She picks up on the first ring, then pretends she didn't by waiting three beats before speaking. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice carries the smile she'd tasted forty-seven minutes ago. "I just—I wanted to check something in my calendar. For this week. If that's okay?"

"Oh! Yes, checking calendars is... that's a normal thing people do." She's pacing her kitchen, bare feet catching on the linoleum's slight tackiness. The dishes from breakfast still crowd her sink—evidence of a morning that feels like it happened in another lifetime.

"Right, exactly. Very normal." He clears his throat. "So I have this work thing Wednesday—"

"Wednesday's actually perfect because Tuesday I have my sister's—wait, no, sorry, you weren't suggesting Wednesday, were you? You were just telling me you're busy then."

"No, I mean, yes, I was saying I'm busy but also trying to, um, figure out when I'm not busy. If that makes sense." The sound of papers shuffling comes through the line. "Thursday?"

"Thursday." She tests the word, rolling it around her mouth like the memory of their kiss. "Thursday I have yoga until 7:30, but after that—"

"I could do after that. I could definitely do after that." The eagerness in his voice makes her stomach flip. "There's this place that does really good Thai food, unless you don't like Thai food, in which case there's obviously other food that exists in the world—"

"I love Thai food." She's grinning now, pressing her forehead against the cool surface of her refrigerator. "I was actually going to suggest Thai food, but I didn't want to be too... presumptuous about suggesting specific cuisines this early in our... calendar coordination."

A laugh breaks through his carefully maintained casualness. "God, this is weird, isn't it? An hour ago I didn't even know if you liked me, and now I'm checking my Google Calendar like it holds the secrets to the universe."

"It is weird," she agrees, warmth spreading through her chest. "But maybe good weird? Like, I'm standing here pretending I need to double-check if I'm free Thursday when I've already mentally canceled three different things."

"I haven't checked a single thing on my calendar this entire conversation," he confesses. "I've just been holding a random receipt and making paper-shuffling noises."

The laughter comes easy now, the awkwardness transforming into something precious—a shared secret, a private joke in the making. They're building something here, between the pretense of scheduling and the raw honesty of new attraction.

"So... Thursday at 8?" she ventures.

"Thursday at 8," he confirms, then adds quickly, "Although I could do 7:45 if your yoga ends earlier than expected. Or 8:15 if you need more time. Or really any time that works for you, I'm pretty flexible. Not yoga-flexible, obviously, but time-flexible."

"8 is perfect," she says softly, and they both hear what she really means: *You're perfect, this is perfect, the way my heart is racing right now is perfect.*

"Okay. Good. That's... that's really good." Another pause, filled with unspoken words. "I should probably let you go now, right? That's probably what a normal person would do instead of trying to find more excuses to keep talking?"

She traces a pattern on the fridge door, spelling out Thursday over and over. "Probably. Although I should mention that my calendar has some very suspicious empty spaces this evening..."

"What a coincidence," he says, relief and joy tangling in his voice. "Mine too."

The cityscape blurs into watercolor smears beyond the fortieth-floor windows—all those lives being lived while Kaia sits frozen at her desk, caught in the gravitational pull of James’s office light down the hall. (Like a moth to flame, except moths don’t spend months constructing elaborate justifications for their inevitably fatal attraction.)

Her cursor blinks in accusatory morse code: *you’re-not-work-ing, you’re-not-work-ing*. The Peterson brief sprawls across her screen, legal jargon swimming before her eyes—a perfect metaphor for her current state, all these carefully constructed arguments dissolving into want.

Time feels elastic after hours, stretching and compressing like a universe bending around a massive object. Which is what this thing between them has become: enormous, unavoidable, warping the space-time continuum of their meticulously maintained professionalism into something dangerous and electric.

She catches her reflection in the darkened window—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated—and catalogs the physiological responses like evidence in a case she’s building against her better judgment. *Exhibit A: elevated heart rate. Exhibit B: shallow breathing. Exhibit C: the way her skin feels too tight, like it’s trying to contain something infinite.*

The walk to his office is thirty-seven steps (she’s counted, repeatedly, obsessively). Tonight each one feels like crossing a threshold, like quantum particles collapsing from possibility into certainty.

He looks up when she appears—always up, never startled, like some part of him is perpetually aware of her proximity—and something molten pools in her chest at the sight: reading glasses sliding low, sleeves rolled with precise intention, the controlled chaos of papers spreading across his desk like the physical manifestation of her scattered thoughts.

“Kaia.” Her name in his mouth is a complete legal brief: argument, evidence, and conclusion all wrapped in two syllables.

