Twelve Maxbridge Street

She turned to her side and he was certainly aware of her softness pressed against the length of him, but he couldn't really turn his attention from her face. He kissed her eyes and her cheeks and her mouth. A chaste, getting to know you kiss. He leaned back to see the whole of her face again. It was sufficient for now.

"I'm so glad to see you," he said, a many layered comment.

"And I you," she smiled.

"What's your name?"

"Sandra. Sandra Fremont."

"I guess you know mine."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

She moved her arm up and down his back and kissed him. He took her face in his hands and she returned the gesture. They opened their mouths and their tongues engaged in delighted exploration. His hands roved over her marvelously soft body. Her breasts filled them to overflowing. Ah! it was so good to have agency. To be able to initiate action! And what action! He buried his face between her breasts. He kissed his way down to her sex and found her swollen and wet.

Of course he had an erection by now, but it was not the turgid, throbbing organ of over stimulation. It was the wholly adequate means of joining with another person. He slid the tip slowly between her folds, over her swollen clitoris. Her welcoming vagina seemed to coax him inside. After his climax he rested on his arms in the quiet to hear her soft noises and feel the waves inside her embrace him. They lay together with his head on one breast and his hand on the other. She nestled her cheek against his forehead and held him in her arms.

Some time later Faranger awoke and found their positions reversed. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Her hair fell across her cheek so he could hardly see her face. It was a picture of her that he treasured, but he gently drew her hair back anyway He watched her fondly until her eyes opened. "Look at you!" he said endearingly.

"Look at you," she corrected sleepily.

They turned toward one another and wrapped their arms around each other. "I can't believe this," said Faranger, his face buried between her neck and shoulder.

"Believe it. I believe everyone has left. Come with me. We can take a shower. Our clothes and things are waiting for us."

They held hands as they headed into the dark edge of the hall. The changing room was a medium sized, brightly lit space. Their clothes were hanging in a small alcove. They stepped into the shower and soaped each other, and kissed each other, and hugged each other. And then they slowly dried each other with the big fluffy towels that were at hand.

LIFE

"Ahhh, that feels so good!" said Faranger as he pulled his snug boxer briefs up to his waist.

"Yes," said Sandra, executing the last wiggle to get her sheer tights in place. "There's a wonderful security about clothing."

"Do you have to be somewhere?" he asked. "Do you have time for breakfast?"

"A short one. Coffee shop? I have a meeting at nine."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a financial analyst at Grimsby Hawthorne."

"No! Me too! Well, not at Grimsby Hawthorne. I actually own my own small investment firm. But it's nice to know we can talk about our work. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I think," she said with a smile that almost wrinkled her nose. "Can I tie your tie for you? I love tying men's ties." She stood in front of him and tied the tie. When she was done she ran her hands down his crisp white shirt front. When she reached his belt she slid them around behind and down and pulled their bodies together. They embraced and kissed for a long time.

They exited the building to find a glorious spring day. Faranger thought that the leaves must be just a little bigger than they were yesterday, but he couldn't tell. They took hands and headed down the street, grinning at each other every now and then like children playing hooky. They went into a coffee shop on the corner across from the park. Faranger went to the counter to get their croissants and coffee, and when he sat down again he said, "So... was the whole night part of your contract?"

"No, not at all. I just wanted to be with you so badly! My contract only required that I stay the night so I could show you the changing room and lock the door on the way out."

"Ah... ah.. This is just..."

"Yes, isn't it." Smile.

"Would you like to have dinner tonight?"

"Oh, for sure! We have to."

"At Chez Donald? At 6 for drinks? I think it's about half way between where we work."

"That sounds just right."

They ate for a while, looking up from their food repeatedly, to savor the circumstances. Finally Faranger said, "Well, I guess it's time to start the day. I have to go say 'Hi' to Stephanie and Pederson." Sandra put her hand over his, with a consoling look. They went out of the coffee shop, shared a gentle kiss and headed off in opposite directions.

Faranger walked up the street along the park, and when he entered the building and walked up to Stephanie's desk, he was sorry for her obvious fright. Her eyes uncontrollably went to the flat front of his pants. He smiled. "Stephanie, I wanted to thank you for your help last night. And to tell you that things will be normal. You don't need to worry about any repercussions." She nodded, still wordless. He knew he was doing her a favor by leaving right away.

He went up the stairs at a clip and headed straight for Pederson's desk. Pederson was always there early. Pederson wasn't overtly frightened, but he looked at Faranger with concern. "Hi, Ralph." (He'd looked up the first name on his phone.) "Thanks for your help last night. You were brilliant," he said with an ironic smile. "No need to worry about any repercussions." Pederson nodded tentatively.

On the way to his office, Faranger savored the thought that whenever he was near Pederson or Stephanie he could expect a frisson of recollection of his night at Twelve Maxbridge Street.

At five o'clock he got out the business card that Sandra had given him and dialed her work number. "I can't wait till six. Can you get away now?"

