#erotic fiction

Kid for Today

Something always felt wrong when that elicit thrill ran down her spine the instant his lips touched her nipple. It felt like she was surging up from under him, placing herself on a pedestal while he supplicated before her. That wasn’t how things worked, and it wasn’t how she liked things to be. The height made her dizzy, and she wanted to get down. 

It was probably some biological instinct kicking in, Freud’s wet dream manifesting as sensations travelled down her nerves towards her brain. A maternal throwback, the feeling of protection and love mingling with the arousal and lust that already clouded her brain. It felt like there was too much going on, her mind too crowded, and it made her squirm.

Which, evidently, was the exact reason he enjoyed flitting his tongue over the sensitive nub at the tip of her nipple. Why he would recline on the sofa, and arch his eyebrow in such a way that she understood exactly what he wanted, only a moment of hesitation before she took a breath, clambered up off the floor and presented her naked chest to him. It always progressed further, nipples turning into mouths, and they’d kiss while she rolled her hips against him, but he would always colour it in such a way that it felt taboo from the off.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, really. It was one of the reasons she liked him, supplicated and surrendered to him. The kink that ran rampant throughout his mind, perversions and deviances twisting and turning a perfectly innocent train of thought until the filth was a torrent that drowned every word that he spoke, each one sticky treacle. He could make her wet in a sentence, squirm in syllables. 

And, apparently, writhe with that delicious mix of awkward taboo and wonderful arousal with nothing but his lips and a liberal helping of his tongue. 

Dawn Chorus

Mornings made her nervous. She’d watched too much Cinderella, hyperbolised the walk of shame far too much to ever let herself survive through to the morning. It became a ritual for her, to slip out in the middle of the night, when the light was still artificial and the streets empty. No one to witness what she’d done, no one but the poor sap she’d left alone in the bed, snoring lightly. And who was going to believe him, when she was such an upstanding citizen. 

It meant that, when she did finally awake, in her own bed, it felt like the night before had been erased, replaced like a bad recording on a tape deck with something entirely of her own creation. She’d stayed in, watched a movie, ‘made’ dinner (fried up some fish in the pan, added water to cous cous). What had happened, hadn’t, and that way she didn’t have to think about it. When her phone buzzed she’d just ignore it, and life would go on.

The problem was she was starting to enjoy being tied up, and handcuffs are much harder to slip out of than bedsheets. The first time she’d made sure to stash the key in an easily accessible place, just in case he got funny ideas and left her like that when he fell asleep. There must have been something approaching nervous panic in her eyes, because when he’d asked she’d had to just laugh and shrug, saying she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. It had sounded like a joke at the time. 

The second time wasn’t so tricky; you can’t leave rope tied too tightly for long, unless you want to wake up with a few less limbs to work with. He’d untied her and she’d gone to the bathroom, freshened up. He’d been asleep when she returned, and she didn’t even have to carefully lift his hand from her chest. 

And then there was him. The problem man. The one who could somehow figure out what she was going to do before she did it. He’d been doing it all night, and it was charming in its own way, until the night started to draw to a close. She found herself back in his apartment, blindfolded, gagged, wrapped around the bedposts like a car crash. She could barely move, let alone escape, and as his hands wandered over her she couldn’t help but allow herself a little surrender, a moment to lose herself in all this. 

He untied her after, but left her hands. The rope was loose enough that she wasn’t going to wake up with any fewer fingers, but tight enough that she wasn’t going to slip free, either. She shot him an accusing look.

“You’re not done.” There was petulance in her voice. It rode on the back of confusion.

For a moment it looked like he considered what she said, as if it might make a difference. And then that smirk creeped along his lips like a grifter, and he shrugged.

“No, I’m not.” The silence stretched out like a cat. “But you? I think you’re done." 

Well. For a moment her safeword flashed across her lips, the get out of jail free card. And then it faded from sight, and she narrowed her eyes.

Maybe it was time to see the morning.

The Penguin

The scene was high drama. The villain hurtling through the living room on the back of a model train, the man’s faithful companion pursuing it down the carriages, a makeshift helmet on his head. Determination furrowed his brow, and he clambered forward, head down, eyes forward. The villain took aim, one beady eye closed to line up the shot. Blam. The bullet ricocheted off the upturned colander and the pursuit continued.

But even here, the Penguin remained silent. Of all the villains in all the children’s films she devoured when she was in that particular target demographic, none had stuck with her quite as much as the Penguin from The Wrong Trousers. Not Scar, not Ursula, not Bonecruncher or the Fleshlumpeater, or even the Red Queen, with all her surrealist hysteria. It wasn’t that those characters weren’t scary, it’s just that, on some level, she could understand them.

The Penguin? He was a cipher. An enigma. A blank slate fixed with a blank stare in a blank room with a red rubber glove on its head. She didn’t even know what gender it was, or even if it could open its mouth. It just was, a villainous force that set out to do harm. And that made it stick.

He, on the other hand, her He, was someone she did understand. She’d spent months understanding him, week after week of getting a little bit further into his well guarded mind. But even still, when he employed the same tactic, became the Penguin for an evening and kept those lovely lips sealed, all her understanding did little to calm her nerves. In fact, on reflection, it made it significantly worse.

They’d met at the station, an eager hug and chaste kiss before her question of where they were headed first was met with naught but a knowing smile. Even after they’d got  back to his place he hadn’t said a word, just planted a more intense kiss on her lips, forced her up against the wall so that his hands could roam for a few scant seconds before he pushed her past the threshold and down the hall, half stumbling into his room. He’d undressed her, had her step out of her clothes, and then stood back.

