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Rolling my lips together, I curtail an embryonic smile. I know who this is but don’t have time to consider how before my phone buzzes again.
The very last thing I want to do is hurt you. I’m going to take my time getting you there. You’ll come so hard and so often the pleasure will blend with the pain.
Everything south of my navel clenches with deliciousness. I studiously keep my eyes lowered for fear my colleagues will be able to read my thoughts via my expression as another text comes through.
The cuffs. You’ll look so beautiful in them.
Heat flares everywhere, my nipples hard and aching in the confines of my bra. And I’m sure if I were standing, I’d need to sit down. I need a moment. A moment with him. I almost laugh aloud.
My house. Saturday after 6. Do you remember where?
He wants to see me again. My skin sizzles and my heart soars—a repeat of the experience is the chance I hadn’t foreseen. Fully zoned out from the meeting going on around me, I contemplate an appropriate response.
Yes, yes, please!Too eager.Yes, sir?Hilarious, though sort of appropriate; the address, at least.Could he be a little Dom?Just considering sending that as a response is laughable, isn’t it?Dammit, I need to read better books.
Who is this?Too coy, as well as too easily misconstrued. I don’t want him to think I’d forgotten our night already. Or make myself sound like a slut. At that particular thought, I choke back a laugh, turning it into a dignified clearing of the throat.
Redundant. I went home with him after only knowing him a few hours. He probably already saw me as easy.
What am I worrying about? It’s not like Ihaveto see him again.Wasn’t that the point of creeping out from his bed last weekend before he awoke? The reason for not exchanging names and numbers, too. I’d planned on saving myself the discomfort. The awkwardness and his assumptions of me.
Far better to just fuck... then fuck off. Or at least, that was the plan. And how in the hell did he get my number, anyway?
In not telling him my name, I’d felt mysterious. A little powerful. But more than that, I’d begged him to fuck me. To bruise me. Perhaps I thought anonymity would provide me with the excuse that those desires weren’t really mine. That it was just an experience. Something to get out of my system before slamming it back in the closet with the other rattling chains. If we each remained anonymous, maybe I could pretend it never happened—that it wasn’t me. He’d probably remember me as some hot, nameless fuck, and I could continue telling myself I’d been pretending that night. That it was an experience that had nothing to do with who I really am.
And what better place to do this in than a country far away from my own? Someplace I’d be gone from in a year.
Yet on the brink of another weekend in London, I allow myself to feel the first stirrings of regret as I read his texts.Words and promises burning my thigh. A tide of reckless rises in my mind; excitement accompanied by atremorof fear as I consider seeing him again. I slip my phone under my leg and try to focus on the meeting—the litany of performance indicators and projections—even as my mind strains to return to a performance of his. But a second chance of the experience. Should I? Could I really?
What would Flo say? That, at least, is easy to anticipate.What’s the problem, sweets? Wasn’t he fun? Wasn’t he hung? Hit that till you’re done.
If only it were that easy.
I shouldn’t really.
~*~
Waking the next morning in my cold and soulless room, I stretch and decide I’m going to stop kidding myself. Why shouldn’t I go? At the fairground, everyone revisits their favourite ride, right? But as a get out, or fate’s opportunity to screw this up, or maybe a strange kind of punishment, I find I can’t answer his texts.
I leave it in fate’s hands, and if he isn’t home because I don’t confirm... well, that would be that. The universe will have spoken. So fatalistic. And while I feel like a coward, I still don’t call.
Driving out of the city, I spend a mindless morning at Ikea buying useless shit for my room. My giant blue bag is full of candles, towels, and other household stuff when I spot something that, on instinct, I think I might buy for him.Him. My mystery man. Despite cowardice interfering with my manners, and a reply, a good guest never arrives empty-handed. I could take wine or chocolates, but those gifts seem too familiar or commonplace. Maybe bland? But I would take something, even something that felt like a prop.
In arriving with a gift, would I feel more or less like a whore?
Flo’s out again this evening, so I don’t have to prepare any explanations. As the evening rolls around, I take a cab after casually asking Flo what street I’d spent last Friday night on. I arrive at his house a little after six, the butterflies in my stomach the size of albatrosses. The gate squeaks, the gravel crunches, and then I’m at his front door, staring at the huge handle. I look down at my outfit of casual sexy chic; a light boyfriend jacket, a white tank, dark, tight jeans, and heels.I’m not trying too hard to look sexy, right?Sick with nerves, I ring the bell just once, squeezing my fingers tight against the package in my other hand, half hoping he won’t be home.The other half of me tight and tingling. But as the door opens, his handsome face welcomes me, wreathed in such a wide smile that my whole body is awash with relief.And other stuff.
‘What a surprise.’ The light barb in his tone is clear as he bends to kiss me on both burning cheeks. I should’ve called. I’ve been childish, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
Taking my hand, he pulls me over the threshold, and I’m compelled to follow as much by the strength of his smile as his hand. We walk the generous hallway—no creeping for me this time—and down a short flight of stairs to a large, airy kitchen. Shaker style cabinetry, butcher block work surfaces, and a high-end Aga stove, of all things. Something delicious is cooking—something fragrant with herbs. I recall I’ve been invited for dinner, but find I’m still surprised I’m here. It strikes me that this isn’t a bachelor’s kitchen and I can’t help but look for the tell-tale signs of a wife. Thankfully, nothing obvious. Sliding my butt onto a stool as directed, I place the tissue wrapped parcel on the island bench.
‘Balls?’ He laughs sort of quizzically upon unpackaging them as he holds the wrapping and ribbon in one hand with the brightly coloured balls balanced on his other palm.
‘Juggling balls,’ I clarify. ‘You like games.’ I shrug, feeling childish. I should’ve stuck to wine or chocolate, I think, when the reality is more that I should’ve confirmed. Still, an unfamiliar rush of pink creeps into my cheeks as I consider the randomness of my gift.
‘Perceptive girl,’ he replies, his smile taking on a cryptic edge. ‘I’m very fond of games.’
As though sensing my discomfort, he steps closer, taking one of my hands in his. Wrapping the unravelled ribbon around my wrist, he ties it in a bow, kissing the point of my pulse below. The soft touch might’ve taken the power from my knees had I not been sitting. It’s just as well that he turns at that point to open a bottle of wine.