"Yes, I can. I'll see you at the restaurant in 10 minutes?"

"See you then."

When they saw each other they embraced eagerly. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Me too!"

They took a small table in the bar, ordered drinks and started nibbling peanuts.

"So, we know what I was doing there last night, said Faranger. "How did you come to be there?"

"Once or twice a year I sign up to be a sex slave for a weekend. This time they gave me to The Association for the night. Yes, I guess I know why you were there. But how did you find out about it?"

"I called a phone number I found in a cryptic ad in a magazine. I asked them to send me information. This is what they sent me." He leaned over and picked up his briefcase. He set it on his lap and opened it just a little way. He drew out an envelope and pulled out a stiff card bordered in black. It was about three inches by eight inches. In elegant printing it said:

The Association

We can provide a night of

pain and sexual humiliation

$3000

Confidentiality is guaranteed.

There will be no permanent injury, photography or film.

Call 1-617-555-5555 for an appointment.

He smiled at her. "So I signed up."

She said, "Do you think you'll ever do anything like this again?"

"I don't know. It's too soon. Right now I have no inclination, and I have a hard time imagining that anything wouldn't be an anti-climax. Sic," he added, with a nod to the double meaning. "Certainly I don't have any other people in my life like Pederson and Stephanie." His smile turned wry.

"And you? Will you continue your weekends?"

"Probably. But maybe not. We'll see." She smiled back.

He put his hand over hers. "Did you see everything?"

Softly, "Yes. I saw everything." She placed her other hand over his.

He picked it up and kissed the back of it. "I think I'm glad."

Dinner was delicious. It fit with the deliciousness of the whole evening. They dived into getting to know each other. "Well, I'm relieved that we agree on politics," she said. "I can't imagine how couples like James Carville and Mary Matalin do it. Do you think they debate every evening over supper? Or d'you think that they long ago agreed just not to talk politics? What DO they talk about? Politics are their lives."

"Dunno. It's a mystery."

When they'd eaten most of their dinner Sandra said, "Why don't you come and spend the night at my house? The stores are still open. We can get you a fresh shirt and tie and run your underwear through the wash."

Faranger laughed a little bit. "I don't think I'll be up for anything for a while."

"Of course not, silly. Who knows better than I do that you need to recover. But wouldn't it be nice just to hold each other for a long time?"

"Yes, it would be very, very nice. Let's go get me a shirt and tie."

*****

"I can get good seats to the Celtics tonight," said John. "Do you like basketball?"

"Well, sure. I can't say I'm educated about it, but it goes fast. And I really do prefer those uniforms to football and hockey," she said grinning.

"It's my main sport. I like football on TV," but that's about it.

"I like the food and company around football. But I only really watch when there's about to be a touchdown."

"Well, good. I'll get the tickets.

*****

"I found a Cape Verdean restaurant. Want to try it tonight?" he asked one morning over breakfast.

"Sure! I like trying out new kinds of restaurants. I've always wanted to try Ethiopian, for instance."

"I know of one. If you like that sort of thing we could make it a kind of ritual to try a different ethnic restaurant every week or so until we've exhausted what Boston has to offer. Wanna?"

"Yeah! That's a great idea. Where is Cape Verde anyway?"

"I used to think it was in the Caribbean, but it's in Africa."

*****

"No!," he snorted. "No way am I taking a walk in the rain when it's 45 degrees out. I wouldn't take a walk in the rain if it were 75 degrees out. Don't you have a girlfriend who likes that kind of idiocy?"

"Yeah, I do. I'll call her. I guess I ought to stoke my friendships. I've been neglecting people."

*****

They had established that they had different tastes in pop music, but they had already mutually enjoyed the symphony and a chamber music concert when she asked "Do you like jazz?"

"Well, I don't really know much about it. But one of my fondest memories, is when I was in college and heard a jazz trio at the Carlyle in Manhattan. I don't know if the music made it so special or just the ambience."

"Well, let's see if you do like it. There's a great, small jazz club I'd like us to go to."

"You're on."

*****

"So how about we don't do anything special tonight?" she said. "We can have soup and a sandwich at my place and read and then watch some movie in bed."

"Do you have tomato soup? And cheese for grilled cheese?"

"I do. But you don't have a book."

"Yes, I do. I've got one book at my place and a different one at yours. I read them concurrently."

"Then we have a plan. We'll walk, OK?"

"Sounds perfect to me."

THE END

AFTERWARD

I hope you liked Twelve Maxbridge Street, but whether you did or not, I'm very interested in readers' reactions. Please leave a comment or contact me via the CONTACT tab on my profile.

I'm sure this book is a one-off. I won't be writing any more. I'd like to tell you the story of how it came about and ask you some questions.

