Unfurl: Chapter 9

I treat the answering of Genevieve’s questionnaire as some kind of sacred ritual.

I eat light. No room for food coma tonight. I shower, and under the hot spray, I touch myself gently.

Nothing too exciting, just a few teasing swirls of my nipples between my fingertips and a couple of light, lazy swipes between my legs to get me in the mood.

God, that already feels good.

More than good.

My conversation with Genevieve has had me feeling more aware of my body than usual the entire afternoon. It’s less what we discussed, and more the anticipation of focusing on my darkest desires this evening, that’s had me conscious of a light throbbing between my legs.

And now, when I touch myself, it’s obvious I’m already warmed up. My folds are slick and wet; my clit’s already swollen. It won’t take much to send me over the edge tonight.

I turn on the handheld part of the shower as I stand under the main spray and angle it between my legs. The sharp flick of hot, pressurised water is like a slap to my flesh, and my legs practically buckle. God, that’s incredible. I close my mind for a second and allow myself to wander into one of my fantasies.

I’m in a spacious shower, naked and soaking, with two, or maybe even three, guys. They have me sandwiched up between their slick bodies, flesh sliding against flesh, before they back me up into the corner. I’m pressed against the tile as one of them gets to his knees in front of me. He’s working me with his tongue as someone else plays with my breasts, just the way I like it in my fantasies, and yet another person sluices my sensitised skin with sprays of water.

But I’m the one who ends up on her knees, being shamelessly used for my body as they empty themselves into my mouth and shudder their climax over my flesh.

In my messed up, confused mind, the guys all look exactly like Rafe. And, while I have no idea what a naked man stroking himself to climax looks like in real life, I’ve read enough graphic romance novels to connect the dots in my mind.

His voice rings in my head, but as I replay his words, I imbue them with a deeper, more overtly sexual tone than he gave them at the time.

Four mouths on your body are better than one. Eight hands are better than two.

Holy hell.

I crank the shower off, simultaneously desperate to orgasm, convinced I’m going straight to hell, and conscious that this frame of mind is exactly what Genevieve wants from me.

She wants me so aroused when I’m answering that questionnaire that I’m hungry for everything.

Open to everything.

After all, I suppose signing up for a programme like Unfurl and selecting the most risk-averse, safe, vanilla sex possible would be like visiting the world’s greatest buffet and avoiding everything except the green salad.

I dry myself in a brisk, non-sensual way, avoiding brushing too hard against my nipples or my clit in case I inadvertently tip my body over the edge, and wonder for the millionth time where the disconnect is.

When I was with Harry, the guy I dated during my second year of uni, I was besotted. I thought he was so gorgeous. I adored kissing him. But when he attempted to go further, I was ambivalent. As in, I was morally hesitant, but sexually disengaged. He must have thought I had no sex drive whatsoever.

And yet, here I am, alone and fantasising about being plundered over and over by three hot strangers.

It’s probably because the latter’s not real. It’s arousing precisely because it’s a fantasy.

It’s not reality.

But it could be, the little voice in my head reminds me. It’s the same voice that propelled me to have that mortifying conversation with Rafe and to proceed to Genevieve’s office.

Sometimes, the massive chasm between the movies that play in my mind and my total lack of experience in real life makes me feel like the worst kind of imposter. Like I don’t even have permission to think these things, because a good girl like me has no business being a filthy whore, even in her head.

Unfurl is my response to those judgemental voices.

My body is aching, my skin sensitive as I pull on some silky panties and a matching camisole. I look down and laugh—my nipples are bullets. They’re practically ripping two holes in the thin silk. I should have put on a bra—the camisole rubs against them in an infuriating way every time I move.

But I like the idea of being close to the brink the whole way through this process. I like the idea of how bold it will make me.

After all, it’s easier to put my deepest, darkest wishes down on paper than it is to voice them.

The questionnaire is epic—a twenty-three-page PDF. I settle down against my pillows, my knees drawn up on the bed, my laptop balanced on my thighs. I’ve topped up my glass of Sancerre, dimmed the lights, lit candles around my room, and even stuck the Fifty Shades of Grey movie soundtrack on Spotify. I feel stupid, but I didn’t know what other sultry music to put on, and the sensual sound of The Weeknd is definitely helping my already aroused mood.

The first couple of pages are pretty perfunctory. I complete details about my sexual history, my sexuality and even my clothing and bra size. I decline the option to have women participating in the programme with me. While I’ve had many an ardent girl-crush (especially at my convent school), other women just don’t feature in my fantasies.

It’s men all the way.

And they’re always completely in charge. I’m always their plaything. Deliciously at their mercy.

