This is how to fit months of sexual tension into three days:
My stilettos threaten to slip between cracks on the deck. I have to stop kissing him to take them off. I have to stop kissing him and his hand draws back from under my skirt and I can’t stand it, not even for a second. I’ve been too long without kissing. I need more.
I’d forgotten how messy sex without condoms can be. I’d forgotten how much I love it. I’m forgetting words other than “yes” and “more” and “please.” He’s still looking at me like I’m performing miracles every time I come. I don’t know why. I don’t want it to stop.
He says “I need to fuck you” but it only makes me moan. I have his cock in my mouth. His hand is trembling in my hair. It almost feels like hes pushing me away, apologizing as he thrusts into my throat. I’m struggling not to gag, but the struggle makes me want this more. This is what I’m greedy for: feeling him tremble, hearing him gasp. I want to be solid while he quakes. I don’t want to stop.
He stops me. I’m pulled up his body into kisses that are all hunger and teeth. He says “I need to fuck you.”
I tell him “no.” Our bodies are pressed together. I writhe. He shakes.
“I need to fuck you.”
He’s pleading, between kisses, for anything more than kissing. I tell him “no” as I slide two fingers into my cunt. I try to keep kissing him though I’m struggling for balance and for breath. He’s making a face like he’s in pain. I want to draw this out, seeing him this desperate, but it’s too much. I make myself come, far too quickly.
He insists it went on for hours.
Kissing, every moment I can steal one. In my hammock. Through the walls of a grave. In the passenger seat of my car, my knees around his hips, hoping my skirt drapes over his hands. I can’t get enough. He doesn’t try to stop me.
I fall asleep, or into something spinning and dark that might be sleep. He wakes up to ask if I’m okay, more than once. I’m okay, nervous about being not-okay but not uncomfortable being touched. We don’t sleep late, up near sunrise and unable to keep our hands off of each other.
I’m half-growling at him to fuck me. He knows I’m sore already. I know neither of us really cares. He pauses anyway. Asks if I’m sure. I’m more than sure. Demanding. He says “yes, ma’am,” and I don’t know whether it’s the words or finally feeling him inside me that makes me moan. His mouth is everywhere. On my mouth, holding me quiet. Teeth on my breast, making my body arch up into his. I keep asking for more. He keeps giving it to me.
We need to leave for the airport. He’s complaining that my underwear’s teasing, that he can see too much through the mesh, so I take it off. He reaches under my dress as we kiss goodbye, briefly slips his fingers into me before getting out of the car.
What do you think it means, when I say I want to hurt you? Biting, scratching, pulling hair? I want those things (God, I do). But that isn’t what I mean by it. I want to push harder, to slap you, to hit you until you’re bruised and shaking. I want to see how much pain you can take before you stop wanting to get closer. I want to hurt you until you say to stop, and I would stop (of course) and then refuse to touch you at all until you begged to be hurt again.
I don’t want to be gentle. I want to crash into you as hard as I can and see which of us breaks first. You make me feel drawn back like a bow, and it was so hard to let that tension out slowly, to hurt you only a little, to kiss you and pull away again when I feel a feral need to bite and choke, to grab and pull your limbs into strange contortions. I am greedy and unfair. I want to keep you talking. I want your mouth on mine. And of course you can’t do both–no one could–but the point is that I want more, impossibly more. I suspect you’d try to give me more, to try to please me. But more isn’t enough and you can’t please me. I want to taste flesh and fear, to curl my bloody fingers around your liver, scrape my tendons over your bones like a bow across a violin. I want to make you scream and I want to cover your mouth with mine to keep it silent. I want you whimpering and pleading and desperate, if only to get some measure of revenge for the fact that I can’t get you out of my head.
The only thing that possibly mitigates this at all is that it’s unsustainable, that eventually I’d be satiated and calm and want to snuggle and put back the pieces. But all the rest of it? If that doesn’t scare you, at least a little bit, it should. I know it scares me.
I’m missing this, these days. I was missing it then, too, with the particular frustrating delight of having someone to send an e-mail like this to, but not within reach. I’m craving violence, prowling like a predator in a cage. There is nothing to hunt, here. Nothing but lizards and little birds that aren’t any kind of game. The truth is with no one in sight I lose focus. I miss the wanting as much as the violence, the feedback that leaves me needing more and more on top of more until exhaustion hits and I’m still not sated.
