unleashed a lifetime's load of frustration and unslaked desires.

"Yes my angel, my Duchess, my queen," Lucien intoned, leading her around the room by her bound wrists. "Deep inside in your sexual soul you're a sub, a slave, a servant, and you fought against that every day of your life until you succeeded in utterly burying her. But now it's okay, because now you're mine, and because I won't hurt you, and because you can trust me. And now because we need her. She's the one who holds your keys. Now down!"

He bent down, pushing her cuffs towards the floor and forcing her down, down till she fell to her knees. Claire was entranced. For the first time, Lucien saw her totally overwhelmed by emotion. He already was massively erect and there was no doubt what he wanted and Claire knew without so much as a glance. She opened her mouth wide in obsequious invitation before he even offered her his cock, and as soon as he let go of her wrists her fingers flew to his shaft and began to caress him worshipfully as she began to suck.

Claire had no idea what had happened to her, only that the cuffs had triggered an explosion of deep and primitive desires that made her surrender things she didn't even know she possessed—barriers, inhibitions, fears and reservations--things she maybe should have felt in her girlhood, her young womanhood, things that permanently disappeared in her years as a mother only to be released now during her change of life by the feeling of leather cuffs snug upon her wrists.

She sucked deeply on his cock, ratcheting her jaws open and ignoring the saliva that spilled from her lips and fell on her naked breasts, or the way Lucien's huge cockhead churned into that mouth full of spit and butted dully against the rood of her mouth and her epiglottis. She grabbed hold of Lucien's buttock and screwed her head around, feverish to feel that big hard tool against every surface in her mouth, driven not just by an urge to please him as she'd felt with Paul, but by a wild desire to feel herself fucked and used and penetrated, and show him what a filthy, bestial cock-sucker she could be.

Lucien had taken possession of her. When he buckled those cuffs on her wrists, he'd shown her that she would be his now: he'd be responsible for what she did and what she wanted and what she was, and she had nothing left to defend and nothing left to hide or protect or conceal. No. In fact, she had the opposite now: she needed to show him, to impress him, convince him that there could be a new Claire, bubbling over with passion and burning for him and ready to be anything he needed.

And Lucien could hardly believe his eyes. He loved the wild and reckless way she sucked him: pure passion, pure desire, and feeling her submission now, a submission almost aggressive in its wanton crudeness and servility, he wanted even more. Claire was as hot as a bar of iron from the foundry, ready to be hammered into anything he desired, and he wanted more. He wanted to see how far he could ride this river of molten hunger, how deep the heat ran inside her.

"Wait, wait!" he commanded, but she was out of control.

He bent over her, his cock popping out of her mouth as he found her wrists and unclipped them, then pushed them down behind her back and clipped them together again. Claire whined but it was impossible to know what she was expressing: the wracking thrill of her new, total submission or her despair at having been deprived of his cock to suck on. But she wasn't getting it back. Not for the time being.

Lucien lifted her arm enough that she could scrabble to follow him, and he dragged her to an arm chair and laid her chest down on the cushion.

"Don't move!"

He vanished from behind her and she dared not look after him. In any case he was back in an instant and leaning over her, brushing her hair out of her face, straddling her like a roped calf.

And then she felt it. His fingers fumbling at her neck, passing a collar around it, threading the strap through the buckle, tightening it just enough.

That grip around her throat, not too tight, but firm and absolute. The collar. His collar. She closed her eyes just so she could feel it better, only to feel him leaning over her again.

"Do you know what this is?" he whispered, his fingers caressing the leather band around her neck. Assaying its snugness. "Even more, do you know what this means?"

She felt him shuffling over her, changing his stance. He took her hips and lifted her bottom, nudged her calves apart with his feet, showing her he wanted her to spread them. She did as he showed her. She knew what was coming. She choked back a sob, she wanted it so much.

"Ohhhhh!"

She cried into the cushion as he pushed his cock into her: such exquisite, perfect, pain, opening her and sliding inexorably inside, filling and stretching her, such delicious intrusion. With her hands cuffed behind her, she could feel his belly, feel the rough chair cushion against her nipples and the side of her face. He had one hand on her hip, the other held the back of her neck and pushed her face into the chair as if she were nothing. With a hiss of pleasure he withdrew, then started fucking her.

It was insane, degrading, inexpressibly gratifying and satisfying beyond belief, to be taken so utterly, fucked like an animal, like she existed only for him; feeling his hunger and rage for her in his thrusts as he took her rhythmically, thoroughly in a sequence of long, deep strokes that used the strong, lean muscles of his thighs and ass, then punctuated the assault with a series of vicious jabs that made his loins smack against her naked ass and make it jiggle and wobble with aftershocks.

"This is the game we're going to play," he whispered to her. "This is our Blue Orchid. You're going to be mine, angel, and you're going to do everything I say. You're going to be my sub and my slave, and I'm going to teach you how to please me. Is that understood, Clarissa? Is that understood?"

She could only whine wordlessly in response, and open her mouth to gasp for air as she felt herself starting to climax. His fucking, his cock, the bondage and the delicious helplessness. It was not hers to accept or deny. It just was, and taking a great gasp of air, Claire howled out her release under her lover's brutal thrusts.

Mme. Clarisse Brionne d'Longville Arisette, an elegant and dignified French woman of a certain age, naked, conquered and satisfied, filled with her lover's passion and nestled against him with his arm holding her close, the sound of the early spring rain blowing in from outside. She's learning to trust, learning to let go, and wondering what the morning will bring.