“I was just...” The lie evaporates unfinished. They’re both too smart for pretense, too aware of the chess game they’ve been playing where every casual touch is a calculated move toward this moment.

He stands—fluid, deliberate—crossing the room in measured steps that somehow contain both restraint and hunger. “Were you?” His voice carries that familiar trace of amusement, the tone that simultaneously infuriates and intoxicates her. “Just what?”

(There should be a word for this—this exact point when years of legal training in constructing airtight arguments crumbles in the face of pure want.)

“Testing a theory,” she manages, pulse thundering in her ears like waves against a crumbling seawall.

“And what theory would that be?” He’s close enough now that she can see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the lingering notes of coffee mingled with something uniquely him—a scent her lizard brain has cataloged as *dangerous* and *necessary* in equal measure.

Instead of answering, she rises on her toes (a motion she’s rehearsed in her mind so many times it feels like muscle memory) and presses her mouth to his.

The kiss reconstructs her understanding of time: there is before and there is this, and the demarcation between them is sharp enough to draw blood. His hands find her waist as hers tangle in his hair, and some distant part of her brain notes with satisfaction that it’s just as soft as she’d imagined.

They break apart breathing hard, foreheads touching, sharing the same electrically charged air. “We should—” he starts.

“Later,” she interrupts, surprising herself with the authority in her voice. “Some cases require less deliberation than others.”

His laugh is low and warm against her neck. “Counselor,” he murmurs, “I believe you’re leading the witness.”

“Object all you want,” she whispers back, fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

When he kisses her again, it feels like winning a case she didn’t know she was arguing—like justice and mercy wrapped in the same breathless verdict. His hands map the geography of her spine as she presses closer, eliminating any remaining space between precedent and possibility.

“Take me home,” she breathes against his mouth—a motion to proceed that requires no deliberation.

He answers by lacing their fingers together, and they leave their half-finished briefs behind like abandoned closing arguments, stepping into a night that promises to rewrite every law they’ve ever known.

—

Monday arrives with all the subtlety of a summary judgment, harsh fluorescent lights replacing the forgiving darkness that had made everything seem possible seventy-two hours ago. Kaia’s been rehearsing this moment since she fled his apartment at 3 AM Saturday morning (not that she’s counting the hours, except she absolutely is, with the kind of precision usually reserved for billable minutes).

The elevator ride to the fortieth floor feels like watching opposing counsel destroy her star witness. Each ascending number ratchets her anxiety higher: *thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine—God, when did this building get so tall?* She’s arrived precisely twenty-three minutes earlier than usual, a tactical maneuver designed to minimize contact that instead leaves her feeling like a coward citing procedural technicalities.

(She’s analyzed Friday night with the same obsessive attention she typically reserves for depositions, rehashing every moment, every touch, every awkward fumble and miscommunication until the memories feel worn smooth as river stones. The way his hands had shaken. The way she’d gone cold and distant. The terrible, haunting silence afterward.)

The office is blessedly empty—or so she thinks until she rounds the corner and nearly collides with James emerging from the break room, coffee mug in hand. Time stretches like hot glass, then shatters: a study in the relativity of professional mortification.

They do an awkward dance of mutual avoidance, both stepping the same direction twice before freezing in place. His coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim. She clutches her laptop bag like a shield.

“Kaia.” Her name in his mouth sounds different now—clinical, careful, like evidence being handled with latex gloves.

“James.” (When did his name become so difficult to pronounce? Four weeks of bar exam prep were easier than these two syllables.)

The silence that follows could be submitted as an amicus brief on the topic of human discomfort. She maps his appearance with unwanted precision: tie slightly askew (unusual for him), dark circles under his eyes (did he sleep as poorly as she did?), shoulders tense beneath his perfectly pressed shirt (the same shoulders she’d—*no, absolutely not going there*).

“I was just...” They both start simultaneously, then stop. A perfect demonstration of the legal principle of mutual embarrassment.

He clears his throat. “About Friday—”

“The Peterson brief is on your desk,” she interrupts, words tumbling out with the desperate energy of a client volunteering privileged information. “I finished it over the weekend. All the citations are updated, and I added a section on recent precedents that might—”

“Kaia.” Softer this time, almost pained.

“—be relevant to our argument, particularly regarding the statutory interpretation of—”

“*Kaia.*”

She forces herself to meet his eyes, immediately regrets it. Because there it is—everything they’re not talking about, laid out like evidence in a case neither of them knows how to try.