And then he’d not said anything. For minutes. At first it had been amusing, a little game to try and get him to utter a few syllables, draw a sentence out of him. But frustration had taken over, and then fear had replaced it, until she was begging him, pleading with him to hear his voice, have a conversation, do something. But the whole time he had just smiled, narrowed his eyes slightly, and stared down at her as she stared up at him.

What happened next was a blur, even when she looked back at it. His hand against her mouth, silencing her with him, before the other found her neck, and those two strong limbs lifted her up before shoving her onto the bed, the wind knocked out of her lungs only to die against his palm. He was over her, bearing down on her, the weight of him pinning her with all the gravity that she’d been so desperately looking for. 

And then he’d tied her up, taking his time with the knots. He’d gagged her, and it was only after the buckles on the straps were tight, and her ability to speak utterly stolen from her, that she felt his voice tickling her eardrum. Her eyes were wide, and she could feel his chin against her neck.

“Now, little dove, you see how important the ability to speak is, no?” His voice wandered up and down with a curious melody, as if she’d never quite heard it before. She could do nothing but nod, and a little part of her smiled.

Box Cutters

Gloves. That’s new. She was sure the surprise was coagulating on her face, a look of excitement turning into one closer to fear. He didn’t wear gloves. He rarely wore anything. Just him and her, and whatever clothes he’d decided to dress her in that night. She couldn’t help but squirm, which meant he couldn’t help but smirk. The leather jacket was a new touch too.

He walked towards her, which means she walked backward, away from him. The sadist’s tango, writ large on his face. There wasn’t enough floor, the few feet of it quickly exhausted before she fell back onto the bed, the abrupt interruption of the mattress against the backs of her knees leaving her little other option. Now she was looking up at him. Now he was looking down at her. 

One of his hands was in his pocket, playing with something. She narrowed her eyes, bit her lip, and her hands clutched at the sheets as if they were going to provide some sort of anchor, an escape from that which she was increasingly wanting no such freedom from. But that was her role to play; the frightened girl, the victim, the assaulted. The way she squirmed made her performance less than convincing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. 

It was a knife, she could see that now. Nothing flashy, no glitz or glamour to it. Just a slightly rounded length of steel, housing a sharp blade. A Stanley Knife, a box cutter. A tool, then, not a weapon. Didn’t help things. His hand held it with a lazy ease, and he slipped onto the bed, one knee after the other, before glancing down at her.

“Stay still.” It was said with an air of amusement that worried her more than a deadpan delivery would have approached. He brought his left hand up, placing it against her face, and she shivered at the cool touch of the leather against her face. It gripped her suddenly, the strength of his fingertips translated through the material with little difficulty, and she was held still, regardless of whether she’d follow his order or not.

And then there was the knife, hovering above her cheek. Her entire world distilled down into that one patch of flesh, right below her eye, and she squirmed. But it felt like it was that cheek that squirmed, that direct inch of skin that was under threat. Her eyes flicked from the blade, slightly out of focus, back up to him, and the look of intense concentration on his face. He was as he always was, only more so, brought into sharper relief by the extremity of his actions.

“Why..?” She murmured, her voice a broken, hoarse thing, her mouth dry and strained. For a moment, she saw the warmth shine through his eyes, through the dominance, the sadism, the torturer and the tormentor. She saw the man he was outside of these four walls, and there was the flicker of a smile on his face, before it faded back into that stare.

The knife grazed her skin, and it sent shivers down her spine. He moved it slowly, too slowly to be a threat, but that didn’t make the discomfort that was wrapped around the back of her neck diminish in any way. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Because…” He started, his voice slow, deliberate. “If I was to take this glove, and place it between your legs, it would come back glistening.” The knife came back for another round, and he threaded it carefully through the air, as if weaving an invisible tapestry. “Because..” He continued, his voice almost melodic. “If I were to ask you, in twenty minutes, or an hour, how you feel…” He smiled now, a genuine thing, beautiful. “You wouldn’t know what to say. You’d slouch against the wall, perhaps, or just hug me. But you’d be smiling the biggest smile.” Again he brought the blade close to her, coming within half an inch of her eye.

“Because..” He took the knife away, if only for a moment. “You want this.”

Post its

The world was full of reminders, and he made sure it was abundantly populated. Every facet of her existence had been touched by him, somehow, and now she could see naught but him, every little piece of the world tied to some synapse in her memory, something to draw up something to remember him by, something to remind her of what he’d done, what he would do.

The blinds of the window made her think of the way he’d glance through them, two fingers slyly spreading the shades to create an opening, like he was in a Chandler novel. The orchids on her shelf the same colour he made her skin, a subtle purple shot through with a darker indigo. They bloomed as she had, and they’d fade just as powerfully as her skin had healed.

The problem was with all these reminders she wasn’t allowed to languish in them. There was no happy remembrance when every one of them was tinged with the subtle longing of the absent heart, knowing that he was away from her, a few miles south, a ways north. Wherever, it didn’t really matter, because he was not there. She was forced to bring him to mind by all the things he’d done, all the things that made him him, but none of them brought him any closer to her door.

And that, she considered, was the greatest tragedy of it all. It was the contradiction that created a tension who’s only payoff was the enormous, beautiful relief upon seeing him again, being able to revert back to the giddy girl and wrap her arms around his neck, swing about a bit if she was feeling particularly nubile. But, as with every other thing, that was not there for her, in this moment. 

Instead, she was mired in longing, lost pining for he who was not there. So why did every little reminder make her feel a little better? Why did every memory make her smile, an absent thought giving her a moment of happiness with a long draw as it receded? She wasn’t one to question life’s little generosities.

Aftercare

“How are you doing?”