He’s puppy-eager, all sweetness and smiles. We haven’t made plans for after the show, haven’t ruled them out either. He suggests a wine bar. I don’t drink wine. “Well, I kinda have a surprise for you, if you want to come back to my place? Maybe. Do you like surprises?”
I don’t like surprises, as a rule, but he’s sweet and eager enough that I’m willing to humor him. It’s an under-bed restraint, the kind with velcro cuffs. He’s suddenly shy, showing it to me. “I don’t know if you like– I don’t want to freak you out.”
I laugh. I know I shouldn’t. It’s good that he’s cautious; he barely knows me. I move in close to him. “I’m not freaked out. Though I don’t know if you’re a top or a bottom?”
“Um. Top, usually. But I like both. You?”
“So how about you tie me down first, and we’ll switch later if you want?”
I kiss him, partly because I feel awkward and unsure what to say, mostly because I’ve been wanting to since he first showed his teeth. I’m in heels. Even pulling his hair to tilt his face up, I have to lean down to reach him.
He shuffles. “The problem with being short.”
“It’s not a problem.” I step out of my shoes. But–“I’m on my period. Is that going to bother you?”
“What? No. Wait–does it mean I can’t eat you out?”
“Depends how you feel about blood, I guess.”
I’m wary. Plenty of men have told me they have no problem with menstruation–until they see or feel or smell blood and they’re suddenly shocked and disgusted. But we’ll see.
He’s cuffed to the bed, tense and straining. I am holding him by his hair and one wrist. I’m kissing him. There are a thousand things I want to do with him, and all of them have to wait. I can’t stop kissing him. I can try. I can tease, pull just out of reach and let him strain against my grip in his hair to reach me. But then I look at him, so open and hopeful. But then he says “please” and I want to devour him. This is still kissing, isn’t it? If it’s mostly teeth, if I’m not sure whether he’s tilting his head to get closer or because he’s afraid I’ll break skin?
“What are you up for?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I lean back on my heels, try not to sigh. He should know better. It’s a conversation we should have, but right now we’re both giddy with sex. Right now, if he can’t be specific, I can.
“Are you ticklish?”
I graze my nails across the soles of his feet. He thrashes. “Oh, shit!” I keep tickling. I’m listening for it. It doesn’t take long for him to choke a “stop!” out through helpless laughter.
“Stop?” My hands are already off of him.
“I mean–you don’t have to.”
“You said stop. I do have to.” I move over him. “How do you feel about biting?” My mouth is an inch from his skin.
He tenses as my teeth sink in. He is moving in small waves, making small sounds. He marks easily. My teeth leave rising welts above a tattoo, below his ribs, across his collarbone. He’s moving but so quiet. I look up at him. He’s biting his lip. “What, I’m not biting hard enough?” I laugh. “If you need more…” I bite hard enough to make him hiss.
He laughs. “Am I bleeding?”
“I’m not biting that hard.” I bite harder.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” Curses rattle out of him like a screen door in a storm, and God, what it does to me to see him so nearly unhinged.
I have one hand on his cock to anchor me while I drift over him. I take him in my mouth, only for a moment. I don’t want to take my eyes off his skin, off the lines my fingernails are leaving. He’s making sounds that aren’t words. I’d rather hear words. “What do you want?”
“I want you to fuck me.” He’s breathless. It’s beautiful.
He lets his head thump back on the mattress. “In the car.”
I laugh. There’s no chance I’m getting dressed and walking across the street in the middle of the night to rummage through his car for a condom. I know I’ll want one later, but for now–“you want to fuck me?”
“That’s too bad.” His whole body jerks. I’m kneeling over him, teasing, just out of reach. He’s begging. Please, and your skin is so soft, I can’t stand not touching it and please. And I tease. At some point he’s beyond caring if we use a condom or not, or maybe he knows he can say whatever he wants and it won’t make a difference. And I laugh again. It’s a delight to have him this desperate. He’s begging me to kiss him, to just let his hands free, to let him get me off. I let him loose; I want his hands on me as much as he does.
He slides his fingers into me, and I stop trying to think at all. We are lines and angles and waves. I’ve lost track of my hands, try not to notice it, focus on his. I’m too loud, too shaken. It’s a struggle to sit up, after. “Oh. Fuck.”
“You’re pretty much covered in blood.”
He looks down. It’s not much of an exaggeration. I’m bracing for disgust, my own as much as his. He grins. “Badass.”