“We should probably...” He runs a hand through his hair (she knows exactly how that hair feels now, a piece of evidence she desperately needs stricken from the record).

“I have a client meeting,” she lies, already backing away. “We can... later. Maybe. If there’s anything... professional... to discuss.”

She retreats to her office with as much dignity as she can muster (which, if quantified, would barely fill a motion in limine). Through her open door, she watches him stand there for a long moment, coffee growing cold in his hand, before he turns toward his own office.

The day stretches ahead like an endless deposition, every hour a careful dance of strategic avoidance and professional necessity. She throws herself into research with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for pro bono cases, as if enough case law can build a wall between Friday night and Monday morning.

But every time footsteps pass her door, her heart executes a series of complex maneuvers that would violate several workplace safety regulations. Each distant phone ring triggers a fight-or-flight response worthy of academic study. The coffee maker’s gurgle sounds accusatory.

(She’s already drafted and deleted seventeen emails to him, each one an exercise in saying nothing while meaning everything. The eighteenth attempt sits in her drafts folder, cursor blinking: *"Regarding the matter of Friday night..."* Like their catastrophic attempt at intimacy can be reduced to a case number and filed away.)

When 5 PM finally arrives—the longest billable hours in legal history—she begins the delicate task of packing up without being noticed, each file and notebook lifted with trembling care. But as she reaches for her coat, a post-it note slides from between the files on her desk. Her breath catches at the familiar handwriting:

*Re: Friday night

Motion to continue discussion?

My office @ 5:30pm*

She stares at the yellow square for so long the words begin to blur, her pulse keeping time like a court reporter’s stenotype. Outside her office, the elevator chimes its end-of-day rhythm as the firm empties out. Soon it will be just them again, in the same after-hours quiet that started this whole mess.

The post-it crinkles as her fingers close around it. Some cases, she realizes, require a second hearing.

"Do you believe in God?" She asked.

"I used to." I replied, "Now I believe in him."

They all say I've lost my mind

They say that you're just a guy

They do not believe a word I say

About what you do

Who you are

Or those you've saved

They have not seen what I have seen

They do not know you the way I do

They could never comprehend

You're much more than a man

I've seen you glowing in the darkness

I've heard your voice booming from the podium

I've felt your power when your hands are on me

I've seen you heal more ailments than Florence

Just with a kiss or a touch so tender

I believe in all you do

I'd give it all away for you

My money

My home

My life

My mind

It all belongs to you my Dear

I will worship you until my knees shatter

I will praise you until my voice leaves me

I will gaze upon you until I am blind

For I know you will heal me

You would never abandon me

I have put my faith in you

I have put my heart in your hands

I am yours until my dying breath

And if they ever try to take you away

With their guns, or fire, or blasphemy

I vow to protect you with my dying breath

And if I fail, I will shield you from them

I will trade my life for yours

So you may live just a breath longer

And if we do not survive the hellfire

Will you promise me, my Dear?

That my body may fall down beside yours

And we may sleep side by side in your paradise

Until we return to earth again

CAUTION! Graphic descriptions of gore.

Lie me down on your bedroom floor

With a knife to my throat

Fuck me good, like never before

Cut me open

Like Jane Doe

While you're still inside me

Kiss me hard, make me scream

Pull my insides out

Bloody your hands with my blood and gore

My stomach, my brain, my heart

Take them from my very core

Drool over them like a rabid dog

Eat my spleen and liver raw

Freeze my brain and guts for the cold nights

Cook my heart on an open flame

Garnish it with my blood

Over a salad of my guts

Wrap me in plastic sheets

Take me out into the night

To the tree where you vowed to forever keep me

Bury me there

And pretend you never heard my name

Go home

Have a drink on me

Of my plasma and lymph nodes

Garnish it with my teeth

Raise your glass and say an ode

Anytime you miss me

Darling, don't regret what you've done

Just take another piece of me

Serve me up with some Jack

Cook me nice and tender

So my ribs fall out of the rack

And devour me

So I can be inside you

Forevermore

You find yourself in a library where all the books are missing their last pages. The shelves curve impossibly upward, disappearing into a ceiling that might not exist. (Yes, you're in a story now—but then again, weren't you always?)

Footsteps echo behind you, but they're your own from five minutes ago, still searching. You've been here before, or maybe you'll be here later. Time does that sometimes, especially in stories about last things.

Between the shelves, you discover a reading room where people sit with half-empty coffee cups that never grow cold. Their conversations hang in the air like unfinished sentences, and you recognize the feeling—that moment when words fade before reaching their destination. You've felt it before, haven't you, reader? That sensation of almost-but-not-quite understanding something essential?

