I can hold silence. There. Do you see me holding silence as my body sighs relief? There’s no expectation of quips or barbs, one-liners or thoughtful discussion. I shed those responsibilities with my pants and leave them at his feet. Here. He watches me hold silence against the wall. I am worrying about greater things: the state of my bottom; the state it will soon be in. My heartbeat. My toes. My presence in this moment. The rest of my troubles slips away like my shirt. I am a woman, breathing out demons and breathing in angels. But now… Syllables escape, one-by-one, peppered with shock. They are hot-to-the-touch words. Angry. Pleading. Contrite. I make promises I never thought to make; I am a woman in awe because they are promises I vow to keep. I let silence go. I cannot hold it; I no longer need it.
He was in a mood last night. After two years of training him to arrive on the later side of things, I stifled an annoyed sigh when his knock came fifteen minutes early. I’d wanted to put the breakfast remains in the dishwasher. I’d wanted to change out of my work clothes and get comfortable, sit quietly for a few minutes and breathe. Still in my high-heeled boots, I thought longingly of warm socks, and opened the door. “Hey, shorty,” I greeted him as he wrapped me in his arms. I pressed my lips against his neck, inhaled his essence-of-man, and whispered, “You’re early.” He reached around to squeeze a cheek. A grope can immediately lend perspective; I’d almost forgotten the dishes in the sink. “Ten minutes isn’t early,” he said as his hand tried unsuccessfully to identify a panty line through my dress pants. “Fifteen is. And I’m wearing a thong. A silly thong, which I would have changed if I’d had the time.” I said this, although all annoyance had disappeared the moment his hand found my butt. “I like silly thongs. Let’s see it.” To call what I was wearing a thong is a disservice to the lingerie industry. It was a triangle of (pretty) fabric sewn onto two pieces of elastic. The dental industry might be more apt to claim it, although blue lace would appeal to a limited demographic. Yesterday’s choice in undergarments was unfortunate for the boisterous warm-up that followed. I said he was […]
Here is a sentence I thought I’d never type: I am naked and he is reading. It gets stranger: I am naked and he is reading from his laptop which rests on my butt. He is reading my words out loud. ‘This is you at your most pornographic. This is you at your strongest, your most vulnerable. It takes all of your power to remain this way, shivering in anticipation of what’s to come while hungrily beckoning for him to satisfy your greed. He can see you. He can see all of you. He takes his time, admiring what you continually choose to show him. He knows that you enjoy this; he knows how hard it is for you to wait. He makes you wait.’ It is true. I am shivering yet haunted with heat. His forearm hairs dust my left cheek as he scrolls down the page. I know what comes next: a photo of a woman resting her hands on the mattress, waiting. I cross my wrists, just like the photo, and I wait. ‘He is silent, but his pulse races along with yours. You can feel it: each of your hearts thrumming with desire, imagining his palms opening and closing while he contemplates your thighs, your bottom, white with wanting. You lick your lips and exhale, readjust your hips while you wonder at his thoughts. I lift my hips here, the unfamiliar weight of the computer on my butt making me uncomfortable. “Be still,” he says and […]
The belt asks, Is this enough?, as it licks a path across my cheeks and I moan. Greedy!, it declares as it paints a striped whisper upon my thighs. “Yes,” I whisper back. “Stop,” I say between gritted teeth. “More,” I beg on the same jagged breath. Indecisively, I push away and lift up again — a fast grind against the mattress. End this; begin again. It’s too much; it’s not enough, my body decides. He commands me to raise my ass and I wonder why I listen. * * * Without leaving the bed, we travel to a hundred places. We lie nose-to-nose, so close that we can taste each other’s breath. He shows me his childhood home. He takes me to the track field, the airport, the church. I introduce him to my brother, father and mother. I feed him candied sweet potatoes that melt on his tongue. I dance on the pool table, slowly swaying my hips as I stare directly into his eyes. His fingers find me and the rain begins. * * * Tears stain the sheets where we write our tangled history. With each stroke, I fight the urge to stand. I shake my head; I breathe. I stay where I am. From behind me, I think I hear him murmur, “You’ve had enough.” Not wanting to, I disagree.
An email to D: May 24, 2010 Last night we talked about punishment, intensity and your control over my “sentencing”. Why does the thought of punishment turn me on? I don’t enjoy the pain of punishment — I think that much is obvious. But I love being held accountable and knowing that your expectations of me are high. As much as that paddle hurt, I replayed those moments while Ed [my vibrator] worked his magic last night. Those were the images I came to. Specifically I focused on the moments between each stroke, when I was trying to find my balance and you were there to help me recover. It truly felt like a collaborative effort. You didn’t withdraw your affection from me during the punishment. It wasn’t cold or angry. But you didn’t go lightly either. It turns me on that you can identify what is needed and have the fortitude to see it through, however unpleasant it might be. How unpleasant was it for you, I wonder? November, 2011: I unzip. Although your hand is now relaxed by your side, the index finger still holds its point — prepared to command at my slightest hesitation. I am trembling. My mouth opens as if to object but instead I swallow a great gulp and do as I am told. I can’t bear to look at you so, with my jeans and panties at my knees, I glare at your waist instead. I don’t want to know what you’re feeling. […]