I’m too floored to speak. His mouth is on mine before I have to. We keep going. Keep saying it’s time to run down to the car but we wear ourselves out first, don’t break apart until dehydration forces us to.
We look like the aftermath of a slaughter.
*I always, always carry condoms in my purse. Regular, latex-free, textured, plus a few packets of lube. But I wasn’t carrying magnums. This oversight has since been remedied.
“It’s from Beckett.” These lines are part of me, a paradox of fear and hope, self-loathing and pride. Ne me touche pas. Ne me demande rien. Ne me dis rien. Reste avec moi. It’s a favorite moment from a play I’ve read too many times. It’s a surprisingly perfect and concise instruction manual for handling my panic attacks.
They are written indelibly across my skin. I’ve run my fingers across these lines countless times. I like to see a lover do the same, in intimate moments.
“What’s it mean?”
But there is that.
For a moment I’m frozen in place, skin clinging to leather, reticent to reveal what I’ve already put on display. I’m thinking of loneliness, which is always safe and always calm. I’m thinking of betrayal and loss. I’m thinking of a mouth so hot and fierce and dangerous that I never want to stop kissing it. Something shifts. I’m on my knees, too close. My fingers are twitching to trace the line of his jaw or choke him or slip into his mouth.
Ne me touche pas.
He looks so calm. How is he so calm? I push my hair out of my face, lean in to whisper. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t move. I close my eyes and breathe. I’m swooning into the heat he generates, listening for his breath over the rushing sound in my head. He doesn’t move. This isn’t close enough. I swing one leg over to straddle him, brace my hands on either side of his head. We aren’t touching. I know we aren’t touching because if we touched I wouldn’t be able to stop. There’s an impossible humidity condensing on my skin, unbearable, unbreathable, but nothing next to the storm. My lips pass over his. I inhale his breath.
Ne me demande rien.
The center cannot hold. I bring my lips to his ear again. I’m breathing too fast, trying to keep control. (of whom?) “Don’t question me.”
His breath catches. The movement brings his earlobe to brush against my mouth. It’s too much. God help me but it’s too much. I sink my teeth in, just below his jaw. He growls. I growl back. I bite his neck, his shoulders, his clavicle. Some light nips, some near to mauling. He lifts his hands from the couch. I don’t wait to see what he does. I grab his wrists and hold them down. I bite his shoulder hard enough to make him whimper, even through his shirt. I feel him straining against my hands. He’s strong, much stronger than I am. He’s not trying to get loose, but not about to surrender either. He starts to say something. I put a hand over his mouth before he can.
Ne me dis rien.
“Don’t speak to me.” I’m sitting on his lap, my face inches from his. He meets my eyes when he nods, and I take my hand away from his mouth. He’s breathing hard, almost panting. So am I.
This kiss is a hurricane. I can’t get enough. I am howling wind and driving rain. I am shoving him back, seeking a way in. This kiss should crack him open. This kiss should have him throwing up panicked defenses. It doesn’t. He is brave, or careless. He has come out to meet me and I’ve made him too slippery to catch. I am surging around him and he’s moving through. He should be pinned beneath my onslaught but I can’t hold him down. This kiss is desperate. Please. Please don’t be so sweet, don’t be so gentle. If he calms me, I may drift apart and be forgotten. Oh, but I love this too. This kiss I can sink into. It will drag me down. It will drown me. I don’t care. His mouth on mine is all that matters, and I can’t remember why I wanted it so vicious, so violent before.
Reste avec moi.
“Stay with me.”
I know he won’t. I don’t meet his eyes. This is pressuring. This is cruel. I want to take it back, because I have pride, because I don’t (no, not ever, can’t) speak hope aloud. I can push anyone away, that’s easy, but inviting someone in?
“I keep telling myself I won’t come back here.” He’s sprawled in my chair, clutching one of my books.
“We don’t have to have sex. That’s not the only reason I call, you know.” It doesn’t occur to me until much later that it’s the only reason he answers.
“When you called–I was trying to figure out how to break up with you. Except I can’t.”
I laugh. He looks up at me. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t we have to be together before we could break up?”
“Well, if you’re going to be sensible about it…”
“So why can’t you?”
“Stop coming back. It’s because I beat you at Smash Bros, isn’t it. You want a rematch.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely not it.” He stands up, looking for a place to put the book down. I get up and put it away before I give him my attention.
