A most dangerous game: Frank

It’s a poor excuse, but I was ‘On the rebound’. Well, maybe not. Rebounding suggests bouncing back --   after my divorce it wasn’t a bounce, it was more like a splat.  Three years earlier I abandoned my own grad studies to work so we’d have a reasonable standard of living while my new husband finished at Harvard Law. He graduated, passed the bar exam and started a career.

Our marriage began fading for reasons I didn’t understand until I learned he was having an affair with a law clerk at his new job.  When I confronted him he told me he would rather be with her than me, he left me for a law clerk! My self-assurance plummeted.

Okay, getting married after just finishing as an undergrad was a mistake that proved I wasn’t as smart as I thought. 

After that divorce was in process, I regained an academic fellowship and was able to start on my doctorate but even studying psychology with some of the best in the business didn’t help my self-esteem. My ego as a woman was shattered.

I moved to a small apartment in Cambridge MA. It was a building full of real people who worked at real jobs and  I made friends with some of them. I hate using psych terms, but it was a way of grounding myself, of replacing the pseudo-friends I lost when I got divorced and left that ‘lawyer’s wife’ life.

There were occasional get-togethers in this building and at one of them I met Frank. He was a friend of Carl, my neighbor and the guy who was giving the party. Frank and Carl were Boston cops. Did I mention real people having real jobs?  There are ‘blue collar’ workers and guys like these two wore blue uniforms. Carl called them “our ‘blue bags’”.

Remember the “Good Cop, Bad Cop” stories you’ve read about? Frank was in his mid-thirties, twelve years older than me but at 6 feet and 238 pounds -- his hobby was bodybuilding, there wasn’t any fat in that 238 -- always played the good cop.  For sure if you wanted to feel protected Frank was the guy who would make you feel that way.. Frank told me he was twice married and twice divorced.   “Some cops make lousy husbands,” he said.

It didn’t take him long to pull my story from me. “Your husband was screwing around on you??? Man, how stupid can a guy be? No one gets away with hurting my new girlfriend...”

“Wait a minute, we just met, and I’m not your girlfriend!!!”

“... I may have to put some serious hurt on him, and how could you not want to be the girlfriend of a handsome hunk of man like me?”

So we laughed about that and went on talking. Frank learned, soon enough, that I was working on my doctorate, that I intended a career in academia, probably far from Boston, and was not  -- make that NOT -- looking for a relationship.

“Well, not a long term one anyhow,” he said, “and anyhow while you’re here you need someone to take you to dinner and dancing, and here I am.”

He did take me to dinner three nights later and then to Murphy’s, a cop bar. About half the people there were in uniform.  The others, mostly guys, were in civvies but nearly all were on the Boston police force. Frank was the best dressed and for sure the most handsome man there. It felt good to be on his arm, to be introduced to his friends, to feel safe and secure around these very strong and without a doubt very dangerous men. I was feeling like a woman again, not a reject.

Dangerous men, you ask? Let me give you a little insight. We were sitting at a table with a friend of his when Frank asked “Would you like something bad to happen to your ex?  Like, if Phil here stopped him and found some coke on him, he’d lose his ticket to practice law, or. . .”

“Frank, he doesn’t use coke.”

“. . . Tina, I didn’t say he used coke. I said Phil could find some on him. Or, he could fall and break a leg or something -- all kinds of things could happen to a guy who was stupid enough to hurt my girlfriend even before she knew she was my girlfriend.”

I changed the subject, but the power that Frank offered was scary!  With some cops, bad things could happen if they felt you hurt someone important to them. Yes, these were dangerous men.

Frank was a good conversationalist; he wanted most to talk about things that mattered to me and not about himself. I guess cops who want to become detectives simply are good at that. We talked about my thesis. My thesis advisor and I agreed that looking at some of the social impacts of prostitution would be a great topic. Not that street level stuff, that had been studied to death, but rather those middle or upper-class women who sought out thrills and money by being high-level escorts.  Frank and Phil knew about that from the enforcement side.

“I talked to two so far,” I said, “One told me that it’s exciting, and they both said they like to think of themselves as playing at it -- it’s only sex, and it’s not really them, but a role and they are acting.. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, in their mind it’s never the real woman they look at in the mirror every morning, but a game: that’s what they like to think. The money isn’t bad, either,” Frank said. Remember this was in the ’80s. “A mid-level escort can get $300 for an hour. Half goes to her pimp.  A couple of tricks a night, two nights a week, and it’s $30,000 a year tax-free. As far as I’m concerned, so long as no one gets hurt that’s fine. We call them victimless crimes.”  Phil nodded his agreement. “Time we spend chasing escorts and johns would be better spent chasing real bad guys.”