She was trembling, naked, and sore. Parts of her were throbbing, and the rest just ached. She was exhausted. She was done, in other words. Done with him, done with being fucked, tortured, teased, brought to climax over and over again. She’d finally had her fill. Done for now, then. 

It had become routine, that question. Murmured in her ear as he held her, to make sure that there was nothing amiss, to give her opportunity to ask for a glass of water, or nod that yes, a bath would be heavenly right now. But today the words didn’t come, just this drunk smile that stumbled across her face.

The silence drew out like a gunslinger. He stiffened slightly, and pulled back, cupping her face with both his hands. 

“How are you doing?” A little more pointed this time, a little less soft. Concern lined his voice, and it was that which made her open her eyes, look into his. She just smiled some more.

“I’m… good.” First word inhale, second exhale. Pause in between. She turned her head, pressed it to his shoulder, and closed her eyes again. He softened and she could feel the smile in the way his arms wrapped around her, and how his hips pressed against hers, knocking like icebergs.

There was something about the time after that she couldn’t help but covet with an almost dangerous pleasure. Her mind raced, constantly driven from one thought to the next, without a single opportunity for respite or distraction. Silences terrified her, a giant open vacuum that needed to be filled with something, anything, and so she babbled more oft than not, which only made things worse. Even during sex, when he was doing all those wonderful things, her mind didn’t let up. It had to dwell on every sensation, lose itself in each sting.

But here, on the other side, things somehow weren’t quite so pressing. She was offered a chance to recuperate, lose herself properly, dwell in the silence. How was she doing?

Pretty well, thank you very much.

Three Dimensional

He was finding it hard to concentrate on everything at once. It was a pleasant problem to have, all things considered, but that mean it wasn’t one. Sensations were percolating through the forefront of his mind, and he couldn’t help but filter than one by one. He wanted an overload, and instead he was standing at the door like a bouncer, checking each off the list before allowing them in. It was all so very… ordered. 

There was the feel of her hair against his fingertips. Simultaneously soft and sharp, cutting into the skin of his fingers as he pulled it harder, then slipping, the rigorous washing lending it a silky texture that it was difficult not to appreciate. He wound it around once, like a tourniquet, and pulled. Hard. She gasped, writhed. 

And there it was. That sudden twitch, her cunt squeezing around him, an involuntary embrace that made him thrust forward with just as little forethought. For a moment he was nothing but instinct, and the appreciation of that instinct. Every synapse tuned to the tip of his cock, riding on the wave of pleasure that was washing along with every sensation. 

He felt as though he was rushing around his own body, thrown from one part to another as the next most important feeling was brought to his attention. She squirmed, and the bed moved with her, and suddenly he was in his knees, feeling that sudden vibration, steadying himself. 

Then she moaned and he was in his ears, rolling around in that noise, savouring the way it echoed for half a second. He almost bit his lip, but thrust forward again instead, and he was at the tip of himself, buried to the hilt, forcing it to twitch inside her, making her giggle again like she had that one other time, the best time. 

He couldn’t help but feel that she was somehow everywhere at once, not thinking, just feeling, overwhelmed and relishing every second of it. He was delicately picking out his favourite flavours, and she was just pigging out. 

Which, given the circumstance, seemed much more appropriate.

Aftermath

There were track marks in her arms. Pretty plaits that ran in concentric circles down past her elbows, up past her forearms before ending at her wrists. A coil, then, an impression left behind by the constrictor that had hugged her so very very tight. 

There was a warm wash of an ache across her backside. It was soft enough that it ebbed away from her moment to moment, day to day, but whenever she sat down, or moved just so, it flared up again, as flushed as the day it was given to her. It felt like there was less skin between the world and the nerves, like she’d been smacked raw. 

There were faint words, too. Half a dozen showers had faded them into jibberish, the odd letter poking out here or there, but mostly just fragments, the curve of an A, or the sharp incline of the leg in the K. It looked like code, and when the world dragged, she tried to decipher herself through those left overs. 

His fingers were still around her throat, when she wanted them to be. The uncomfortable press of his thumb against her windpipe, lodging persistently against that vital passageway, a pressure that was troubling. The curve of his palm everywhere else, and the fingers snaking up towards her jaw line. She just had to touch the skin there and the sensation was brought into sharp relief, and she had to catch her breath. 

These things were more than reminders, they were evidence. They were her witnesses, a chorus of marks each of which was smirking with debauchery, knowing exactly how and where they were created. To touch them was to remember, but also validate. To hammer home the reality of the act, to be assured that yes, it did happen, and yes, it may well again. 

They were there as a promise.

Blink, Blink, Blink

The cursor was insistent. Not rude, necessarily, but pertinent, a one dimensional foot tap, keeping time like a metronome. The email was empty, but not for a lack of thought. Instead, each one was jostling to be the first on the page, and they’d somehow got jammed. 

She wasn’t sure where to begin, and so she hadn’t. Not yet, at least. The cursor blinked, arched an eyebrow, glanced at its watch. Yes, she knew, it had to be today. But why not tomorrow? What difference would a day make. She sighed.

Outside the world kept turning, as the world was wont to do. There was a man crossing the street in a gap between traffic, and another wandering down the pavement bopping his head to whatever he was listening to on his headphones. Between her teeth she rolled the slightly misshapen inner lip from when she’d fallen over as a child, chewed it absent mindedly, and then glanced down at the screen.

Hi would be too casual. Hello too impersonal. Dear wasn’t right, and just having his name made it sound like she was mad at him. She narrowed her eyes, as if furrowing her brow and concentrating really hard would make the words pop into her mind through sheer force of will. 

She crouched down on the carpet, and settled her hands against the keyboard. At least if she looked like she was writing maybe her fingers would just figure it out on their own, sans brain.