I suppose I’m not remotely original in having that fantasy. It’s a dynamic as old as time.

Anyway.

The rest of the questionnaire concerns itself with how I’d like Unfurl to, well, unfurl, and what I’m into. It seems the length and, um, intensity of the programme is up to me. The spiel explains that some people may wish or need to take things very slowly. To build up their confidence at a careful pace.

Not me.

I’m so overly ready for this. I’m ready to be rid of this dratted burden that hangs around my shoulders. I’m ready to feel like my body is actually good for something. And most of all, I’m ready to go over to the dark side.

I’m so sick of being told not to taste the apple. Not to allow myself to fall prey to its wicked temptation.

I’m right there. And what Rafe and his team are dangling in front of me is so juicy, so addictive, that I can’t wait to sink my teeth in.

After a slug of wine and a leisurely stroke of my clit through the thin, damp fabric of my panties, I choose a structure, clicking on it with what by my standards is reckless abandon.

My first session will kick off with a visit to the club’s bar, to enjoy a drink, ‘take the edge off’, and acclimatise myself to my surroundings. (Apparently, the more timid participants can skip this step and go straight to the room where the dirty deeds will happen.) I know Maddy will come with me if she’s allowed, ostensibly for moral support, but really because she’s dying to check this place out.

I’ll then enjoy the private room where a man, or men, will provide my first, ahem, session. According to the document, this session involves touching only through underwear and is designed to leave me ‘wanting more’ (their quotes) unless I should wish him / them to take me to climax.

God.

I allow a finger to trail through the damp silk between my legs while my other hand circles a taut nipple, my entire body tensing in delight as I imagine it. The thrill of a stranger’s hands grazing my most sensitive parts through the inadequate protection of my underwear.

I love the idea of being left wanting more. It’s clever. It reminds me that I’m in control, that these guys are only there to serve my every whim.

Most of all, if I have my usual problem and this kind of touching doesn’t do it for me, there’s zero pressure for me to come up with the goods.

I tick the men box.

I tick yes to being kissed.

A tentative yes to being brought to climax if it seems my body’s headed that way.

And big yes to dirty talk, because I suspect I’m going to need it to get into the zone. Besides, I can’t turn down the chance to hear those whispered abominations of my fantasies in real life, can I?

I even tick yes to being blindfolded. A polite addendum suggests that not being able to see my teachers, or co-conspirators, or corruptors, or whatever the hell I should call them, can help me to stay in that fantasy land. To limit the inevitable self-consciousness. To distance myself from the stark reality that I’m in this intensely vulnerable, scary position with total strangers.

It seems like my reaction to this session will decide the pace and structure of the rest of the programme. There’s enough flexibility for a rethink, if one is needed.

If it’s a success—if I’m happy with the outcome, basically—we move onto session two.

Oral sex.

Holy crap. My nervous giggle breaks the silence in the room, and I put a hand over my mouth. A man’s lips and tongue on me there. A stranger’s lips and tongue. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and yet the knowledge that it could be a reality in the next couple of weeks sears right through me, heating my skin. Whatever I’ve imagined, however good my fingers can feel sliding through my folds, I know it’s nothing compared to the wet heat of a male mouth on my most sensitive flesh.

There’s another polite suggestion—they really are most polite, for a sex club—that I may want to consider a role-play scenario here to help me get my head in the game. I can think of millions of scenarios I’d like to play out, but whether I have the nerve to take any of them from the safety of my dirty little brain to real life remains to be seen.

The next session is the sex part itself. I blink. I wasn’t expecting it to come about so quickly, to be honest. Genevieve—I assume it’s Genevieve’s doing, anyway—has inserted a note suggesting we keep this session one-on-one, although other members will most definitely be at my disposal for the ‘warm-up’ part of the evening.

You think? I roll my eyes. Like I’m going to opt for a gang-bang for my first time.

There are multiple-choice questions about what I think I may like. Preferred positions. That kind of thing.

I scroll down quickly. While it’s fun considering all the options Alchemy is laying out for me here, I can’t quite compute doing the deed itself just yet.

A man’s weight on me. Bearing down on me.

Pushing his penis inside my body.

A man I don’t know.

It just sounds… confronting.

Intimidating.

And really, really intense. Physically and emotionally.

Denial is probably the best policy. I’ll start the process and trust I’ll be ready for the sex bit when I get to it.

There are a couple of sessions after that which are, again, utterly bespoke and can be decided upon once I’ve popped my cherry. Recommended uses for these sessions include exploring more about either techniques—like other positions or fellatio—or pushing my boundaries and exploring totally new kinks. It mentions bondage and anal. Hard pass on the latter.