I'm a 76 year old happily married heterosexual woman with two grown children and four incredible grandchildren. My fantasy life has always centered around masochism, but I had never taken the male point of view with the exception of a short period in elementary school when I was on a Robin Hood kick. I've never attempted, nor felt the desire to act out my fantasies with other real human beings.

At my age my fantasies had gotten less frequent, understandably. But in the week before Christmas of 2020 and into the first week of 2021 my consciousness, day and night was suddenly flooded with the story you've just read. I would experience strong erotic spasms like John Faranger does. This was a dramatic first for me in regards to the intensity, the constancy and the duration of the fantasy. I refined the details until I began to entertain the idea of writing it down. I took a lot of pleasure in the pure writing aspect of it. And I still do. I tweak it from time to time and am preparing to issue a new revision as soon as I get this Afterward tidied up. So if you are inclined to re-read it, please download a new copy.

It took some time to get over the hump of writing and publishing it with absolutely no chance of being discovered, even if I suddenly died. But I did get over the hump. Learning that I could publish an ebook very easily and "sell" it for free was a big deal. (I can't afford to receive 1099s, no matter how small.)

One question I have for you, my readers, is has anything like this ever happened to you? Both the suddenness and the male perspective? Please answer in a review or e-mail.

The second question is this. Did the inclusion of a straight love story enhance or spoil the book for you? I had never had fantasies about vanilla romance in my life. So to have Sandra turn into the important person in John's life that she did was a surprise to me. She started out as a means to get him cleaned up between stations. But I was extremely satisfied with what happened in the Love and Life chapters. Did you notice the use of "perfect" in both the opening and ending paragraphs of the story? I didn't notice it myself until it was done.

Thank you! And please write a review, pro or con, or contact me at MHKeplar@gmail.com.

P. S. It is now five months later and it turns out that Twelve Maxbridge Street is not a one-off. The hormonal surge that triggered it had largely faded when I undertook to come up with a new fantasy. I imagined a man, standing naked, on display. There it was, and slowly the story in Naked unfolded, to be followed by The Recurrence, published in one book, Naked and The Recurrence.

Once again, I'm almost certain that there will be no more books. But I've added "almost" to my prediction.

APPENDIX

I've received feedback from more than one person to the effect that "men don't experience erotic large muscle spasms the way women do." I did a little online research and here is my response:

1 - Men do experience such contractions when the prostate is directly stimulated. There are a number of videos on the internet that illustrate this phenomenon.

2 - Women can experience them in the absence of physical stimulation. I am evidence of that.

3 - Men can experience a genital orgasm in the absence of physical stimulation. (Wet dreams and much other testimony.)

4 - It stands to reason that men can experience erotic large muscle contractions in the absence of physical stimulation.

Where Maxbridge Lies in the Broader World of Erotica

Twelve Maxbridge Street is a record of a fantasy I had at a time when I hadn't read erotica for many decades. When I published it and was introduced to the wide world of eBooks I was struck by how different it was from what else was out there, but I couldn't articulate what constituted that difference. So I solicited feedback in Facebook, Reddit and various dedicated web sites. Many of the critiques could be boiled down to these: "The description is probably as fine as can be gotten through written word. Now I want to read the psychological parts." Another said, "When we think about pain and humiliation in BDSM, it is never mechanical. Each thing is associated with an emotion."

I tried to think of ways to add "emotion," but was stumped for many months, but I finally figured it out.

The kind of masochism that I'm describing is the kind which causes a person to experience only one emotion, surrender. The self is subsumed under that emotion, and the experience is only of it and pain and sexual arousal and release. There is no room for self reflection. No thoughts are present. No guilt, no resistance, no happiness, no smirking. So the reader brings their own experience to the narration.

What about humiliation? Isn't that an emotion? I think that what happens is the character is put in humiliating situations and goes immediately to surrender.

Very early on after publication, I received two helpful observations. One kind reviewer said they were "in the vein of classic French erotica" and compared it to The Story of O, bt Pauline Reage. Another, not so kind, said it was "old style."

I don't know why it took me so long, but I re-read The Story of O ten months after publishing Maxbridge. Indeed, there is almost no description of O's feelings beyond her desire to do anything her lover Rene wants her to do. Indeed, we don't even know what O feels sexually. Is she sexually aroused? Apparently she never has an orgasm, and yet this book is acknowledged as an important classic in erotica. The reader must bring their reactions to the narration of events.

The absence of descriptions of O's sexual feelings is very certainly not a quality shared with Maxbridge, which is very explicit about the main character's physical responses.

O is probably my favorite book of erotica, but I hadn't read it for almost fifty years, so I was intrigued to discover that Maxbridge must have been inspired by it in small ways as well as large. The cape, the discussion about whips, measuring his forearm, and the valet saying "Please be good enough to turn around," while whipping her, must have lived in my subconscious for many decades.

Now that all my questions about where Twelve Maxbridge Street belongs in the world of erotica have been answered, I'm publishing my discoveries here just because I want to share.

Thanks for your attention,

M H Keplar