So,

Not really sure where to begin. Not really sure why I’m writing this email, actually, but I wanted it written.

That was terrible. She held down the delete key, erased the words completely. Her finger tapped against her lip, almost of its own accord, and she stared at that cursor again. Now it was looking rude. Now it was looking downright condescending. 

Maybe this was going to be harder than she thought.

How Did I Get Here?

She wasn’t sure how she’d got here. 

Not in a literal sense. She’d taken a cab with friends, laughed and joked and slipped into all sorts of raunch once they’d arrived at the party. She could ever remember when she’d accepted the invitation, weak-armed by her friend with a simple ‘c'mon, it’ll be fun.’ Simple as that, it had slotted itself into her mental calendar and she’d bought the necessaries. Lingerie that barely exceeds the function of bra and panties. Stockings. Boots. 

But at a certain point, she would be following back the train of events, and she’d reach a dead end. She wouldn’t be able to continue back into the past any further, the trail would dry up and she’d just find herself stranded in the middle of memories, floundering. She knew how she’d found herself headed to the first event, knew about that first lover that had held her hands above her head and sent her nipples into a short circuit that made her squirm and squeal in the same moment, but she didn’t know how that had lead to all this.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a friend taking a cane to a girl who was strung up to the ceiling, a pair of ropes strung tight against her wrists like exclamation points. He had a half smile on his face, and hers was placid, at peace as that vicious length of bamboo came down on her rear, her legs, her chest and stomach. 

Someone else she knew, although only tangentially, had her face buried between a man’s (clothed) legs. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say the girl was sniffing him like a… well, she clearly didn’t know any better, as the girl’s head came up and she slipped back onto her feet, arms up ready and begging. Her tongue even came out. 

Laughing, she slipped back into the chair where she’d made her home. She was away in the corner, able to be a voyeur but separate from the action, tucked away enough that she wouldn’t be bothered by anyone, and she didn’t have to bother anyone in turn. She could just watch, enjoy, learn. 

There was something inexorable about her presence at events like these. She found herself in them, time and again, without ever consciously thinking that yes, she wanted to turn up. They were just there,and they were interesting, and what other reason could she ever need?

So much of the time, that was enough. In this world of exploration, she was increasingly finding that was more than enough. It was just that she hadn’t quite managed to get used to the voracious nature of her curiosity, just yet. 

Lost in the After

So ten minutes. Just dwelling in it, thoughts adrift, finding herself irrelevant to tenses. Then her sensations kicked back in, the cloy of the sheet against her sweat-pricked skin, the heavy musk of their fucking groping at her nose, the sound of the bath thundering down the hall like continuous thunder. 

She rolled onto her side and up onto her feet. Toes tingled, and she stumbled, steadying herself against the windowsill. A smile meandered across her face, and she closed her eyes.

Rope around her ankles, the length of it creaking as he had pulled it tighter, and she’d felt the stretch in her muscles, just short of comfortable. They had started to ache after a while, but by that point she was hardly thinking about that particular sensation. She was more focused on the thickness of him inside her. 

She walked slowly to the doorway, the sound of the bath louder now. She wanted to see him, wanted to stare at that face and figure out how he could be so happy and relaxed, so downright jovial. He always was. Two steps into the hallway and the sensations kept making themselves known, like warning lights blinking on and off on a dashboard. Her bum burned. 

Still tied down, still ever so slightly uncomfortable. And then he’d started with his hands, softly at first, but still with enough force to leave a sting, let it wash away into a burn and a throb. But hte power had increased, slowly at first, and then faster, until she was yelping and crying out into the pillow. He’d only stopped when she’d felt tears threaten to jump down the sheer cliffs of her cheeks. 

She could hear him humming now, the cheery bastard. It made her smile, Fingertips trailing down the side of the corridor, skipping over the frames of the pictures, old band posters he’d no doubt hung up with great care at one point or another. His legs were visible, lancing up straight and powerful into the air before his hands came into view, sponge in hand. She bit her lip, watching the veins stand out over his knuckles. 

The backhand had come as a surprise, but she’d deserved it. A grumbled quip at the wrong time, shattering the sanctity of the scene for a moment. It was misjudged, what would another time have been harmless fun suddenly misplaced and distasteful. The pain had been different, hard and sore all at the same time. Four tough points against the line of her cheek. 

It still ached. She stepped into the bathroom, curled up next to the tub, and stared up at him. Either he didn’t notice her or he didn’t choose to, eyes closed, focus on cleaning himself as he hummed the tune to ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover’. She giggled, and his eyes opened. 

He smiled and looked down at her.

“Just get yourself free.”

Fresh Cut Flowers

That’s what he’d likened her to, and she was sure that he had meant it as a compliment, something about beauty preserved in the moment. No, that was overthinking it too much. Just that she was naturally pretty. That was all it was. 

But it wasn’t just that, was it? Why not flowers in the field, where they should be? Was she displaced, taken from her habitat by some callous romantic, snipped and carried around for half an hour on the tube, before thrust into some uncaring girl’s hand? Would she wilt on the sideboard, until she was thrown out of the window with all the carefree thoughtlessness of the young in love?

Or maybe he was instead evoking her timeless beauty, that she should be preserved, kept in that exact moment, looking exactly that way. Only she wouldn’t, would she? She’d wilt, like all people wilt, and she would never be this girl, in this moment, again. His smile would come a little less easily, and the compliment would come to the tip of his tongue and no further, a diver too cowardly to make the jump. He’d swallow it, and she’d go without hearing the pretty words that came out of his lovely mind.

He had grossly overestimated her ability to find a thread and pull, until she was surrounded with nothing but ruins. At least she wasn’t half stupid enough to voice a single one of those thoughts. 

