Cicerone: an erotic romance by Julliet Barracure

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About the author:

Julliet Barracure is a writer and artist with a deep passion expressing for the erotic in prose and on canvas. She lives in Southern France with her lover.

What inspired you to write your book?

I think a lot of us fancy the idea of having someone guide us through erotic experiences, taking us to new places. A worldly-wise, sophisticated Englishman with a good sense of humour seemed a natural choice.

Here is a short sample from the book:

I sat in the bath alone. A bizarre moment. We’d been intimate in my imaginings many times, but this? This was so different. It was real now, but what was ‘it’? My mind flipped about, and I could feel my arousal switching on and off like an office fan. I touched myself beneath the bubbles you’d created for me.
I heard the outer hotel room door open and close. I held my breath a moment. All was quiet. Had you left? My nerves were already on edge — this certainly didn’t help. I stayed in the water, uncertain. I knew you had a room somewhere in the same hotel. Maybe you’d just popped out for something. Sure enough, within a few minutes, you’d returned.
I wanted to jump from the water and rush out to you, but I knew that was out of your context. I duly waited some twenty minutes, cleaning myself with an operating theater thoroughness, horribly self-conscious but also wildly excited. The mix of the clinical and the wanton. Oh my. James. You set the scenes so ably.
Back in the room, I stood in my towel as you regarded me, smiling from the armchair. I felt so exposed. But this was you, James. My friend James, Everthere James. You never judged me, and I always found delight in your words, and you, amazingly, in mine. You never seemed to tire of my mind — but this … this was my body. I’d never felt this looked at, ever. But it was you, James. You. It felt fine. All it seemed to do was give me the twinge of anticipation.
“So, what now?”
“Hair, then make-up.”
“Okay.”
“And not too much. Play subtle. Half of what you imagine, or expect.”
Self-conscious, I sat at the dressing table and prepared myself, taking my time as you read from your tablet, distracted. Occasionally you looked up, smiling with something approaching approval before returning to your reading.
Finally, as satisfied as I felt I had a right to be, I stood up and turned to face you. You smiled. The smile faded then became lost under another expression I had, as yet, not seen.
“Drop the towel.”
“Sorry?”
“Drop the towel. I want to see what I have to work with.”
I looked at you, lost for a witty reply. I was now highly aroused. Aroused but confused. This was getting … interesting. We were suddenly so serious, it was not like us, not like us at all.
I dropped the towel.
“Oh, Hannah. Oh … ”
I was fighting a profound sense of exposure, wrestling hard with this new exhibitionism. For this man, for you, I would be overt, exposing myself for your arousal. It was working. Your trousers had tented like a circus big top. I, in turn, was wet. Very, very wet.
“Lay down, please. On your back.” Your voice was low, controlled.
I looked to the bed, nodded, and then padded over, desperately trying to muster my elegance into a fluid movement and hoping to avoid appearing too eager. I lay, dead center of the large mattress, my arms by my sides, my legs straight.
You came to the bedside.
“Trust me?”
I looked up at you, James, leaning over me. Your kind face was serious but warm with it, lust dusting your features.
“I trust you.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said gently. “That means a lot.”
You fetched a black toiletry bag from the chair where you’d been sitting, unzipped it, and then, with great care, laid your shaving kit upon a clean, crisp towel beside me. Looking down I saw my untamed darkness; the pubic hair was rampant. Embarrassment reared its ugly head.
“I’m a bit er … natural.”
You smiled, reassuringly. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that! There should be nothing on a woman that a woman should feel the pressure to change, not for anyone. Not for a man, not for society. This is not about making you decent for public standards, Hannah. This is about styling, about making you feel prepared for a special occasion. I want you to feel totally rejuvenated, from the tips of your toes to the deepest nerve endings in that wonderful mind of yours. Plus, of course, it’s a bit of a fantasy, I’m guessing for both of us.”
I nodded.
You began.