These guys were full of real-world information, I liked them and their insights.  Frank was making me feel good about being a woman, and his street smarts were top notch.

The topic shifted to bodybuilding. “I can never go pro in that, I’m too old now, but being a contending amateur is hard enough.  I train nearly every day. Hell, I just had two beers, I have to go and work that off, get rid of those carbs. When I’m in a competition and we’re gonna have a pose-off I really dehydrate myself, it adds to muscle definition. “

“You’ll go to the gym tonight?”

 ”No, no,” he said. “I’m too tired for that. I’ll do a little workout when I get home. Hey, my place is just a couple of blocks away. Let’s go over there, you can have some tea or something and watch and give a critique before I take you home. I’d like that.”

“Frank, I can’t go to your place, I hardly know you.”

He laughed, stood up, banged two bottles of beer together until he had the attention of everyone in the bar -- all twenty-five people. “Hey people, most of you know my name is Frankie Henn.  Tina Baker here wants to come to my place but she isn’t sure it’s safe. Now everyone knows who she is going to be with. Are you feeling safer, Tina?”

I blushed, but couldn’t help laughing too. This man is full of surprises, and not too good at impulse control! Wait a minute.  That lack of impulse control statement is wrong. He could pretend to be impulsive, but he was always as in control as any man I’ve known.

So I went to his place, it was a nice apartment and very much a man’s place, lots of leather furnishings but tastefully done.  I didn’t know single guys were so neat unless they were expecting company.

“Have some iced tea,” he offered, “while I change.”

His workout room was his second bedroom, he had free weights and other tools of his hobby there. In a little while he came out in skimpy briefs. It had not occurred to me before, but I realized some male athletes, and Frank was one of those, shaved their bodies.  “I thought I’d do a pose down for you.” It didn’t take him long to get pumped -- his body glistened.

“The judges tell me my back is my best feature,” he told me, then turned his back to me. My God, he was right! Broad shoulders, no hips, beautifully defined muscles, not like some of the professionals who look almost distorted. 

The expression on his face changed as he turned to face me. “Too much? Too over the top?”

“No, no,” I said, meaning it. “I like looking at the human form, and yours is the best example I’ve seen -- except for Michelangelo’s David, of course.“

That brought a smile to his face. “Thanks, but he’s a bad example, his hands are out of proportion to the rest of his body. And, he’s cold. I am not.”

Only then -- silly me -- did I realize this was a practiced seduction attempt. I was feeling sexy again, for the first time in a long time. Frank stepped toward me, extended his hands. I took them, and in a moment was enfolded in his arms. God, he felt good, smelled good.  Our lips met -- that was magical. It was the first kiss since my recently gone husband’s. It started softly but then I felt his lips part, his tongue touched my lips asking a question.  My own mouth opened, surrendering to his tongue, feeling the passion, the intensity, the fire

The kiss ended, he bent his knees a little and with one arm behind my legs and the other around my back picked me up. My hundred twenty-five pounds did not seem to affect that at all.   Our lips met again, and he carried me to his bedroom, the king-sized bed already turned down. “Just let yourself go, enjoy being a woman,” he said, as I sat on the edge of his bed. There was another lingering kiss, and another.

His lips moved from my lips to my neck.  A kiss to my throat, and then he managed an unbuttoning of enough of my blouse to give his lips access to my shoulder.

 Oh, that was nice.

I had gone through a very difficult time emotionally, I could feel myself surrendering to him.

The next kiss was back at my lips, It was a long kiss, leisurely, being given by a man who was very confident, very sure of himself, very much in control.  While it was happening we lay back on the bed, he took my hand, put it on his belly and guided my fingertips to the edge of his posing briefs. My fingertips were just on the waistband. “No, no,” he whispered through his kiss. “Not there.  Here.”

