Another city. Another hotel. This one with a wide, lobby-like area on our floor, pleasant maybe later for lounging or fucking on a chaise.
Lover loves OCD, I hang clothes in the closet, set shoes in a line, refold two shirts in my suitcase and pose like a pinup as I tuck them back in the row, bent at the hips, chest up, rear up.
“Do that again,” smiling. I do, and he comes behind me, I press into him as I press down the shirt. Suitcase goes by the closet, lid open, on the rack, bath stuff in the bathroom, sex toys in the bedside table drawer. Lover picks up the paper, special section of portraits and stats. “There are some homely women in the Indy 500.”
I come over to look. Danica Patrick needs more makeup, and Milka Duno is working it too hard hair in her face, she looks unprofessional. But the guys are no great shakes either, closer to a set of trim Jason Alexanders and British authors who dutifully belong to health clubs than dashing guys named Andretti should look.
Lover pulls me to him, holds me, kisses my neck, my hair. “Which bed is yours?” “That’s the one I’m sleeping in and that’s the one I’m fucking you on.” He pulls me down onto the bed, on top of him. My white linen skirt (I admired the demure knee-length in my reflection in the doors on the way in) rides up. I touch his chest, he holds my hips. We kiss, lightly and then less lightly. He reaches up beneath my skirt, beneath my soft t-shirt, holds my breasts in his hand. Off comes the shirt, over my head to beside him on the bed. We’re on top of the bedspread. Covered in hooker juice, no doubt. I realize too late that this is what I set up with clients, one bed pristine and one for spoilage. I think to say, “But maybe I’ll sleep here anyway,” but I don’t.
“Take me from behind.” “You want that a lot lately.” I do, because I’m in the habit – that’s the position you come the quickest in. They come the quickest in. He’s in me, I miss seeing his face, the little head duck, the sudden gratified delight when he finds himself there. It’s good, it hurts, it’s fine. He still has all his clothes, I’m naked but for thong panties pulled to the side, light blue cotton. I can feel the zipper bump me each time.
He wants me on top, I straddle him and ride, distant tremors coming closer. He pinches my left nipple, hard, the way that focuses me purely and tightly on this moment, this place, this feeling. Release. Pinch again. I ask for it, drawing closer, and I come in a haze of gentle sparks.
Afterwards, I’m close to tears, which is not uncommon, but I look down at him, gentle face, dark hair, light eyes, and the thought flashes, Our days are numbered.
I’m still jerking every time he touches me, sensitive to shock and movement. His turn, and the terrible crushing feeling of obligation, I want so bad to ask him to leave and I don’t even know why, but it’s so terribly selfish (I think) to come and not return the favor, I must, I must, I don’t know what it is but I have to…
Onward. Over him. Pausing for a minute to close my eyes and wish the tears back in their ducts, I’ve always been an easy cry, voice exercises that loosen the sinus resonator are Kleenex days for me, snot and salt everywhere. I wish you knew what was going on because I sure don’t. I wish I could put my clothes on and tell you to go. He says, “You have such a cute expression on your face – so uncertain.” The unintentional irony is a wall of water, this man who knows me almost-best, loves me almost-best, hurts me only in the ways I beg for, so good at watching for my edge, has no perception in this moment.
More. I sit up and back. “Raise your hands above your head.” I do, one hand half-holding the other wrist. He slaps my left breast, brushing across my tender nipple. Physically, it’s wonderful, shock and pain and yet it’s the intention and not the blow that stings. Mentally, I’m nowhere, the best part of D/s, I’m here. Again, and I flinch. My arms draw down and he tells me to put them back up again. Again he strikes, his eyes wide, his breath faster, too. I wonder why he doesn’t make me raise them higher, make me more his. Last one, that’s it, that’s all I can do. I curl down into his arms and he pats me and soothes me, knowing that for me, this is always what I want afterwards.
And then the tears come for real, I keep my eyes closed, I want this client to leave, I want to know why I fantasized about my husband right before I came, I want to know why the combination of stubble against my breast and coming and being fucked from behind is dirt under my nails, the cat refusing to use the box, waitressing when I’m not old enough to serve, being scolded by a boss.
“I need to go blow my nose.” And there I am in the bathroom, red nose, red nipples, eyes working towards unpretty. Blow, flush, snap out the light and back to bed. Got to give them their money’s worth.
He does, not much later, notice. “What are you thinking?” “I’m not thinking. I’m writing this in my head so that I won’t be thinking.” “I’m not sure that answer makes me happy.” I can’t tell him what is so terribly wrong, in part because I do not know.
He rubs my back. I tell him as much as I can. “Do you want to take a nap, or put our clothes on and go for a walk? Is there anything I can do?”
I need to write it out. We toss the bedspread on the floor. He curls into the sheets, curls around me and sleeps while I write.
Wake, Lover. Wake and read.