We’re face to face and too close to be coy. I take his hat off to run my fingers through his hair. He leans into me, close enough that his nose brushes my cheek and then bumps closer. Close enough that not kissing is unreasonable, deliberate torment.
“We don’t have to.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes, but you’re always miserable after.” I’ve pulled back. “I like sex. I like sex with you. I don’t want to be the awful woman who makes you sin.”
“Awful.” His voice is soft, his mouth so close to mine. “You aren’t making me do anything. Only making me want to.” I don’t know what to say. My hands are on his hip, on the back of his neck. All I want to do is pull him closer. I’ve initiated every time and I’m afraid he only half wants it. I stand still. He moves closer. “Lord, give me temperance…but not yet.”
Not yet. I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me. We let go, slam together with the inevitability of gravity. His weight and his intensity drive me back until my legs hit the bed. When I fall I drag him after me. His teeth close on my throat. I’m trying to stay quiet, not sure if my roommate is home. She used to go out with him. I’m not sure how awkward this is for her. I’m pulling his hair, snarling, wrapping my legs around him. I want to tear his clothes off. I have no intention of putting enough distance between us to get him out of them.
He rolls away to unbutton my shirt. There’s no fumbling: he’s neat and focused. I fling the shirt on the floor as soon as I can jerk my arms out of it. I reach to untuck his but he pulls back. “Did I do that?”
I look down. My upper arms are covered in leopard-spot bruises. “Yeah.” I grin. “I think you missed a spot.”
He runs his hands over my shoulders, too gently. I lean into the pressure, groan a little when he tightens his grip. His mouth lands on mine. It’s unexpected–I’ve kissed him before, and he kisses well, but he always moves away to kiss and bite every other inch of skin he can find. This time I hold him in place. We don’t break apart until I pull his t-shirt over his head.
I slide out of the rest of my clothes and onto his lap. He reaches between my legs to pop the button on his jeans, then stops. “Condoms?”
Hell. “Yes, but not– Roommate needed–” I trail off. He doesn’t need to know she’s fucking someone else, or who. “I don’t know if she’s home.” I keep a bowl of them on my desk. They don’t fit him and neither of us needs the fear of another one breaking.
“Not when I got here.” He stands up. “I know where she keeps them. I’ll explain if she’s here.” I consider arguing that I should go, but he has clothes on and I don’t. I nod. He’s only gone a few seconds, long enough for me to get nervous again. He notices. “You okay?”
I stand to put my arms around his neck. “Could be better.” He grins and lets me pull his face up to mine. I’m biting his lip hard. He dips slightly, pushing his jeans down. He catches my thighs in his hands as he straightens back up, lifts me off the ground. We teeter a moment before tumbling onto the bed. He lands on top of me. His hand slides up my thigh. I’m gasping, pushing closer to him, but he shoves me down. His teeth close on flesh an inch below my collarbone. I curl my fingers in his hair, not sure whether to pull him closer or away. “Will you please fuck me already?”
There’s a moment of fumbling with the condom. He’s shy of being watched, and I like his shyness. “Are you sure–?” I pull his hips toward me. “Yes.” He pushes into me slowly. He’s watching my face, almost comically concerned. It does hurt. His cock is the largest I’ve seen and I’m not in the habit of using lube. But I like the pain. I thrust against him hard, making us both groan out loud. I hold still, a shivering line of tension from shoulder to cunt. It takes a moment before I can stop gasping long enough to speak. “Fuck me. Hard.”
It’s his turn to shiver. He does, choking out half-sentences between gasps while I dig my nails into his back. I’m not listening. I tell him to bite, yes, harder, and he does, with one hand over my mouth to muffle the screaming when I come. And again. We’re all shuddering sweat and sound blending together. He moans “I’m going to…ngh. Please–”
I don’t remember if I answered–I was somewhere past words and his “please” pushed me over the edge again. His whole body jerked, knocked the breath out of me. When he rolled over he pulled me on top of him and held on tight.
We lay there a long time, not talking, or if we did talk it wasn’t about much. I asked if he was going to stay the night. He wasn’t, and he took that as his cue to check the time and pull on his jeans. I watch from bed, too content to move.
“Still think you’re going to stop coming back here?”
We’ve been flirting most of the evening. It’s a distraction, one he’s far too busy for, but he lets it go on. He’s tentative, eager, overly polite. He flirts like a rabbit coming for treats, one soft paw at a time. Are you here to see me? are those what I think they are? am I being too presumptuous? I keep goading, amused that he’s stuck at work. It has to be frustrating. He stays cheerful: “at least I’ll be able to relieve some tension when I get home.”