Yikes.

My gaze alights on the last part of the section outlining the Unfurl structure. The final session is called Adieu, which is a nice touch. The subheading describes it as often the highlight of the course. For your Adieu, anything goes, the blurb explains. You may choose to spend it in your usual room with any number of members of your choosing, or out in the club. Adieu is a special opportunity to explore your deepest fantasies in a safe place. The sky is the limit. This is your swan song. Be brave and be beautiful!

It seems unlikely that after only a few—four—sessions, I’ll be this entirely other version of myself. The Belle who kisses strange men and lets them put their mouths on me and their penises inside various parts of my body. Who enjoys orgies and has no problem taking any fantasy from the safety of my head to a public place with other people.

But there’s something about the way that Adieu blurb has been written that sparks my imagination. Because, right now, the only things separating this version of me from that version are my hangups and my Catholic guilt.

They’re all false obstacles. They don’t really exist. And maybe, just maybe, the best gift this entire crazy journey will provide me with will be the gift of shrugging off my inhibitions.

The depressing thing about the Erogenous Zones part of the questionnaire is for how many questions I need to tick the Unknown box.

Are my shoulders erogenous? Unknown.

My calves? Absolutely no idea.

My feet? Ew. No.

But I have a handy rule of thumb for checking. When I slide my fingers down my neck and imagine it’s Rafe’s hot mouth, that body part erupts in a trail of goosebumps. Same when they brush over my stomach. And when I allow them to dip briefly between my thighs again, conjuring up the forbidden and totally improbable image of his long, tanned fingers disappearing inside me, I practically come.

Some boxes I can tick with a resounding yes.

There follows a long list of what I suppose are kinks. The questionnaire discreetly refers to them as sexual preferences. There’s a sliding scale of boxes ranked from one to ten, one being a hard pass and ten an indication that something is my ultimate fantasy. Under each question is a box to write extra comments.

I allow my left hand to trail over my nipple, teasing it through the silk of my camisole till it grows harder and harder under my fingers. I feel the sensations that some of the preferences elicit deep inside my body.

This is hardcore.

The list goes through multiple types of bondage, from being restrained with silk ties (yes) to full-on Shibari, which is a term I have to google.

Um, no. Not at this point, anyway.

I’m asked how aroused I get by the prospect of everything from butt plugs (I clench squeamishly), to being ejaculated over on various body parts, to a million scenarios. The scenarios are what get me, and before I know it, my fingers are dipping between my legs again. There’s a vividly crafted paragraph on each scenario that makes this PDF seem less like a questionnaire and more like the best sales pitch I’ve ever read.

Some of the scenarios are ones I’ve read about in romance books or conjured up in my head.

Some of them are of zero interest, like having a guy submit to me. That does nothing for me. I want to be the one doing the submitting. (I was brought up to say yes to everything and be a good girl. Go figure.)

Some of them are new, in that I haven’t thought much about them or fantasised about them before. God, are they hot. God, do they get the blood flowing to my clit, which is so swollen now that I’d probably come even if I took my hand away.

And there’s one whose setup and allure hits me so precisely, so powerfully, that sickening shame and white-hot desire course over my entire body in equal measure, my fingers rubbing harder and harder before I’m fully conscious of it.

You’re a young postulant in a convent. One night, as you lie in bed after saying your prayers, two handsome priests from the seminary next door come into your room. They tell you your Mother Superior has doubts about your ability to maintain a life of celibacy, and she has asked them to test your virtue.

You’re uneasy, because you feel committed to the convent. Because no man has ever tested your virtue in any way. But you want to please Mother Superior, and there’s a sensation uncoiling inside you at the prospect of these men uncovering you. Touching you in ways you can’t imagine. Worshipping and defiling your body in a manner you’ve been taught is profane, but that you already know will feel sacred.

And so you say yes.

You allow them to pull down your bedcovers, and drag your modest nightgown up over your body, and tie your wrists to the bedstead so you don’t interrupt their sinful acts with your attempts at modesty, and you submit to them. To their carnal desires, and to their power over you.

And when they touch you, it’s as transcendent as you knew it would be.

As if this was the destiny you were born for.

Oh God. Oh God. I’m shuddering just reading it, my entire body prickling with goosebumps so severe it feels as though nails are being dragged over my skin.

This is too much. This is everything. There’s no time to question why I’m reacting so strongly. No time to allow the shame of how messed up this is to take over. I type four words into the box below, hit Ten on the scale of the questionnaire, and snap my laptop shut, my fingers moving desperately over my flesh as I shudder out a climax so violent that my body practically lifts off the bed as I come.