At least she was smart enough to just smile, mutter a breathless ‘thank you’ and kiss him on the cheek. He’d said her eyes were gorgeous, once, like the sea at night, and she’d thought that was awfully sad, too. 

But that one was a beautiful kind of sad. Which was her favourite.

Fistful of Fear

There’s something about good intentions and bad results, he was sure there was. It probably applied here, too, fired out of a cannon and ricocheted through a few concept revisions, until it popped out the other side here, with a replica in his hand and a little less resolve than he needed. 

It was heavy. That wasn’t helping. If it was light it would have been a fortunate reminder that this was all just for show, that even if she’d been pulled into the fantasy, he could remain happily behind the curtain, pulling strings instead of feeling the tug against himself. Not for the first time he considered whether this was a bad idea. 

He’d wanted to scare her. See fear in her eyes, the real stuff, not just what she allowed in the moment. See whether there was a difference, and whether the real thing would lose the magic, whatever it was that tickled at his insides and made him feel so completely connected to her. That might be preferable; it would make him feel a little less like he was playing with fire, a little less that he hadn’t already singed his fingertips, burnt off his eyebrows. That his sadism was codependent, tightly wound around care, inextricable. 

He’d wanted her to be afraid, but now it was him. Sat there with all but a gun in his hand, he felt the cool hand of fear settle on his shoulder, wrap around his belly. It was a stranger, stranger than it should have been, belying how proud he had been. Kept on pushing beyond the point of safety, and then a little further on from that. And she’d rolled with every punch, turned over and asked for another. They were a perpetual motion machine, hurtling towards… well, this. 

The door was ajar. He could hear the creak of jute creep through that crack, and it sounded like a come hither. Like a tease, a plea, the sort of request he shouldn’t be putting off just to have a miniature morality crisis. 

He put it to his head. Felt the barrel dig into his temple, cold metal against his skin carrying all the consideration of a judge’s gavel. It felt right, like it had all the weight it needed to have, like it would carry the scene. Now he just had to do it. Walk out there and scare her like he wanted to. Like she wanted him to. 

Which is the only thing that put enough power in his legs to stand. Knowing that there had been a conversation, and her eyes had lit up at the idea of it. The timbre of her voice had changed, shifted up half a semi-tone, and she’d wriggled on her seat. 

She’d be wondering where he was. Or she’d be entirely in her own head, lost in the scene, and whatever it was she thought about when he left the room. He was pretty sure this would bring her back. Take her a little way the other side, too.

There was just the one way to find out, though, and it sat on the other side of that door.

Romantic Locales

After a few all the bite is gone from the winter air. It doesn’t quite make it to soft, but the shock of it is stripped, just a vague acknowledgement of cold as you step outside, pull your coat up around your neck. She’d wanted a smoke. He’d wanted a little privacy, to swap background conversation for background traffic. 

It meant he was in tow, rather than leading. She was his excuse, the reason he could get away from the revelry for a few moments, a minute or two, and so she took the lead. He was half cut and happy, so he didn’t mind in the least, although he could tell by the way she hesitantly ventured out into the carpark that she was half waiting for him to pounce on her. It amused him more to do the opposite, for the moment. 

They sat on a low wall, a few feet off the ground, and he watched her face light up with a faint orange glow as the cigarette flared. She exhaled out of the left of her mouth, the smoke hijacked by the wind, tossed into nothing in no time at all. Her eyes glittered in the dark. 

“Slap me.” The words came as a surprise, only for a softening ‘Please’ to be added, forthwith. 

“But you’ve done nothing wrong.” The Yorkshire always seemed to rear its head once he had alcohol in his veins. She took another drag on the cigarette, then tossed it, stubbed it out before taking his hand in hers, fingertips digging into the leather of his glove. 

“As if that matters. I want to feel it, here, outside. Sting of your hand, sting of the wind, all of it at once.” She lifted his hand, brought it up to her face, and pressed his palm against her cheek. He could barely feel the warmth of her skin through the glove. 

“Well as you’ve asked so sweetly…” He trailed off, and he started to pull the hand away from her face, felt a little resistance in her palm, and then he brought the other hand up, quickly, slapping it against her other cheek. She let out a little squeal of surprise, before biting her lip and smiling.

“Harder." 

The wind was growing stronger, as if made eager by the sudden private violence it was an uninvited witness to. He hesitated, had to think, to evaluate whether he wanted to do what she wanted him to do. Wanted to see if the thought of her actually reeling from a slap was something he wanted to see. It would certainly be new, and her cheek would certainly flush, red against the pale chill of the rest of her skin. And she’d bite her lip again, just as she had done before. 

He drew his hand back, and she caught him by surprise again.

"Really hard, please.”

Prestige

“How does he do it?" 

It was a question he’d asked his uncle after a magic show, his mind still stumbling from one wall into the other at the sleight of hand, the unexpected doves and scarves and all the cliches that he wasn’t old enough to recognise.He’d received a ruffle on the head for his question, a light tap against his Uncle’s nose and then nothing more was said about it.

But, he realised now, in retrospect, his uncle hadn’t understood his question. Just assumed that he’d been querying the methodology of the tricks, how the illusions were conjured and disappeared, made to seem other worldly and ephemeral. But that hadn’t been it. Hadn’t been it at all. 

He’d wanted to know how the magician did it. How he stood up on that stage, went through the movements for each trick, made the cards float upwards, or the dove wriggle from his sleeve and out into the open air, and all the while project an air of mystery and surprise, as if he didn’t know, wasn’t aware, that all of this was just deceit. How he managed to do it all and remain just as entertained as his audience. 

How does he do it?