A woman sits at a desk made of mirror fragments. She's writing in a book that writes itself back, each word disappearing as soon as it's penned. You know her, though you've never met. (That's the thing about being in a story—everything is both real and not real, like quantum particles or promises made at midnight.)

"I've been waiting," she says, but her voice sounds like rustling pages.

You want to tell her you've been waiting too, but instead, you notice how the light through the windows falls in patterns that spell out words you almost remember. They remind you of something—perhaps that dream where you could read in colors, or that summer when the sunset looked like scattered punctuation marks.

In your pocket, you find a ticket stub from a movie you haven't watched yet. The title keeps changing every time you look at it, but the date remains the same: Today. Always today. (You see what I did there? Time is funny in stories, especially ones about endings that are really beginnings.)

The woman stands, and suddenly the room rearranges itself like a sentence being edited. Bookshelves become doorways, doorways become windows, windows become questions you never thought to ask. She hands you a book—your book, though you didn't know you'd written one.

"The ending's missing," you say.

"They always are," she replies, smiling with one corner of her mouth, the way people do when they know something you're about to figure out.

You open the book. Inside, there's a map of everywhere you've ever almost been, marked with X's that look suspiciously like kisses. Or perhaps they're asterisks, footnoting moments you'll understand later. (You're getting good at this, dear reader, finding meaning in the spaces between words.)

The woman is closer now, close enough that you can see her eyes are filled with library cards, each one cataloging a different way to say goodbye. You realize, with the peculiar clarity that comes with being a character in someone else's story (or is it your own?), that this is it—the last time you'll fall in love.

Not because it's ending, but because after this, all other loves will be echoes of this one. They'll be like books you've already read, stories whose endings you can guess three chapters in. This is the last first time your heart will fumble with the grammar of attraction, the last time love will feel like a foreign language you're desperate to learn.

The woman reaches for your hand, and her fingers are warm like well-worn book spines. Around you, the library hums with the sound of a thousand stories reaching their almost-endings. (Do you feel it too, reader? The way the words are pulling us toward something inevitable?)

"We should probably kiss now," she says, "before the metaphors run out."

And you do, in that space between one paragraph and the next, where all the best things happen. The kiss tastes like the last page of your favorite book—the one you've never been able to find again. It tastes like understanding finally catching up to experience.

When you open your eyes, the library has become a garden where flowers bloom in serif and sans-serif. The woman is still there, but now she's writing your name in cursive on the air, and you realize that maybe you're writing hers too, has been all along, in the margins of every story you've ever lived.

(And here, dear reader, is where I leave you—not because the story's over, but because the best endings are the ones we write ourselves, in the spaces between what's said and what's understood, in that moment when we realize we've been reading our own hearts all along.)

You close the book, but keep your finger between the pages, marking your place. After all, the best stories are the ones we never quite finish reading, the ones that keep writing themselves in our dreams, in our memories, in the way we learn to love after we think we've loved for the last time.

(Turn the page, if you like. Or don't. The story will wait for you either way.)

I stand before him in inspection pose. ‘You know what your directions are sub girl?’ He asks me with a wicked grin as he snaps one of the nipple clips to my left breast. I take in a rapid breath through my nose, I wasn’t expecting the alligator clips this morning. It told me he was going to try to challenge me today. He looks up at me from where he sits at his desk, waiting for my answer.

’Yes, Sir. I do. I am to go into the bathroom, turn on the shower as far as it will go, change the head to pulsate and then come as many times as I can without having to pull the shower head away from your cunt. I am to count each one and thank you for it. When I am unable to take anymore, I am to clean myself, dry myself and present myself to you, Sir.’ He gives me that wicked ass smile, snaps down the other clamp on my right breast, and points to the bathroom. As I turn to go, he lightly pats my ass. ‘Good girl.’

As I lean forward to turn on the water for the shower, the chain connecting my nipple clamps clangs against the shower door, bringing a quiet little moan out of me. I quickly debate in my mind whether I’m grateful for the power shower we had installed or not. I know I’m not very good at pushing my own boundaries, but he really wants me to work on this for him. The minute any sensitivity sets in for me, I always pull away. Afraid to go deeper, harder, more.

