“Please choke me.”
He will. His hand will close around my throat until my lungs burn, until my eyes water, until my body’s fight to breathe makes me shake. I gasp when he lets go. The air won’t come. I have to peel off each breath like a ragged strip of wallpaper. I recover quickly, hungry for him. He shoves me away with a hand tight around my throat before I can bring my mouth to his.
“Please bite me.”
He will. His teeth close around my nipple, building pressure while I writhe and grind against him, sobbing between tea-kettle shrieks. He almost almost almost breaks skin. The surface will scab over tomorrow though it doesn’t bleed. He’s on the edge of tearing me apart while I try to tear myself away.
“Please hit me.”
He will. His fist will send tremors through my thigh, over and over. He might let me twist some new target into reach, work me over like dough folding under his hands. Or he might pin me down, make a swollen, purple mess of me, reduce me to a few small inches of exploding pain.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
He will. I’m trying not to ask “what’s her name?” Trying not to wonder if she’s young, if she knows she’s not the only one, if she trusts him. If I were a better person, I might even care.
I ask for what I need. I’m not too proud for that. He says yes, always. He follows through, sometimes. I’m grateful every time he does. I can’t get angry when he doesn’t.
There’s plenty to say. Volumes, easily. But I’m tired and I’ve said it all before and nothing’s changed. I’ve run out of words. There’s nothing left but “please,” and pleas don’t mean a damn thing.