It’s been 24 hours since I told you we can’t see each other for a while, and already my body is throwing a tantrum of nausea and razor sharp pains. It was a rational decision. The stress had been wearing me out for months, and after you revealed your recent medical history, I know you were suffering too. Our health is being ruined, one layer of immunity at a time. I had been disappointed with our sex life becoming less intense, and yet you were probably right when you replied: “So what if we turned the heat down, to a level we can sustain. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
But just turning it down wasn’t enough. Still having you eat my pussy on red silk sheets while I could watch myself wriggling with pleasure in the mirrors over your bed, was not exactly relaxing. Maybe it was the bedroom itself that forced us to ditch the rough stuff.
Originally I wasn’t allowed into your bedroom. I remember you showing me out after one of our dates. I had to get up early and wasn’t interested in quickies.
“Is that your bedroom?” I had asked as you were hugging me close and kissing my neck, in a last playful effort to win me over.
“Yes. But before you can go in you’ll be stripped from your last thread of fabric.”
You laughed and failed to notice you had turned me on. Even I myself was sometimes amazed at the forceful fantasies that jumped on me, usually right after I had said no. Right after I had chosen a good night sleep, a lady-like exit or a menstruation-blood-free week of celibacy over being with you.
“I wish he would bend me over and ass rape me right now,” my inner sex goddess with La Tourette would blurt out.
She had no inhibitions about staining the sheets with blood until she saw your bedroom where the sheets were already red. She fantasized about being a whore until she was taken to that room with its tasteful anthracite colored walls, and the dark double curtains weighing straight down from the ceiling.
It was that room, a residue from when you were still a bachelor, that paralyzed me. I imagine how you will have told your wife, then fiancée, that you would keep your penthouse as a real estate investment. I wonder how long it took before you started taking women here again. Or if there ever was a time you gave up your promiscuous life-style in the first place. That room oozed danger. And I needed to feel safe for my sexual bucket list of submission. Not like a porn actress with her legs pulled wide, regardless of how much I liked that view. Every slap on my ass echoed all the ones before me. Every glance in the mirror reflected all my predecessors. Every line seemed scripted, and none of them could ever be I love you.
Nine months ago. You could have had me at hello, if it wasn’t for the fact that you already had me at wearing a suit, and staring unapologetically from the other end of the network meeting. I answered your gaze by boldly staring back. Ivy had just pointed out her Jaguar dealer, as she had promised herself her next car would be a jag. She had brought me to meet new clients for my private yoga sessions, which came at a rate you could buy sexual services for.
“Oh God, not Mister Big,” Ivy sighed at us exchanging glances. And not because the sparks could have set fire to the New Year’s decoration and to anybody wearing polyester. “I could have known though. Of course Mister Big.”
A minute later you excused yourself and headed my way, and Ivy left me to meet my doom, or dream prince, or whatever fate had decided you would be. I waited as you maneuvered through the room, and tapped on a shoulder to pass.
Our smiles melted together and your steel blue eyes pierced me. Black hair with only a few gray ones, sparsely scattered. A pattern I only knew from my eldest cat. He died a few weeks back, I didn’t even tell you that. Mental intimacy of any kind has the potential to bring us back on track, back to that rollercoaster of desire, and fantasies. But you left that path. And even though I often feel I am still there, waiting for you to come back and play, I want it to be out of free will. Not because I played the pity card when at 5 in the morning I held him in my arms, and it was still hours before the VET would open and I needed someone I could talk to. I called Rutger. He was in a better time-zone to pick up the phone, but he was also better wired for the occasion. That night when I was with him this summer? I cried. Several times. And it was okay. When as with you…well. I think you “allowing” crying would be the best description of your ambiguous attitude towards it. Funny. I think crying is what moves sex from great to magical. And your recent resentment of crying is what is moving sex from great to not so great. From I never want to lose him, to I need to end this. From we are made for each other, to choking when instead of comforting me, your irritation gives me a real reason to cry.
My hair is falling out, my throat is sore, my breasts are painful. My period is starting to get messy around the edges. I know when all this started: after you fulfilled my rape fantasy with flying colors I got a violent cough. The doctor said it could take up to eight weeks to heal, and it did. And on the road to recovery you and I kept sleeping together, but merely brushing on the topic of my fantasies. They had become fantasies of fantasies, and although they did the trick of turning me on I kept wondering why we had stopped fulfilling them. No: why you stopped fulfilling them. And it took me until now to realize it was never you. It was me. Like with any healthy power play it is never the dominant who determines how far they will go. It is the submissive. And after the play rape I withdrew. It wasn’t right. Not with a man who is so emotionally absent.
I didn’t want to lose you, so I chose normal sex. Something I could handle. Or so I thought.
Except I m still not well, and neither are you. We’re still wearing each other out.
Last Sunday started the night before. I barely ever feel lonely but I did then. And after fighting it for hours I gave in, sat down with my diary, ready to spill my misery on the pages. That’s when your text came in. “I miss you.”
That was a first.
We set a lunch date for the next day, and like always I felt I didn’t know that mysterious man and was again struck at how casual you could dress without losing an inch of charisma. You kissed me on the cheek, asked me how I was. A stranger all over again. And I looked forward to yet another divine first time sex with you. But not before being properly fed. You laughed when I greedily ordered leaf lard in my duck salad.
“You’re probably the only one eating leaf lard,” you said affectionately.
“No fancy Italian cow for me. But we re both connoisseurs. At least we have one common interest.”
“I can think of another one,” you replied.
Sex of course. Oh absolutely. And we’re definitely connoisseurs there.