I step into the shower, and first let the warm water flow over my body. Helping me to relax to untense my muscles as I’ve no doubt they will be tense again soon enough. I reach up and grab the hand held shower head and flip the lever to turn off the overhead feed. I can’t help it. My heart rate starts racing. I come so hard this way. He knows this and I’m pretty sure that is precisely why he has set me this task. The reality is, I’m already aroused just from being near him all morning, naked, posing, watching him work. There’s something deeply fulfilling to see someone so engulfed with what they are creating. I love to see how he works, how his mind functions, how things come together. With that thought, I spread my legs apart, hold my cunt lips open with my left hand and point the powerful jet right at my clit. I lean forward as my legs start to tense, I go up on my toes, I bang my head against the wall and let loose a quiet moan as almost instantly, my first orgasm flies through my body in what must be record time. I moan aloud. Timidly, ‘one, thank you sir,’ is whispered from my mouth.

Every nerve feels like it’s tingling as I rise up on my toes as each orgasm rocks through me. ‘Ten. Thank you, Sir. Eleven. Thank you, Sir’. My head grinds into the wall as each orgasm comes and go. My muscles bunch up and clench and release again as orgasm after orgasm piles one in top of the other. ’15, sir, thank you. 16, sir, thank you.’ I can only mutter the count through gritted teeth. It’s taking every ounce of control to try to maintain the count. My head is swimming, my body is trembling from top to bottom. I can’t. No more. No more. My mind seems stuck on the thought. I want to pull my hand away, but I want to please him. I want to make him proud. My mind just wants to float away and bathe in the sensations reverberating through my body. As I feel another orgasm becoming more of an imperative than a desire, I scream out. ‘I can’t, sir, I can’t. Please, Sir, can you hear me. No more, please, please. I beg of you…’ As the last word issues from my mouth, my voice goes up an octave and a piercing scream slams out of me, a sound of pain and pleasure as I come again.

His voice carries from the other room, ‘don’t forget to count, slut. I’d hate for you to have to start over.’ I swear under my breath at him and try desperately to recall which number I’m on. My mind is too hazy, I try to focus. I try to come back into my body but it seems just too far out of reach. I grasp at straws in my mind. My head starts to shake back and forth. A number, any number, but even that seems beyond my abilities. ‘That would be 17, dear whore. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.’ His voice is nearer and grounds me. I pull the number from his lips to mine.

’17, sir, that’s it, yes, it must be, yes, yes, definitely.’ Another scream emits from me as 18 forces its way out. Now, it seems there is no way to stop them. They come fast and furious, one on top of the other. I pant out, ’22, sir. Thank. Aaaarrggghh!’ I try to catch my breath. I’m almost hiccuping the count now. ‘No sir. No. No more. I can’t. Can’t. No. No more.’

Suddenly, a hand firmly wraps itself around my throat. Holding me there. ‘Take it for me, bitch. Take it for me.’ I vaguely register that I’m shaking my head back and forth and muttering no, no, no under my breath. Without realising it, it’s changed from no into yes. The strength of the hand at my throat brings me back into myself. The shower head continues to beat at me mercilessly. I whimper. I just want to throw it away from me. Smash it against the wall. It’s agony, but also ecstasy. 24 and 25 pass in the same way. I start banging my head against the wall as my body now tries to pull away from itself. My eyes and sealed shut. I can feel the tears pouring down my cheeks. The hand releases its grip around my throat, I beg for its return but to no avail. My body convulses as another orgasm rips me apart.

I feel a hand upon my forehead, pulling it away from the wall. ‘Now slave, we’d hate to damage you now wouldn’t we?’ Some words or sounds come out of my mouth but I’ve no idea what I’ve said. Each breath jitters through me. Another hand reaches around and pinches the alligator clip on my left breast. I wail as I come again. Holy fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Only obscenities echo through my mind. My legs start shaking uncontrollably. ’Can‘t, can’t, can’t. No. no. No.’

As I feel my legs starting to give way, two strong hands grab ahold of my hips. My body stabilises. My hand still clutching the shower head in a death grip, I lose all sense. ‘Lean forward, now, slave.’ I mindlessly follow the direction, as the sound of his voice is the only think that holds me to this world. My mind explodes as he slams his cock deep inside of me. Another orgasm erupts. I can feel him filling me and then pulling away only to slam deep inside again. ‘T-t-t-t-t,’ is the only thing that comes out of my mouth. I screech as another orgasm is torn from me. All sense evades me. I float and float. Feeling everything around me touching my flesh. Every atom caresses me and I feel like I’m weightless, no longer within my body. All the sudden, ‘uh uh uh uh uh uh,’ I’m brought down to earth as my Master continues to ream me. Inside of me, I know he’s nearly there. As he explodes inside of me, I drop the shower head as one last orgasm grinds its way out. My legs give way and I go down into the bathtub. I curl up in a fetal position. The water comes from overhead. My Master helps me to sit up. I feel his touch as he washes me clean and then moves onto my hair. I stay there. Secure with his hands around me. The water disappears. He helps me up and out of the tub. I can barely stand. A warm towel is wrapped around me and I’m led away. I collapse onto the bed. My Master removes the towel, wipes the tears from my cheeks, moves his body to spoon me and brings the blanket up and around both of us. With a light kiss, he whispers in my ear, ‘28, good girl,’ and I fade away with a sedate smile on my face.