I tell him not to. It seems too textbook Domme, makes me self conscious. Still, if I was going to wait, so could he. But then–“Can I call you when I get home and discuss this?” He has me smiling, and he rarely calls. I say yes. I wonder if I’ll let him convince me.
He calls before he gets home. It’s late enough to call it early, had either of us slept. He’s had a long day, sounds cheerful in spite of it. He makes me laugh more than once. I try to keep my voice low, mindful of Spouse sleeping in the next room. It doesn’t take him long to get home. There’s a moment of fumbling and “um”s before he says “So, let’s talk turkey.”
“Talk turkey.” I’m trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. He gets flustered so easily, I don’t want to scare him off of talking.
“Well, I was hoping–I really want to relieve some of this tension tonight.” I still don’t know how he can still be so bashful, after knowing me so many years.
“Why should I let you?”
“I–uh–really want to? I mean, if you say wait, I’ll wait.”
“Well, convince me. You said you could beg. Try it.”
“Um. If you let me, I won’t again fora few days if you want. Or–”
I cut him off. “You’re negotiating. I thought you were going to beg.”
He pauses, long enough that I worry that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry. I’m still in work mode.” He clears his throat. I suspect it’s all bravado. He says he can beg but it’s a rare skill, takes a vulnerability he doesn’t typically show. “Please,” he says. It’s clipped. He starts to say something more, stops, tries again.
I’m the queen of uncomfortable silences. I can ride them straight to shore and I know they’ll break underneath me. They almost always do. But I’m impatient, don’t want to wait long enough for amusement to become annoyance. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal! Okay.” Too relieved. Still in work mode, I suppose.
“You can come–”
“But stay on the phone, and don’t stop talking.”
“Okay, I can do that. Should–I mean–can I start now?”
I still find it hilarious that he’s this shy, as if naming anything sexual could possibly offend.
“What should I talk about?”
I swear I’m going to laugh and he’s going to die of embarrassment. “Surely something comes to mind.”
He says something about a video game. (It’s been two years; I don’t remember which one.) “No.” At least I don’t sound ready to laugh this time.
“Um. Okay. Different topic. Um.” He pauses. I count silently to three.
“If you stop talking I might change my mind.”
“Oh! Did you hear about this movie–”
“That’s not a good topic either, huh?”
“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”
“You didn’t say I had to tell you what I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, like we talked about before. You holding me down, kissing me, hurting me, but this time you’d let me come–I can’t fantasize about not having an orgasm while I have one.” He falls silent. He’s breathing a little harder. I count to three again.
“Keep talking.” I try to put a warning in my voice, am not sure it carries through. I lean back, run my fingers over my own skin. “Be specific.”
“You–um. I’d want to kiss you hard, the way you like it. Then you’d climb on top of me.”
If it were just words, I’d be losing interest. But his ragged breathing and the hint of a whimper and knowing how far outside his comfort zone this is have me toying with the edge of my panties. “Keep talking.”
He makes a strangled sound. I smile, listening to him breathe too heavily. “You–you climb on top of me and start riding me. You pull my hair. And when I don’t move fast–er–hard enough for you, you lean down and lick and bite my ears and–” His breathing is too raw and ragged to speak for a moment “–when you do that I thrust harder. You don’t–” He moans. I’m beyond distracted, dying for his mouth on mine, since words are nowhere near enough. “You tell me you’re not done with me yet.”
Pause. Count. one, two, three. He’s making sounds, beginnings of words too shy to fully form.
“Uh, it’s a little hard to–right. So you’re getting loud and trying to keep from screaming [aside: I’m rarely that considerate]. I still feel very submissive to you [is that part of his fantasy, or something he’s telling me now?]. And–can I–after you come a couple of times–I’d like to fantasize that I can make you if that’s okay–”
“After that–” he’s gasping between words “–you decide I’m allowed to orgasm and–uh–say–” he whimpers.
“That’s my good boy,” I say, at the same time he says “call me a good boy?” in such a pleading tone. His breath catches, for a moment I think he’s dropped the phone. “You say that, and it’s like you flipped a switch and I could. Thank you for letting me–” So much shyness, still. I suppose he’s not sure what’s meant to happen next.
“Good. You should get some sleep now.”