Taking some warm water from a cup, and using a small washcloth, you started, rubbing the moisture onto my thighs, moving higher and higher in gentle swirls until, with little urging, my thighs parted. With tenderness and care, my friend and collaborator, my desired and longed for lover began to massage the material into my ever-wettening sex. I let out a gasp.
Instinctively I went to hold you. You raised a finger, reproachfully.
“Now, now, come on, Hannah. Let’s be professional here, I’ve got a job to do.”
I dropped back into the covers, my eyes closing in the pleasure of submission. My pussy was reddening, my juices building. Deliciously, you played the material back and forth across my lips.
“Oh my God, James. That’s …”
“Shhhh, you,” you whispered. “I love chatting with you, love your voice, but for once, put a sock in it. I don’t want anything out of you that is a recognizable word until this is finished. Okay?”
I sank back, my eyes rolling. Oh God, the pleasure, the sensations! Oh, I wanted this. As I drifted closer to a climax, you stopped, taking the cloth away, and took out the parcel from the morning. “For a young girl I know.” Your words rang in my head. From inside you pulled a sleek purple vibe. In one gentle movement, you inserted the large vibrator into my eager sex. I pushed back, gasping. You switched it on, flicking through the cycles, and then left it pulsing. You returned to your work.
Oh …
And so, as I lay back, still, taking the soothing, pulsing waves deep into my center, you began to trim me.
“I don’t favor a total shave, you understand. I’ve always found that a bit vulgar. Besides, the hair on a woman is such a beautiful waypoint above the beauty of your sex. I admire that so much, so the darker the hair, the better. And you, Hannah, you have such lovely dark curls. I love the trimmed triangular style, personally. Such a feminine pattern.”
I listened to the words through a veil of feelings, the sheer eroticism of the moment driven still further by the see-sawing pulse deep inside me.
Concentrating, you mixed the shaving cream and began to brush it in exquisite paths across me. I whimpered, the brush dancing across my labia and, finally, tracing across my clitoris. I bit my lip.
“Sweetheart,” you said looking into my eyes. “Do you like that? It’s so gentle, isn’t it?”
I tried to nod. You flicked my clitoris again, the journey of the brush subtle and exquisite through the thick cream. I moaned involuntarily, my clitoris and my G-spot joining hands in a deep, intoxicating pulse.
Satisfied that I had been sufficiently prepared, you put the bowl and brush aside and picked up the razor. I tensed. I’d never trimmed or shaved myself to any large extent before — what were you planning? Would you be safe with my fragile softness? But I was not about to stop you, not now.
I should not have been surprised at how tender and careful you were. In all things, you have an attention to detail. Even when you let your own hair down it seemed to have been trimmed first. The razor carefully traced my skin, shaving the dark tufts away without snagging or picking at my smooth, sensitive flesh.
It took you ten minutes to complete the process to your satisfaction, stopping briefly as I came gently to the vibe and the touch of your hand upon my sex. With great care you now took the cloths and wiped me clean. Finally you stood and looked down at me, smooth and fresh, my skin rosy with arousal.
“Perfect,” you said, smiling then removing my vibe. “I know that no one but you and I will see it, but that’s not the point, Hannah. We will know it has been done. A hidden detail.”
I looked up at you, my body shaking gently from the intensity and my last shred of self-control. Oh God, James, I wanted you to fuck me then. Hard. But you didn’t.
“Please, stand for me.”
I stood, slightly unsteady. I looked down, then to the mirror. It was perfectly done. You’d enjoyed the process, of course you had, and it showed. I found myself admiring the shape of my pubic hair, the dark triangle neatly perched above my sex. No trace of redness. Nothing missed. Arousing. Maddeningly arousing. How had you not taken me?
“Thank you, James,” I said, smiling. “I think I should give you a reward.” I went to grab your obvious erection, but unexpectedly, you stepped away. Was that a reproach? “Sorry? I thought …”
“Oh no, I’m going to fuck you, Hannah. Just not yet.”
I stalled, baffled. I couldn’t, wouldn’t understand.
“Look at the clock.”
Oh God, it was two o’clock! I had less than an hour.
I dressed. You left for your room, and I took my cab to the meeting, my whole center still craving the thrust of your cock, the weight of you upon me.