A lot of people are silly and playful with sex. The notion is almost completely foreign to me. Some folks giggle and make puns, and some folks try hard to look sexy, through dance, and tease and games. My preference, with sex, boils down to intensity or shame.

I am a big fan of lust, of pinning someone against the door, and going down on them as their fingers slide into my hair and squeeze it into a tight ball. I enjoy gentle intensity as well. Holding someone, leading them in comfortable silence to a bed, and simple acts like stroking their spine with my fingers. Hell, I like the intensity of snotty, crying, let me think about anything other than my pain, sex.

Let me mention shame, and then we can set it aside for the time being. The more I isolate myself, the lazier, the more disgusting I feel, the more I crave the horrible kind of sex. I don’t need anyone to give me anything. This sex is only done in the dark. The silence is uncomfortable, but sacred. The more talking, the quicker I need them to leave. This sex is functional. We meet, I give, you leave.

The only way for me to overcome this shame, to receive, is through pain. Physical, emotional, and I haven’t tried it with a partner yet, nor do I understand what it is, but I am quite certain that I could handle spiritual pain. This is dangerous sex for me. I should avoid it at all costs… but I won’t.

So, back to the good stuff. The damned good stuff. It had been a while, for me, since anything like this had happened, see above. I was out of shape, and out of practice, and, as I told Abby, hard pressed to find my moments. Having confidence is crucial for me since I value control. Not having it was a chastity belt.

In my experience, nothing removes those pesky chains like a fire pit and some good whiskey. Abby agreed to a late night, hastily enough to remove any doubt I might have been having. So, we sat on the patio, in flimsy deck chairs, with the light and heat of the flames pushing out waves of heat that pressed at our faces, whilst the whiskey worked its warmth from within.

I had shimmied closer to Abby during one of my terrible stories that had us both in stitches, to where I could hardly tell it, and she could hardly listen. I hadn’t noticed when I closed the gap, so as my hand fell onto her knee, a little too familiarly, we had both paused for a moment before I withdrew.

She reacted fast, and with drunken imprecision grabbed my hand, holding it in place. I was looking to the floor as she did but glanced up to check her expression and caught the slightest smile before shifting focus to the flames. I kept my hand there with hers.

I am unsure if this is an anxious behaviour, or because I am some kind of narcissist, but I like to test the waters sometimes. Make sure I know they are interested in me. Even at eleven pm, with a date choosing to be alone with me, and drinking, I test them. Suffusive to say, she passed.

“Hey, stand up.” I say, regretting a lack of a plan.

“Okay.” she replies, and I help steady her to her feet, using the clasped hands as I do.

She stands facing me, and the joined arms rotate down to our sides, and my fingers intertwine with hers. She looks confused.

“I am sorry. I didn’t have a plan. I thought for a moment about dancing with you, just so I had an excuse for making you stand.”

“You just say all of your thoughts out loud, don’t you?”

“No, less than a fifth of them, to be honest.”

“Oh. Did you want to dance?”

“No.”

A nervous laugh escaped from her. “Okay.”

“Sorry, I just wanted an excuse to get close. Then I got nervous. So, here we are.”

The fire crackled, and a branch fell. The sparks and the noise drew our attention, and we were both hit by another wave of heat. I enjoyed staring at the fire.

“So, what did you want to do?”

I understand it as an invitation, but I feel uneasy, and it lacks clarity, so I don’t bite.

“Did you want another drink?”

“I should probably slow down.”

I am a grown man. Why am I acting so feeble?

“I could be persuaded to have one more, I suppose.”

“Why am I so feeble?” Damn, that was out loud.

“Uh, you’re not.”

“Oh, sorry. That wasn’t meant to be out loud. It’s just…” I take a mental deep breath and bring my empty hand up to meet her jawline. “You’re very pretty.”

This isn’t right. All this talk of intensity, and I flap around like this.