How does he hit her, over and over, until she’s red and raw, knowing full well that he’ll completely smother her in affection the moment it looks as though she’s starting to crack, fray a little at the edges. How does he hail her with insults, see her flinch every time, when not a one of them is genuine. How does he create this environment of fear and violence, when there’s not a single truth to a bit of it. 

He’d answered the question years ago. At least, answered it to his own satisfaction, solved the magician’s puzzle, and put the whole thing to bed. The problem, as he saw it, was that he wasn’t seeing the right perspective. In his mind the tricks and illusions lost their lustre once you knew the secret to their performance and execution. So why would the magician keep doing it, when he knew how it was done? 

He wasn’t looking at the right people. It wasn’t the magician he should have been looking at, but the audience. To see their wonderment, the amazement in their eyes at seeing such accomplished deception, and knowing that it was all just a little bit false, but being totally ok with that, because who doesn’t want to feel a little wonderment, some incredulity, now and again. 

He is not a vacuum. Actions have reactions, and he wanted to live in every single one of hers, from the tiny gasps to the world-encompassing eruptions. 

One way or another

As hard as she might try (she mightn’t), she wouldn’t be able to turn any heads with her smile. It wasn’t the sort for it; there was no dazzle, no sparkle. Her teeth didn’t gleam and her lips weren’t full or striking enough to catch the attention. She had a different kind of pretty, instead of being a klaxon she was a snare. 

Her smile merely immobilised. A slowly gliding eye would find itself suddenly glued, fixated on that slight flicker at the corners of her mouth, the suggestion that perhaps, a few moments from now, the smile would fade away as thought it had never be. It was the idea of impermanence, something to be savoured for now, and not taken for granted. 

It attracted a certain kind of man, those that explored, sought her without knowing that they were looking, and those that just accidentally stumbled, blessed with a cosmic luck in these things. Tripped into romance, with a nonchalant smile and a happy appreciation for their own good fortune. 

She naturally slid towards the edges of parties, hovered around the periphery. Happy to drink and chat and unassume. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to observe so much as just exist, be one amongst many, lose herself in the school, the flock, the herd. Be a part of something greater and get a little something back in turn. Excitement by osmosis, or something like that. 

He came at her secluded corner like a boxer just done slugging, taking the opportunity to ice and psyche, get ready for another bout. He was out of breath, smiling, distracted. 

There was something solar about the way he slowly became aware of her, and she enjoyed being witness to it. The processes careening into one another with all the grace of a pileup; him realising he wasn’t alone, him realising she was a girl, him suddenly dropping his surprise like it’s a live grenade and taking a deep breath, relaxing, coming up with an approach vector. When he did finally speak she laughed before he’d even got one syllable out. He looked surprised, but unphased. At least he had that going for him. 

“Sorry.” She began, although sincerity was lacking from her tone. “It’s just I watched you come up with whatever it was you were going to say, and it was all too funny not to laugh at." 

He shrugged. As he did it he relaxed back against the wall, looking out across the room again. A minute passed, and she quietly drank her drink. 

"You laugh like a vandal." 

She looked up at that. How could she not?

"By which I mean, it seems to me you enjoyed knocking me down, metaphorically speaking. A vandal.” He chopped out the final ‘a’ of the word, made it rhyme with 'handle’. He was odd, but now she was curious.

“And you’re pointing that out because?” He smiled at that question, turned away from the others in the room and looked at her. He shrugged again, but sat up this time, made sure he had her attention.

“Well now it’ll serve as a nice juxtaposition when I knock you down, metaphorically or otherwise." 

'Opportunistic’ wasn’t an archetype she’d had much experience with. Which, right now, only made her doubly interested. 

Double Overhand

“Apparently we’re getting that new machine next week, but it’s not even the same brand, so none of the capsules are going to work. I bet they’ll just throw them out, toss them away as if they can’t be used by anyone else.”

“They can’t be used by anyone else, Fred. They only work in that coffee machine.”

“That’s not the point. It’s like when they changed all the cables on everyone’s work stations last September. Same bullshit, losing good equipment just because they don’t think to ask if anyone has a use for any of it. Anyway, I’ve heard the new model they’re getting is…”

Adam felt emotionally hung over. There was a pair of raybans sitting pretty across his mind’s eyes, and all they could see was a highlight reel that kept making him stumble. That overwhelming, pervading sense that he didn’t even have a little control, from the way that she’d run her fingernails down his chest to that constant, fleeting attention she’d given his by this point throbbing erection.

The way she’d tickled her fingers up and down the length of him, before reaching down a little further, taking a handful of him and squeezing, playfully at first, before pushing past the threshold into painful, making him writhe around on the bed. In the moment, in that exact moment, he’d wanted to slap her, hit her, get her off him, but the relief that flooded his system the moment after, once she’d let go, only made him want her to do it again.

About how she’d broken her assurance after thirty minutes, or thirty hours, or however long it had been to drive him insane at all that fucking attention. After she’d ground her cunt up against him, making sure he never got the slightest moment of penetration, no matter how he rolled his hips or thrust upwards with his pelvis. So that she could utter the suggestion in his ear, and despite himself he’d said yes.

“Janine was saying that they reckon they’re going to start phasing out casual days because they feel like they screw with productivity, which is bullshit frankly. I know that being able to relax once a week definitely helps with my work flow, or at least it changes…”

She’d slipped a finger between her legs before she’d slipped it between his, fingernail first pressing against his asshole, making him glare and groan, all at once. It was like she was fondling the core of him, and he had asked for it. She’d barely got more than a knuckle in when he’d exploded all over her belly, to a happy peal of laughter from her, and a kiss on the forehead. She’d lain on him for a while, then, before sliding off the blindfold, untying his wrists. His breathing had been shaky.