We say good-nights and hang up. I stay awake, frustrated but still smiling, wishing there were less distance, less inhibition between us.
Came across this cleaning up old e-mails. I’m not an aural person. Words move me, but not so much voices, sounds. Reading this brought back the ensuing phone call more vividly than I’d have expected, every shy hesitation and the static and carpet too rough under my legs.
You may have a problem.
I can’t get the way you say please–all breathless and half out of control–out of my head. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time. I don’t care that you hate to wait, or that knowing you want something makes me want to be the one to give it to you. I want to deny you something, anything, everything, just so you have to call, to beg. And if you don’t sound earnest enough, or if it doesn’t make my breath skip the way I want it to, I’ll just have to say no again. And if just thinking about this gets me as hot as it does, I can only imagine how it would feel to do it.
We’re mouth to mouth, skin to skin. We’re sweating, tangled, writhing. I want to throw him on his back, fuck him, flay him alive, I don’t even know. There’s so much need in these nerves, not enough of him to fill it. I’m teetering on the edge of something primal, only hanging on to reason because we are so close to fucking already and he’s not wearing a condom yet.
He bites. I claw. Fuck. “Sorry,” I mumble. I make fists, dig nails into my own palms. I will be calm. I will behave. This kiss doesn’t break, only cracks around the edges. I can’t breathe. I don’t care. He’s almost docile. No; wrong word. He meets my energy, matches it, but tonight he doesn’t overpower me. I’m frightened, giddy, vicious. I want more. My teeth find his throat and he moans. I feel it in my mouth, that sound. He’s let his head fall back, vulnerable. I know it won’t last, hate that it won’t last. I want to tear him apart in this moment. I want to keep it–keep him–like some snarling beast standing over its kill.
My nails drag down his chest, too hard. “Fuck! Sorry. Maybe we need to–” I was going to say stop. He’s not a masochist, not a bottom, not submissive. My body doesn’t care. I want to hurt him, and I’m close to the edge.
“You really want to scratch me, huh.”
“Tell you what. Just for tonight, go ahead. As hard as you want, wherever. Just don’t draw blood or leave marks I can’t cover at work.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I have to hold back. My nails are longer than usual; I could easily make him bleed. I claw long, red lines over his back, his chest, his inner thighs. The last makes him gasp and shake and I pull back. “Sorry!”
“Trust me, that was a good noise.” I do trust him, or maybe I don’t care. I watch his face as I dig my nails in again. I want to slap him, to make him look at me. I want more than I can have, certainly more than he agreed to and I don’t dare ask for it; more would still be not enough. I keep scratching. I claw him while we fuck, make his hips jerk with unexpected pain. It’s more than I can handle: I’m all body no mind and I have to hold his hands in mine to keep from hurting him too much when I come. He’s looking at me. He wasn’t before but now he looks up at me with something like worship and it makes me want him all over again.
I call him beautiful. He is, the fierce attention of his face, my marks on his skin. He laughs, and I dig my nails in deep to turn it into another gasp. “You’re beautiful,” I say it again.
He turns away. “Sure, for a fat–”
“No.” He looks up–I never say no. I kiss him. It’s long and slow and almost sweet this time. “I mean it.”
Afterwards–still skin to skin, still coated in sweat–I run my fingers over his skin. “You’re pretty marked up.” I don’t mean it to sound like an apology, but it does.
“I’m impressed. I could feel you wanting to go harder. That took restraint.”
“You said no blood. Sorry, I was–”
“You’re sorry I’m impressed? I’m not saying this is going to be a usual thing, but damn. Don’t be sorry.”
I am sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t shred him in that moment when he was so in awe, so thoroughly mine. I’m sorry it couldn’t last, didn’t last. I’m sorry–and inexplicably certain–that it won’t happen again. He’s back in control. But just for tonight, it was almost enough.
He is on the floor, on my striped beach towel, bound with words because I don’t have the patience for rope. I walk around him, admiring, toying with the switch in my hand. He doesn’t try to look up, just follows my feet with his eyes. I’m wearing cork stilettos flecked with gold. They shine, bright gold in the harsh light around his face, quicksilver in the black light by his legs. He shifts when I move out of his line of sight, and I pause, waiting to see if I will have to remind him to be still. I’m nervous, uncertain. I’m aware of the others around us, though no one seems to be watching. Being aware of them annoys me, makes me feel that I’m putting on a show, that I’m not in control.