“Thank you.” She steps closer to me and leans her head into my grasp.

One thing I know, is myself. If we stay here, nothing will go well for me. Not here tonight, just here, in this spot. I need to move, to reset my brain, so to speak. So, I step away from her, and pull her away from the fire pit, towards the patio door.

“Come on.” I say with conviction.

She follows. We reach the patio door, and I swing her round to face me. I step in, pressing myself towards her, making the kiss an obvious, but certain thing. One last test to see if she will leave.

We kiss. Her lips press into mine, but as the gentle movement comes to an end, I push the kiss deeper and pull her into me. I squeeze my fingers into the nape of her neck, and her hands drop to her side. She grabs the bottom of my t-shirt and pulls it down tight against me, as if fighting the urge to tear it off.

I bring my other hand to her side, and I push up into her ribs. Her top bunches as I slide up. I pause, and let out a breathy “Do you–”

“No.” She interrupts, grabbing the hand and pushing it higher.

Under her top now, I grasp at her breasts and stumble harder towards her. We fall against the brickwork, and I use my hand to shield the back of her head.

She slides the now free hand between us, squeezing through the tight gap to run her hand down to my jeans. Grabbing at me through them. The sudden intensity of it catches my breath. I release her chest and move my hand down to her jeans. I run my finger along the waistline, half inside them, but never going in. Instead, I move my hand down over the jeans and run firm fingers between her legs, too.

She arches her back, and I kiss her neck.

She reaches to undo my trousers, and I grab her hand to stop her.

She reaches up to my shirt and tries with both hands now to disrobe it.

I pull away again, and say, “Not here. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Mhm”

She grabs my hand and waits to be led.

As we climb up the stairs, I look back to her and say, “You pass.”

I know I’ve done something wrong, but I’ve no idea what. You are very busy and focused at the moment. I should not interrupt your work. Still, it spins in my brain. Amends. You need to make amends, but how do you do that without being sure exactly what you did wrong. I glance in your direction. A thought comes into my mind. I bite down on my lower lip. Will it help or will it irritate? I’m not sure, but I must do something before I start to spiral downward and become obsessed with trying to figure out how I messed up.

I glance again your way, Sir. You are very much still hard at work. I reach down and pull my shirt over my head. I fold it neatly and put it to the side. Next, I unfasten my jeans and slide them down my legs. I step out of them, fold them, and place it on top of my shirt. I reach behind me and undo my bra, one hook at a time. Shrugging my shoulders out of it, I place it on the pile. Lastly, I slide my panties down, and with my foot kick them over to land nicely on the stack of clothes beside me. I can feel your attention shift just the slightest little bit. You’ve noticed but I’ve fortunately not distracted you. I think for a minute. Now, knowing you, you would want me either somewhere close to hand or else on display. I find being on display difficult, so I move to the middle of the lounge and lie facedown on the carpet, my toes pointed straight and my hands resting on either side of my head. I chose the Floor pose so that you can see my submission to you. Lowering myself so that you can visibly see that you are above me. That my body is here for whatever use you have of it. I reach out and set the timer for 15 minutes, then quickly lower my head back down, my nose and forehead making contact with the carpet underneath.

At first, I get my breathing under control, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. As it starts evening out and my breathing becomes more deliberate, I think of the air coming in through my nose And out through my mouth. I think about how lucky it is that I don’t have the ball gag in my mouth, that would make this much trickier. Wait. Stop. You are not here to be aroused. You’re here to show your submission.

I want so much to look at the timer, but part of the discipline, I‘m sure, is doing this without keeping an eye on the time. I close my eyes. I think of myself there, in your lounge, the feel of the carpet beneath me, the crush of my breasts against the floor, the idea that you could do anything to me just lying there. An image of you, standing above me, a lit candle in your hand. You turn it sideways as the hot wax drips and lands on my back with a quick intake of breath. I close my mouth, and wait for the next drip. Oh, the pain feels so good. As the candle heats up, the wax falls in quicker succession. My breathing becomes laboured and I feel myself starting to grind my cunt against the floor. No! This is not what you’re supposed to be focusing on. I try to shove the thoughts out of my head.

I open my eyes and stare down. This is not a time for coming. This is a time for repentance. I keep my eyes firmly down. Why is this so much harder with my eyes open? Do you see who you are? You are his slave. To do as he wishes with you. If he really wanted to, he could leave you there for an hour, maybe two. Your body is his. Your submission is his. You hand over all that you are into his hands. It is what you want, what you long for. Someone to take up my submission and make full use of it. There’s so much I would like to give to you, Sir. So much I have yet to offer. Please do forgive me. Let me show you what I will hand over to you. My thoughts begin to cycle over all the things I could be and do and take and absorb, again, my hips start to grind against the floor as my thoughts begin to manifest themselves firmly in my imagination.