“Do you know when we’re going to do the whole annual report rigmarole this year? It was January last year, but that’s come and gone. Hopefully they just forgot, and we can give it a pass. It’s a fucking chore, I’ll tell you that…”

It hadn’t taken long for the weight to shift. She’d been stacking one side of the scales for an hour or so, and as the rope came off he could feel them tipping, all by themselves. His hand had come up, casual as anything, and settled happily around her throat, thumb pressing up. The other moved around, found the length of her hair and grabbed a handful.

He’d made a mess of her make up, made a mess of her. Brought her down to the level she’d brought him to, a sense of cosmic justice hanging heavy in the air after they were done fucking, after he was done fucking her. A little quid pro quo, a little tit for tat. He gave her everything she’d given him, and then a little bit more, so that she had a little ammunition for the next time.

“And what about you, Adam? Drinks after work?”

They were all looking at him expectantly, half a dozen blinking faces that had all the entertainment of mute herbivores. He blinked, shook his head, half smiled.

“Not sure, I’ll let you know.” There was a pause while they processed, chewed the cud, before animation resumed, and their conversation careened off into the weather, or celebrity gossip, or some other unsuspecting victim of banality.

His phone buzzed.

Busy tonight? E x

And just like that, his schedule cleared up a little. Stretched.

What do you have in mind? A x

He made his excuses with his co-workers, let his mind wander a little more.

That depends entirely on who is in the mood when I walk through the door. E x

There’s always something exciting about the new, the unknown. But this was challenging his perceptions of exactly what and how to process things. This wasn’t just doing something new, this was being something new, and the way things were moving he was finding it difficult to remain entirely upright. His phone buzzed again.

Bitch.

Challenge or warning? He’d decide on the way home.

Fiador

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to be sticking anything up your bum.”

She was leading him by the hand, and even that was putting him on edge. It didn’t so much feel that something had been reversed so much as a natural order had been perverted. This felt like some kind of affront, that he should rebel against it all because he shouldn’t have even let her talk to him about it in the first place, let alone go along with it.

That he wasn’t was perhaps the only reason he was going along with it. The seed of doubt was well and truly cast in fertile ground, and now Adam just wanted to know where all this was going to end up. Whether he’d still be him by the time all this was done. A squeeze of his hand brought him out of his head and into the bedroom.

“And if you feel properly freaked out at any point, you just let me know. This isn’t about making you feel uncomfortable or awkward.” Emma was smiling, but it had a hardness to it that he hadn’t seen before. In fact, now that he was paying attention, not much about her looked all that familiar. Soft pastels were replaced with solid colours, and her deliciously plump lips had swapped gloss for a stark red. Even her eye shadow had condescend into hard lines that winged viciously off the edges of her eyes. She looked fierce, and something inside him stirred at the thought.

“What exactly do you have planned?” She didn’t answer him, instead continued to lead him into the room until they were in the centre, stood in front of the bed. She smoothed his hands down to his sides, and then took a step back. Drank him in. He felt… weirdly excited by being considered like this, as if every stare or glance he’d thrown a girl’s direction had suddenly been reflected back onto him, concentrated down into that single moment of blinding attention. Her smile grew a little more, and she turned, picking up a length of cloth from her desk.

“So, I’m pretty sure that the instant we actually start your urge to rebel will kick in pretty hard core, so I think we’re going to have to go for some restraints so we can properly have some fun.” He felt that resistance come up again, the urge to refuse, attempt to regain control. He fought it back down.

“Right.” Was about all he could muster. She held up the cloth.

“So this…” She began, draping the black material over his eyes and looping it around his head, once, twice, three times until he was enveloped in the darkness. The blindfold squeezed him, a precursor. “Is so that you can get into the mindset a little easier.” He could feel her hands on him, trailing down his shirt, popping each button clear as they went. Then his belt was whipped away, along with the buttons keeping his trousers up.

In less than half a minute he was wearing little more than boxers, and that little more kept him from seeing the sight of himself. Where he would have felt powerful he felt exposed, like a nerve. He blinked behind the blindfold.

Her voice, when she spoke, was right against his ear. He could feel her body up against his, the solid colours no doubt providing stark contrast to his bare body. It all felt so heightened, enhanced and emblazoned to the degree that it was almost unpleasant, difficult to process.

“Put your hands behind your back, love.” He took his time, but he did it, and they were summarily wrapped, tied, bound. The rope dug into his wrists with a vengeance. And as that final knot was tied, it felt like some sort of permission, a final opportunity to begin resisting, now that the option had been removed from him. His muscles bunched, and he strained at the hemp, trying to feel if there was any give.

There was none. He was blind, and now he was tied. And there was her hand, pressing against his chest, pushing him back onto the bed, and he fell, a strangled cry flung from his lips as she laughed. Without hands, without sight, he had to just trust that it was there, and the sensation of falling had taken him by surprise. The mattress, not so much.

“You’re having far too much fun.” He drawled out, and the next moment he felt the bed shift as she joined him on it. The rope itched against the small of his back.

“I’m having just enough.” She countered, and began to pull his boxers down, to reveal his eager erection. Her hand was quickly upon it, fingertips running up and down the sides, but the touch was light, restrained. Frustrating. His hips pushed up, and she suddenly withdrew her hand.

“Tut tut, don’t be too eager.”

“I’m starting to realise this might have not been the best idea.”

She laughed again. It was melodic, but it was cruel, too, and that just made it all the more attractive given the context. He wanted to slap her, but the lack of ability somehow inverted that desire, made him want to feel her hand against him again, all but crave it. His cock twitched, jumped up of its own accord, and he heard her clap her hands with delight.