I keep walking, idly touching him with the end of the switch. I wish there were more light, or a bench to put him in easier reach. I prod at him, trying to see him tense, which touches make him nervous, which ones make him hopeful. I flick his left thigh and his whole body jumps. I smile and hit him again, holding the switch loosely, tapping a quick rhythm up and down his thigh. He starts to flinch and wriggle after a few minutes, so I put one foot on his calf, just enough pressure to remind him to keep his leg still. His whole body relaxes in an instant. I lean forward to strike with a bit more force, watch his skin turn slowly red. I crouch by his legs, put my hand on his thigh to feel the warmth of it.
“You’re very quiet,” I tell him. “May I try a bit harder?” I drag my fingernail across the redness on his skin, and he flinches.
I grip the switch tighter, still crouching. I’m too tall to use the switch standing while he’s on the ground. I bring it down on his right thigh, hard. His mouth is a hard line, closed and silent. Again, thwack, the line not quite parallel to the first. This irks me, so I make another mark crossing them both. He makes a strangled sound.
“Sorry?” I sit back on my heels. “Does this (thwack) hurt?”
“More or less than this did?” I pinch the redness of his left leg, rougher than I mean to.
He makes a sound like a dog sneezing. “More.”
I “tsk” and immediately regret it (everyone sounds ridiculous making that noise). “Are you saying that this hurts more?” I hit him again, a few inches below the marks I’ve already made “or are you asking for more?”
“Yes,” his tone is shy, a little too quiet under the club music. I have a moment of delight, a moment of wanting him just for that shiver in his voice, but he clears his throat and it’s gone.
I stand and pace–crouching is just as uncomfortable as it looks, and moreso in heels–trying to decide how best to position myself. I walk in front of him, nudge his chin with the toe of my shoe to make him look up. “Full sentences, please. What are you asking for?”
He closes his eyes. For a moment I think this isn’t working, we’re going to have to stop now, but he opens them again, looks steadily at the floor, and says “Please, cane me harder, miss.”
“Good boy.” The phrase doesn’t seem to affect him, but I smile anyway, thinking of someone it would. I move to kneel between his feet and lay into him, keeping beat with the rest of the song, and the next one. “You’re very quiet,” I can’t decide whether to be impressed or annoyed: I know from experience that this switch stings like a wasp, and he has a few welts coming up purple on his calves and thighs.
“I was trying to please you.” He’s speaking quietly, so that I have to lean in and ask him to repeat himself. His leg, when I rest my hand on it, is hot to the touch.
“Did I say I liked to hit quiet boys?” He whimpers (adorable!) and I wait, count silently to three. “Did I?”
The scene gets better after that, becomes a heady blur of images I can’t string together. I lean in asking questions, trying to keep him talking to hear his voice break. I’m scratching his shoulders, whispering in his ear, when he starts to beg, “please, miss, step on me.”
I hesitate. “We didn’t discuss that,” but I slide my foot onto his thigh, scrape the point of my heel over the red canvas of his skin.
He’s saying “please” over and over between mewling, ragged breaths. I don’t move at all, don’t say a word, and he’s pleading. I couldn’t move if I tried.
My mouth is dry. “Full sentences,” I mean to whisper but it comes out loud.
He gives me paragraphs. He begs, voice shaking, and I am transfixed by it, the desperation, the rambling nonsense, the sudden eloquence for which he is later embarrassed “Walk over me and turn me gold like Midas,” he says, amid groveling and moaning that he deserves to be impaled.
It’s the reference to Midas that convinces me. Half a dozen interpretations of that myth in this context swirl half-realized through my mind in an instant. I’m uncomfortably aware that several of them are not pleasant, but all of them are in some way aesthetic.
I stand carefully. I rest the point of my switch on the ground for balance, make sure to keep most of my weight on my toes, and walk, carefully, gingerly, up from his calves to the top of his thighs. Even moving slowly, this takes less than a minute. I’m out of breath as though it were an hour’s climb up a mountain. He starts to shake, and I step down. He’s sobbing. I gather him up in a spare towel, hushing and holding and stroking his hair. I’m unnerved, a little frightened: I had not meant to make him cry. When I ask if he’s okay he smiles, says “good,” and “thank you, miss,” and snuggles into my arms as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. Within minutes he’s joking and laughing with someone else in the room while he puts his clothes back on. I ask what he was thinking, when he mentioned Midas. He blushes, says that it didn’t mean anything at all, that he was only thinking of my gold shoes.