He moved my hand up, then down again, pressing my fingers so their tips were were just under his waistband.  And then he kissed my lips again.  “It’s time for you to feel like a woman again, and to feel a man who wants you. . Do it,” he said,  “touch me.,  I want you to touch me.”  I wanted to please him, pleasing him would be pleasing myself, I was in his hands, under his control. He pushed my hand a little, my fingers were under his briefs and I felt the tip of his penis touch the top of my fingertips.  “Don’t be shy,” he said, and through his briefs repositioned himself until his erection was under my hand. I could feel the heat and his pulse with every one of his heartbeats, and I did what he wanted and held his erection in my hand, caressing it, loving the heat, sensing its urgency,  feeling him respond to my touches.

The kiss continued.   “Yes,’ he whispered into my mouth, “like that.” A moment later he pushed at his briefs and his penis sprang free, erect and hard. He bridged a little, and the briefs were gone, kicked into a corner. “I want you to see how turned on I am, to touch me.” It was a command, not a request. 

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised but his pubic area was shaved, too. And he was very erect. His penis looked big, almost angry, and ready. Penis is the wrong word, it was his cock now.

“You know I’m going to make love to you,” he said, and I whispered “yes”, feeling so totally feminine. I had forgotten what it was like to feel this way.

He began unbuttoning my blouse. his kisses following the unbuttoning, first above my bra, then below it, to my belly, kiss followed each opened button until my blouse was open and his last kiss was at the waistband of my slacks.

“Sit up.”

I did, and he pushed my blouse from my shoulders and down my arms, and it was gone. He reached behind me and expertly released my bra.  

“Take it off, give me your breasts.”  It was a command, not a request. I sort of scrunched my shoulders forward so my bra could fall away. He slid the straps down my arms, and lowered me to the bed, kissing and suckling.

It was wonderful.

I don’t have large breasts, but somehow found I was lifting one of them to his mouth and holding the back of his head to it with my other hand. I was in the hands of a totally dominant and confident man who knew exactly what he was doing. The tension in the waistband of my slacks increased, then relaxed -- he had undone its clasp.

He pulled away from me, moved to the edge of the bed near my feet, reached up to my hips and gathered the beltline of my slacks and the hem of my panties into his fists.

“Lift up, bridge...”

I bit at my bottom lip and lifted my hips.  I could feel my slacks and panties move down my belly, down my hips.

I settled back onto the bed, lifted my legs in that pre-sex ballet so many of you have danced, and with my eyes still closed could feel him sliding slacks and panties down my legs, then off.

I was nude.

“Beautiful,” he said.

I was feeling like a woman again, ready to submit to his will, to his mouth and tongue and cock.

“I’m going to eat you with my eyes, and then”...

I was still close to the edge of the bed, knees bent a little, and he moved between them.

“You haven’t had many men, have you?” he asked as he kissed at my inner knee, then my thigh, then my belly. “No...” I started to say, but by then his mouth had moved and -- oh my god, I dissolved into a helpless puddle.

An orgasm? So soon?

There was more. He reached up, took my hands, and positioned my fingers on either side of my labia. “Spread them, hold them open for me!”

I was under the control of an expert!  There was more oral, more shuddering as his tongue explored me.

He somehow moved me higher on the bed,  moved over me, his hips between my legs, supporting himself on his hands his body ramrod straight. He captured my wrists in his hands, held my arms above my head, I was feeling exquisitely helpless.

He leaned toward me, our lips met. His were wet from going down on me! I never kissed my husband after that, but Frank’s mouth was open, his tongue probing, and my lips parted too. A long kiss began.  I could feel his cock against my leg, I moved my legs during the kiss, tilted my pelvis up a little during the kiss, and he moved too and I could feel his erection pushing at me.  I was being held helpless, nude -- no, naked -- under him, feeling his penis head, no, his cock head, move along my inner leg. 

I found myself spreading my legs, opening myself for him and bending my knees helping that erect penis head find its target. That pressure from his probing cock-head increased, then changed. It wasn’t a blunt pressure anymore, it was a spreading sensation,  and it was invading me, entering me, claiming me!  He finished a long slow kiss with a long slow motion, he was fully in me, our pelvises were touching.

“I love kissing a woman when I go into her. I love feeling your reaction, feeling how wet you are, feeling your kiss changes because you know I am fucking you now.”  He began moving, slowly, so slowly. “Look at us,” he directed. “There’s nothing more beautiful than a cock and cunt looking like that.” And there, down between us was his erection, moving in and out of me, glistening wet. That was MY wetness, I was more ready for him than I thought. He looked to the side. “Look at us in the mirror. Look at us fucking. That is so damned hot!.  Stretch out, surrender your body to me. Tilt your hips toward the mirror, I want to see how we look from the side!”