I hear your chair move, and out of the corner of my eye, I see your bare feet approaching me. You stretch up onto your toes, then come back down and walk around me. Abruptly your foot lands on my ass, pushing me Hard against the floor. ‘Stop that, slut,’ is all you say to me. You keep the pressure up until my hips fully stop their movement.

Contrition, yes, that’s what I need. I try to think through all that has happened. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? Did I say something. Did I do something that displeased him? I can’t pinpoint it, only the definite sense that I’m in the wrong. What can I do to make it right? What will he ask of me in ways of demonstrating my contrition? Anything, really, as long as I am forgiven. My entire being goes still. I feel his foot lift off of me and his footsteps fade as he goes into the kitchen. I can hear him getting a drink.

What could he do? St. Andrew’s cross? Kneeling with my hands cuffed behind me? Nipple clamps weighted and pulling on my breasts, bringing a sweet pain I long for. Maybe the single tail. I love the crack it makes, the sound as it cuts through the air and that delicious burn and sting as it makes contact. I hear him coming back towards me. I start to salivate. Will he try out some of the shibari he’s been thinking about? Something new? Something unknown? Or maybe he will grab a cane. Again I can feel myself thrusting against the carpet. Working myself up. Wanting to come. Wanting to fuck and be fucked. I gasp as your toes make contact with my cunt. You wiggle them about causing me to moan, driving them deeper. As you step back, I hear you say, ’Hey whore, don’t leave a stain,’ with that you remove your foot, reset the timer and step away.

tall

younger but older all the same

ginger

bad hair day everyday

makes me feel confident

cares

questions

accepts

Today, I have spent a lot of time thinking about which Gorean position I was going to do for you today. I wanted to show you how much I appreciated last night. All those orgasms, one after another, spending myself for you. I feel that I should challenge myself in a way that might be pleasing to you. So, as I finish the housework, I knew that the time to make a decision had come.

I go to my bedroom and strip off all of my clothes. My nipples go instantly erect with the cold of the air. Standing there naked, I grabbed my phone and set a five minute timer. This was it. I took a deep breath. Once the timer was set, I placed myself in the inspection pose. My hands on top of my head, my eyes forward and my pelvis tilted up, my legs splayed wide. I chose this pose as it is the one that is most difficult for me. It is total exposure. Everything is there for everyone to see. I am putting on display the thing that I most dislike about myself - though not as much as I used to, you’ve taught me that.

Within 20 seconds, I am already looking at the timer, wishing my time was up. Not even close. I feel so completely vulnerable, so defenceless. I try to keep my eyes open, but I find it nearly impossible. I try lowering my gaze, but that only makes it worse as then I can see myself. I glance across at the timer but my screen has gone into sleep mode. I could come out of the pose to check the timer, then I would know how much longer I needed to endure this, but I realise that part of the challenge for myself was to stay in the inspection pose. I would just have to wait it out. Time crawls past.

I open my eyes again. I realise that I have started to close in on myself. My pelvis was thrust back and my shoulders had started to round inward. ‘No! Do it right!’I tell myself. I raise my eyes, push back my shoulders and push forward my hips. Full accessibility. I push myself forward so you’ll be able to see everything, touch everything. With that in mind, I widened my stance. Nowhere to hide.

Time passes. I start to twitch. Why is this taking so damned long? I don’t like it. I hate it! Being so exposed, showing myself for anyone to see, it makes me so anxious. And yet, there is a wetness building.

I start to play out in my mind a scene where you have me standing like this with all your friends about. Each one is allowed to come and touch me, play with me, inspect me, tease me. If I’m good, you say that you might even let some of them fuck me and use me at the end of the night. I shake my head. No! You shouldn’t be imagining a scene. You should be remembering who and what you are, not losing yourself in a fantasy.

I take a few deep breaths and make sure I’m fully on display. I am yours. Your toy to do and play with as you will. This body is not mine, but yours. If you choose for it to be displayed, then that is what I will do. If you wish to leave me like that, then that is what I shall do. If you want me to accept who and what I am and the package that it has come in, then I must do that. I start thinking that maybe my service is beautiful and in that service, maybe I am beautiful. I force myself still. I calm my mind. I make sure all is available, that I am ready for whatever lies ahead.

Then the timer goes.