Maybe the reason I m calling it quits for now was because last Sunday was different. Not your voice…God your voice. It should be forbidden for a man your stature to have a voice like that. Raw, husky, free of any insecurities. Free of innocence I d say. Your voice is like the equivalent of a woman sitting in a bar wearing something red with a navel deep cleavage: something you can only answer yes to. Yes, I want to go to your house. Yes, I want to go to the bedroom. Yes, I want to be fucked. If you would ask me if you could ruin my life, and wreck any future prospect of a normal loving relationship I would still say yes. I regret you never asked.
We went to your place, and you excused yourself for the mess, and opened a bottle of red wine. You confessed you only did that when you had someone to drink with.
“And I have chocolate too. Want some?”
From all the men I ve known you were the only one who put so much effort into downplaying yourself, as if I was a nervous deer that could easily be scared away. How accurate.
Your charm. Our dance of trust. Me being won over by your chocolate, kisses and hugs, and in awe of how hard your cock was. You have the only binary dick in the universe; it’s never halfway. But none of all that was new. But what was different was how you fucked me: for the first time it didn’t hurt. Not that I ever got damaged; that happened once and was totally of my own making because I was masturbating too recklessly. I never told you this, but after our rape scene? I was horny for days. I didn’t get any work done, because all I could think about was more sex. Or more masturbation, as the next best thing. The rape had definitely hurt at the time, but the pain didn’t stay in any way. Nor in any cavity ;) It was as if it had never happened, had it not been for my vibrant memories and ruthless horniness. You were obviously a lot more skilled at penetration than I was. Although you also had better equipment of course.
But even if we didn’t play rape, I would always beg you for more. Deeper. Harder. And you would give it. And the pain that followed would never fail to shock me. But also soothe me. It was comforting to have some real pain to focus on. Not heart ache, not doubt. Or fear….so much fear. Of losing you, that would top of the list. But at moments like that I would just have that pounding pain where your tip hit the cervix. Or breached it, I don’t even want to know.
I am lying in your arms. You re cuddly as always, as long I respect that you don’t want blankets anywhere near you when we rest during or after sex.
“You didn’t hurt me….” I suddenly realize. I had asked for it, but this time you had answered by forcing my knees wider, grabbing my throat or by turning me over making me shiver at the thought of taking it doggie style. And then you slapped me, harder than usual, and slid into me. Effortlessly, smoothly and yes…lovingly.
“You like this, don’t you?”
The insanely husky voice would ask the face buried in the pillow. Yes, yes, I did. And now I realized something had been missing.
“Like on the inside I mean. When you fuck me deep.”
“Well good. I don’t want to hurt you. Always say so when I do.”
As if it was physical pain that was my biggest worry. I don’t think I said anything. Maybe “okay”.
“I m thirsty. Want some water too?”
You left for the kitchen and I turned on my back and studied the mirror above. And despite your remark I saw that incredibly happy blushing woman again. That curvy body that looked as if God is saving it for a career in porn. It was one of our standard jokes since I started working for Ivy as an actress in her web shop videos. Her husband did the camera and he kept referring to me as The Talent, something I only knew from porn. I had brought the idea of them filming us into our already very lively fascination with porn.
You came in handing me the water, and I took it saying:
“You know, if we get our own porn channel, people will know we have something. You can’t keep it a secret anymore.”
“On the contrary,” you said. And I noticed you didn’t sit down on the bed with me, but stayed there standing next to it. “If we get a career in porn, it’s just business.”
You announced you were going to take a shower and needed to shop for groceries.
I heard the shower as I lay on my back again, looking up.
The blushing woman was gone.
You know I don’t like this, and I’d much rather meet in person. But I ll write. You are making the right choices. Your health must come first, as I suppose mine should too, but I ve turned living under pressure into an art form these days. To say I would give you up for my health is a lie. After all, you know I never give anything up for anything, no matter how obvious the choice may be for someone else.
I m always surprised at how you see me. It’s so…I don’t know… dark, I guess. Is that how you see me, as insensitive? A womanizer? There was someone. It was an accident, more or less. We used to date briefly and she had invited me to her birthday. I shouldn’t have done that, and maybe it did influence the mess we were already in. But it wasn’t planned or anything like that. I don’t have some malicious plan of breaking as many hearts as I can, nor do I ever force myself onto women. It reminds me of one of our first conversations where you already accused me of being a bad guy. When I told you I would never do anything against your will you laughed and said:
“Of course not, that is for amateurs. You’re worse. You ll manipulate me until I m begging for it.”
Maybe the words were prophetic, I don’t know. Recapping our story: you did start out not wanting it, and after a few weeks you did. With me as the bad guy, but okay. I can live with that. I was the one taking all the responsibility, so you could let go. And you did.
I’m sad we didn’t make it. As long as I m married it can never be the relationship we knew we could have. Or more precisely: the sex we knew we could have. Because face it, that is what binds us. It’s a powerful, maddening, intoxicating sexual attraction that you never experienced with someone else. And neither did I, not like this.
Don’t think I didn’t hear you. Each and every one of your fantasies. The escort. The threesome. The doctor. And the last one that you were so afraid to ask for. I even noticed how they changed and redefined themselves. How whenever we talked about it, they morphed into new ones. Last Sunday I said I needed to have a special bench to put you over to spank you and you recalled a hotel where they had SM rooms. And then you told me something you had seen on tv, about a prostitute who was a submissive. As a job. “That’s brilliant right? To get sexually abused for money. That’s so hot!” You were really enthusiastic about the idea.
So I said we could rent a room like that. And I joked I would pick up every piece of equipment there and test it onto you. “You will just lie there and be spanked and penetrated. And paid.”
You buried your face, grunting in the pillow and then smiled: “Do you know how horny that makes me?”
I know, Baby Bee. I know. And damn, I wish for a lot of things but mostly that one day you will have someone to do all those things with. Someone who loves you, and chooses you, and with whom you can cry as much as you want. And I will never say that can’t be me.