He shifted one leg a little so our reflection became explicit: I could see his cock when he lifted and watched it disappear in me as his pelvis pushed against mine.

Frank was a machine, an orgasm-inducing machine, and when I wasn’t concentrating on the physical sensations I’d find myself looking at our reflections in the mirror: it wasn’t ugly porn, it was beautiful. I was stretched out, under him, helpless, and I loved watching him move on me, in me. “Move that leg more,  tilt your body toward the mirror, I want to see better,” he muttered. I obeyed and tilted my hips a little more so that so I -- no, we --   could even better see that piston plunging into me. “You like watching, you like me watching, don’t you?” he asked.

It was new to me, but he was right, I did.

“No, don’t nod your head. Say the words!”

“Yes, I like you watching,” I whispered.  It was as much a confession to him as a realization about myself. I was feeling like a sexy woman for the first time in God knows how long. I pulled my arms free of his grip, pulled him toward me, needing to be kissed as well as fucked.

It was delicious!

After what seemed a long time, he said “I’ve been making love to you. Now I’m gonna make lust. I’m going to really fuck you.”  He pulled out, moved down until he stood at the edge of the bed again, his erection still visible, glistening, bobbing with every pulse of his heart. He pulled my ankles until my hips were at the very edge of the bed too and without releasing his grip put my legs on his shoulders.  He leaned over me.  I was almost folded in half, and then...

… oh my god, that was deep.

He was pleasuring himself now, I was simply a toy, something into which he could pour his passion, and his semen.  I could hear his pelvis slapping against me with each thrust but even that was not enough for him.

“I’m going to take you places you have never been,” he said,  “And show you how sexy you are. Put your fingers around my cock, masturbate me into you,  prove you want this.” It was a command, not a request.

I obeyed. I had his erection between my thumb and forefinger and every time he pushed into me the knuckle of my thumb pressed into my clit, almost like I was masturbating too, or he was masturbating me with my own hand.

Things began changing. He got even harder, hotter. “I like fucking you bareback, now you’re gonna feel me fill you up,” he grunted. The expression on his face changed, it was savage, intense, pure animal. I could feel that surging on the underside of his cock, it was even stronger than his pulse. He was ejaculating, cumming, in me.

I loved it. I felt complete again.

In the cuddling moments after, those holding and hugging and kissing moments after, Frank whispered “I like that you took me bare, that is so hot. But you have to be careful about who you fuck.”

“I still take birth control pills, but really I was not ready for sex like this,” I told him. “In spite of tonight, I just don’t do casual sex.”

“Maybe not before, but you did with me,” he insisted. “But that’s all right, just relax, feel safe, you’re with me now.  You are mine, now.”

We cuddled for a little while longer, I felt my eyes begin to close, and still warm and flushed with sex, slept. It was a perfect lovemaking session, and ended at dawn when we got dressed -- without morning sex! -- and he drove me back to my grad student life. I glowed all day.

We began dating, about once every couple of weeks. No, not as boyfriend and girlfriend, I guess you could say I was his ‘friend of convenience’, or one of them and I admit it, he was a distraction from both the intensity of my academics and my divorce, a friend with benefits for me too. We weren’t lovers, he reminded me. “Lusters is what we are,” he said, and he was right. Our sex was more than passion, and there was real emotion too even though we both knew it was temporary, and it was fun!.  He asked me a couple of times if I was dating anyone else. I told him no, and when I asked him the same question once, actually during sex, he said, “I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me,” but I could not help but notice at that moment our sex became more intense.

I had no exclusive hold on Frank. I liked him but knew what we had going on had no ‘legs’, it was a casual diversion even if it was an intense one. Frank told me more than once,  “I am a cop, some cops make lousy husbands, and I am that kind of cop,” he said. “And you can tell it’s in our nature to be controlling.”

It wasn’t just sex, Frank was an interesting and well-connected guy.  He wanted to talk more about me than him and liked talking about my academic work, especially my take on what he began calling the ‘recreational escort’ -- a woman who worked as an outcall escort as much for the thrill as the money. I had no reason to doubt him when he told me among escorts like that he knew one as a professor, another was an executive at a bank. He knew their managers, their pimps, and tried to keep an eye out for them.  Their pimps, he told me, did an excellent job of screening clients. At that level, the Johns were just as interested in being safe as the ‘rented women’, to use Frank’s phrase.

