‘he loves me, he loves me not…’

The room was dark. I could see very little but my breath, small and wispy like fog. Streetlights attempted to shine through dark curtains but only made tiny dents in the fabric, pinpoints of orange light like flames from a candle.

Anticipation started as a tingle from my kneecaps, and ended up shooting up and inbetween my thighs like a million trails of warm ants. I was positioned over his knee, arms outstretched, my fingers barely grazing the floor as his hand slowly (ever so slowly!) pulled up the back of my black pencil skirt, one side at a time, inching.

The skirt was tight so I had worn a thong to hide my pantyline, but it was in plain view at this point, silky and crimson, facing him. The cold air was the only thing that met my warm flesh for what seemed forever. I braced myself for what seemed years before the moment of impact came. A heavy hand, a brutal slap, but then nothing but the cold air again, soothing the heat that had collected and risen to the surface of my backside.

My breath caught in my throat. Just when I was beginning to breathe normally again, it came, swift and harder than before. Then nothing. With one hand, he softly moved the hair around my left ear to expose it, then leaned down and put his lips to it. “Bad girl…” he whispered, his warm breath lingering, fogging up the crevices within my ear, muting the sound, deafening me. Then the hand again, again, again. It lasted a long time. Each time harder, each time more pronounced, deliberate. The sting which began sharp but short lived became unbearable, and my lips found their way open so I could cry out, a bit of saliva puddling to the brink of my mouth, spilling out onto the floor.

I felt his fingers slide upward, rubbing in the warm droplets that had begun trickling down my thighs. They stroked up and down, getting closer and closer to the heat every second, then moving away, grazing over the back of my knees. Then his hand disappeared completely again. I heard the sound of a drawer open, then a series of awkward clanking. His hands pulled the two of mine behind my back to enclose the wrists with cold metal, tighter than what would prove comfortable.

I felt my nipples growing hard beneath my soft white camisole. I smiled for a moment in the dark then stopped, for fear of him knowing, seeing. He pushed me off of his lap and I fell to the carpet, onto my back. The pressure of my body falling onto my wrists from the height of his knees caused the metal to cut into me, and the pain was exquisite. I felt heat there but I don’t know if it was a mere sting or blood that had made its presence known.

I heard him leave me then, walk away, opening the door, letting sweet light spill in before I was left to my darkness again. I rolled over on my side so my body didn’t continue putting pressure on my wrists. The minutes dragged and I was starting to wonder if he would ever come back. As I began to drift off into sleep, the door opened and he stepped inside. The smell of tequila wafted through the room as the curls of breath branched outward from his lips. He fidgeted with something across the room. Music began then, soft electronica, familiar voices.

White Town. It was a band I had enjoyed in high school, mostly famous for their one hit, “Your Woman.” It was unexpected but not inappropriate. I felt his eyes on me for a moment before he kneeled down to lift my head up, press my lips to cold glass, offering me what I thought was water.

Tequila. I should have known. I tried to pull my lips away but he refused to pull the glass away. His hand held the back of my head sternly to the glass, and when I tried to pull away the tequila spilled down the front of me, to which he responded with more force, the rim of the glass nearly cutting the sides of my mouth. He had said nothing for a very long time but now it was time. “Swallow.”

I drank what felt like half of a bottle of tequila in that glass. In what was less than two minutes. As he pulled it from my face, the empty glass seemed to taunt me before he threw it against the wall, exploding into a million tiny shards. I felt a chill run through my body.

My chest and camisole had gotten wet from the tequila that I had spilled. He smoothed his hand over the area, rubbing it in, wiping it away. His fingers made their way under the fabric, tweaking me, teasing me.

I moaned then, and was rewarded with a slap to my face. My eyes widened, and I turned my head in both fear and desire. The tequila was already affecting me. I felt the burn in my throat then changing to a warm haze that was stretching throughout my entire body, different than it ever had before. Like Tahitian sun growing within me, reaching outwards.

I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see myself. I could only hear the soft sounds of organs and synthesizers and my heartbeat, amplified by my evolving drunkenness and his desperate caresses.

I knew he would take me, but I didn’t know how long I would be waiting and what more torture I would endure beforehand. I thought of the tiny pieces of glass everywhere, thought of my body being forced onto them like a bed of nails. My mind became blank, like a tablet where all the pages of writing have been ripped off, crumpled and thrown into the trash.

I could never imagine belonging to someone before. But as his hands attached themselves to all the places he desired, as his body treated mine, I felt as if I had become nothing more but an extension of him. And to lose control of myself and my will did not feel like a loss; not in the least, not at all.


1 Response to “‘he loves me, he loves me not…’”

  1. February 20, 2008 at 4:34 pm

    Sexy… dirty… frightening…

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