“Oh this is just too much fun.” She giggled, hands at him again, and then he felt her chest against his, her lips hard on his mouth. They kissed, her hand running up and down him, before she finally pulled back.

“Have you ever heard of a ruined orgasm?” She asked, as innocent as anything, but all he could do was groan.

Bimini Twist

Coffee steamed with all the commitment of a Swiss foreign policy. The hubbub of conversation around the pair only made their own silence seem all the more profound. Adam felt like he should clear his throat. Emma wanted to bury her face in the coffee mug. Something had gone awfully awry, and it felt like neither of them had been there to witness it.

Daytime had a way of dispelling the romanticism from a tryst. Without the atmosphere enhancers, and the impaired judgement, they were just two people, sat across from one another trying to pull themselves up and over the swell of awkward tension that had somehow barged in between them. Maybe it was a shared history, mutually placed in the past. Or the overwhelming possibility of a future, either apart or together. Whichever, it was proving to be difficult to overcome.

Adam was already regretting bringing the toy, even if it was becoming increasingly clear that he would be doing nothing with it today. It sat in his pocket like dead weight, pulling him further away from being relaxed, and it almost made him feel ashamed, guilty. A small round vibrator, controlled by remote, he’d thought it might be a fun little diversion, if things go well. A way to reignite whatever spark had held them together before, had made the other night so much fun. Instead it felt like he’d arrived at a funeral wearing sneakers, with no idea that someone was about to be buried.

“Well this isn’t quite what I was expecting.” Emma ventured, and he laughed, feeling the tension escape him, air from a balloon.

“No, not really. I guess it’s harder to make it work when we’re surrounded by scarves and sugar cubes.” She tilted her head to the side, looking a little perplexed, and he took a breath. “At least the silence is behind us now.” As if out of spite, the quiet surged up again, held the air for a few moments. “So how have you been? We didn’t exactly get to talk much the other night.”

“No, we didn’t.” She leaned back in her chair, making full use of the indulgent furniture of the coffee shop. She was half lost among cushions. “I’ve been fine. Missed you, the good bits, at least.”

That was an odd choice of words. Or a very deliberate choice. Something felt different, had felt different the other night, but he hadn’t acknowledged it then. This entire situation had put him on the back foot, made him feel reactionary. He sipped his coffee, and regrouped.

“It’s strange. I’m suddenly aware of how long a month can really be. It doesn’t feel like either of us are in the same place that we were.” Each word seemed to step in front of him, so that he wasn’t sure what the sentence was until it was complete, and the truth was standing there between them, bare as anything. She shook her head, but it was in agreement.

“Quite. You definitely weren’t in the same place the other night, although you’re showing shades of it today. Did it take you by surprise?” She leaned forward to pick up her mug, but it felt like she was advancing, minutely threatening.

“What was that?” Oh how he hated this. Being forced to chase her around the conversation, find out exactly what she was insinuating before he could seize the reins again. He wanted to watch her squirm, but be left wriggling himself. Emma smiled.

“You, the other night. It felt like you were as surprised as I was once you started.” She sipped, took her time, and then smiled again. “Before, when we were going out, everything felt considered and deliberate. At Chris’ it felt raw, unadulterated.”

At some point Adam’s hand had disappeared into his pocket, and it was rolling that vibrator around, from one finger to the next. It cupped into his palm, felt snug, but altogether forlorn. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“There was a certain spontaneity to it, yes. You’re making it sound like I was out of sorts, though. I’m perfectly capable of winging it.” God dammit. Fuck. He wasn’t so much on the back foot as backpeddling now, defences up as she just kept swinging. He felt blindsided, but he’d been the one to ask her here.

“So what now, Adam? Fall back into familiar furrows, see if somehow, through some miracle of fate, things might work out this time? Or did you ask me here because you wanted to put that last nail in the coffin?” Another sip of that coffee, another salvo fired. “I’m not really sure either is going to work, just between you and me.”

He didn’t say anything. It felt too weird, to be addressed like that, when he was used to something so different. It felt like he’d been stripped of titles and respect, when he’d been coming here to reassert them. He looked away, trying to find some spark of inspiration that would help turn this all around.

Then suddenly her hand was on his knee. She was close, scooted around the sofa so that he could smell her perfume and feel her breath between them, heating the air. There was something about being so close to her this time, something that hadn’t been there before. He felt like a man on a cliff, watching the tsunami headed into shore. Sunbathing in the shade of a volcano.

“Ok, I’ll just say it then.” Even her voice had changed, picking up a little steel in the interim. “Adam, I don’t think things work between us how they worked before. I think that you don’t quite have it in you.” He started to speak and she smiled, flashing her eyes and he stopped, took a breath. He was angry, but more at himself than at her. “I think things aren’t nearly that cut and dry.

“In fact, I think that things can change, and keep on changing.” The corner of her mouth twitched at that, and she sighed, her free hand coming up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Ok, I’ll just say it. I don’t think you’re wholly dominant, and I know I’m not wholly submissive. Things didn’t work because I didn’t think you were confident enough to switch, and I think that that was unfair of me.”

She stopped speaking then, gave him the opportunity to respond. And he didn’t, not for a while. For long enough to think about what she’d said, tried to parse what she’d said, and how she’d said it. To get over his bulging, oversized pride, and, if only for half a second, marvel at quite how deftly she’d just defanged him, if he’d ever had fangs at all. He could walk out, toss a tenner on the table like a gauntlet and leave her sat there, her dignity intact and his more than a little bloodied. But he didn’t do this. Instead he looked up at her, narrowed his eyes slightly, and let the ghost of a smile shimmer across his lips.

“And here I was thinking confidence was always one of my strong suits.”

At that, Emma laughed.