We were having this conversation after a, particularly intense session when Frank said   “You’re never going to understand that life by treating it like something you’re poking at in -- what did we call them in biology class? -- Petri dishes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I told you before, a lot of those women think of themselves as playing a role, acting a part. That way it doesn’t touch their own image of themselves in their real life. It’s just playing with fire in a way.

“Sometimes,” I told him, “I think you should be the one teaching psychology -- you have  real-life insights.”

“Any cop worth his salt had better be good at that, otherwise he will be bashing in the wrong heads or worse yet, be getting his own head handed to him on a platter.”

There were a few quiet moments, then Frank whispered: “You should probably try playing that role, thinking it’s acting, sometimes.”

I snuggled closer. “I don’t need to act with you, Frank.”

“I don’t mean with me. You’re too uptight about sex -- I’m like the second man you’ve had sex with, you really have to let go and experience the real world. I bet you’re the least sexually experienced grad student at Harvard.”

His comment changed the mood.

I went home. Dammit, all my life I thought sex is supposed to be special. But wait, I was having sex with Frank, right? And he for sure was not a long term prospect. What the hell did he want me to do?

He had taken me to dinner on our next date, so I asked him. He answered, but with a question.

“Do you trust me?”

I told him I did.

“Then, like I told you before, I am going to take you to places you’ve never been. We’re going to my place, right now, for lesson one.”

There was not much preamble; we went right to his bedroom.

“Undress, get onto the bed. Now!”

He undressed too. I had seen him naked a lot of times by now but somehow he was, can I say, more than naked? There was an intensity about him I had not seen before.

“This is about you having no control at all, it’s about being totally sub,” he said, and he brought out two pairs of handcuffs.

He was expert in their use. In a few quick motions he had cuffed my wrists to my ankles. I never felt, more exposed, on his bed, on my back,  more helpless.

His erection looked even bigger than usual!

“Do you know about safe words? That when you say it whatever is going on has to stop?”

“Yes,” I told him, waiting to hear what my safe word was going to be,

“You don’t have one tonight.”

Although they are not often used anymore, Frank had a nightstick, a baton, and he brought his from a dresser drawer. It was a big black one.

He drew it across my cheek.

“Suck on it.’

I did.

“Can you feel the teeth marks on it, where it has been bitten?”

I could.

“Bite it, I want your teeth marks on it too.”

I did.

He moved it from my mouth, slid it down my body, caressed my vagina with it, then changed its position.

“Look at your tits, at your nipples. They are telling me you are very turned on.”

He was right. I have since heard the expression “your headlights are on high beam” and that was an apt description.

The nightstick became a dildo.

He held it so that his thumb was part of what was in me, he fucked me with it.

I orgasmed.

“Good girl,” he said.

He put the baton down, put his hand on my cheek, turned my head toward him, towards his cock.

“Suck!”

His cock in my mouth, his fingers in my vagina  --  I exploded again.

“Wait a minute,” he said, pulling out. He took off the handcuffs, freeing me. “Now I know you like feeling helpless, that is a little bit of being sub. Here is the next part.”

He moved close again, that piston of a cock pointing at my face. “Hold my cock, put it in your mouth.”

It was a demand, not a request.

I obeyed.

“This is the next lesson. I am not going to fuck you now, you are going to masturbate me into your mouth, you are not going to pull away, you are going to make me cum.”

I stroked him, could feel him getting a little harder, a little more erect, and then that pulsing started. I thought I would chock, tried to turn away but his hand on the back of my head did not permit that.

“Suck, swallow!”

Moments later, lying beside me, his cock still large but not hard, we cuddled. And kissed.

“Your body was telling me you liked being slutty,” he said.

“Only to please you,” I whispered back.

“Here is something for you to think about,” he told me.

“That was lesson number one. So long as we are together, there will be other lessons. I want to see how good a sex student you can be.”

In my apartment later, alone, I was thinking about what he said. He knows I am close to finishing my dissertation, graduating, and leaving Massachusetts and him. We had been friends, lovers. That changed. He took me to exotic places I had not been to before.

He told me those ‘recreational’ escorts like to think of themselves as acting when they were with their clients, their Johns. Was he treating me like an escort, to be used only for his pleasure?

Then it hit me.

No! He was not using me like an escort.

If I continued to see him it would not be me being used as an escort, I think he is training me to be one!