The rose stems bite into my palm as I hold and snap them off short enough to fit into the large water glass I have retrieved for that purpose.
Silver fumbles with plastic packages of sausages, cheese, olives and crackers, not because he is inherently clumsy, but because he’s distracted by the fact that I am here and keep teasing him. At one point he’s on all fours, and I hear a noise of head clearing whoozy breath, as he tries to focus on the task at hand. His cock is desperately and intensely thick with his arousal.
He leaks a pretty steady clear, clean trickle of precum when I get him worked up enough, curiously without much taste. At one point I note he’s dripping, he apologises and I laugh. I like it. Why shouldn’t I?
Me, I’m wet, easy and constant. How can I not be, looking at his lithe body, feeling him held easy under my hands, hearing is words, again and again, “I belong to Miss.”?
Over the two days I will drain him four times to see if I can. This is time four for us to “play” in person. Multiple times, seeing him hard, I consider mounting him then and there and depriving him of his formal virginity, but I continue to wait. It is not the right time.
I want him to tell me when he is ready.
He brought me those roses at the station and I arrived a mix of wool sweater, sleek stocking and blooming, sheer lace. He wore a suit, an option I know pleases us both. When I go to his apartment and sit on his couch I will explore the almost perfect hand stitching of the lining of his jacket, just irregular enough to hint where fingers, not gears, drove the needle through wool and silk.
When he’s this wound with need, he can’t focus on anything but the task at hand. I discover I can only get simple orders done. If I add a new command to the list, all but the most recent task vanishes from his mind. He’s so adorably focused on the moment that when I suggest how to put the roses in water, he assembles the food and my tea and somewhere along the way the flowers gets forgotten.
Sitting idle isn’t easy for me, so I take the roses myself and put them together so they will last, cut down to fit in a water glass. He offers me scissors but my bare hands are quicker and I like the sensation of the snap of the stem.
It’s sort of a temporary fix, as I can’t take these flowers back over the border. But with their raw veins exposed again, they will live a little longer on his granite kitchen counter.
I think about when he will throw them away, after I leave.
When he is cleaning up later? When they first start to wilt? When they are past wilt into blown? I share pictures of the roses with a few select friends and they coo approval.
I keep this quiet on my larger, vanilla social media. Anyway this is supposed to be about kinky sexuality. This isn’t a big deal. Nothing to get excited about. I am totally rebounding or something. Whatever. Ok. Breathe.
Then Covid19 keeps us apart, and next month I blurt out the L word.
These days one of us texts good morning like clockwork and he always texts goodnight. We photograph the mundane bits of our day. We sext with more sporadic bursts.
But I am not dating him, damn it. My best friend teases me about this.
While Silver was waiting for my bus, a man came up and attempted to trade a lighter for a single rose for a woman sitting all alone. Silver knew I’d like the story and obliged.
The man gave her the rose and immediately left. Tasteful, as it should be, flattery, not harassment.
Silver feeds me little stuff, and shortbread cookies, my favourite.
Valentine’s dinner is on the couch, those finger foods enough for my mostly absent appetite. We easily get distracted by kissing and more. His apartment is orderly and male, dominated by a large deconstructed clock, the iron face, hands and numbers the sole piece of intentional art.
The teapot he has bought, clearly for my presence, is glass and wears a neoprene sleeve with a zipper. It looks like the tasteful version of those bondage rubber ducks.
At first, I don’t really acknowledge the gifts he has gotten me yet, although I see them, sketch books, a copy of the Canadian film, Walk All Over Me, a simple silver necklace with a key charm.
I appreciate them, but I react to them cautiously. This is novel for me. Silver wants to give, and in the part of me that clicks away analytical in the background I assess a mass of scar tissue that makes me see a tender spot that is complex and yet very simple in myself.
I am too careful because I am skittish at the loss of control from happiness.
If you think this is bizarre, you should see poor Silver react to his cock in my mouth. Slurp. He is deliciously shaped, why not? When I do so his hand desperately flails to not feel dominant, wanting to grasp at my head but not daring to assert.
My gift for him is wrapped in pastel lavender tissue paper and tied with string in a bow. I present it- a tenga egg. His orgasm.
He has surrendered when he comes since the first time I used him. I let it build in the interludes between our time together, so the desperation in which he utters that he is my needy little whore is so deep that is makes my breasts ache with lust to remember the tone of his voice and the helpless gloss of his begging, dark blue eyes.
I lead him to the bedroom by his tie. This is a moment of hesitation for me. Other people’s bedrooms are *intimate*. He doesn’t know this is my thoughts, or the oddly prim way I operate. I saw him ejaculate before I kissed him. Kissing is more personal. Tying him to my bed is less personal to me than being in his room.
The L word is less intimate than spooling out the whole me in messy coils.
The ceiling in his bedroom is high and vaulting and the space is without a single ornament, unless you count the subtle imposing leather panels on the headboard. There is a glass table laid out with things to help use him, and a simple deep brown bureau.
This is the first time he’s ever had a woman in his bedroom. I whisper that I have taken another true first from him, another place I am permanently etched into his brain. He looks pleased as I talk about that control I have.
He says he trusts me, completely.
By now I have pulled off the plunge necked knit wrap dress I am wearing the lace and mesh thing beneath, a plum halter paired with garters. That’s matched with opaque stretch pleather thigh highs, feet in patent platforms that make me feel dramatic.
I look stunning, and I an extremely happy with the effect I have, on him and more casual viewers.
I strip Silver naked by ordering him to do so the way I like, folding each item as he goes, while I consider my next step.
Silver ends up on all fours.
He does a perfect back arch, the sort of thing usually only women end up pulling off well, but there in nothing feminine about him or his shape. He knows he looks good. The last decade has been spent in the gym, an hour a day, more or less.
I usually like tight square butts, but his is in such perfect balance with the rest of his body the curve best fits my hand, asking me to squeeze and strike. It’s an easy target for my hands to reddening by way of a warm up.
Later he tells me he never gets a runners high or any pleasure from the gym. It’s duty and an effort to tucker himself out and slow his brain down. I think about that, and what it means in his persistence.
I have the fantasy of making him so happy or at least so tired I soothe that constant tension out of his wired up body. His perfect, pretty body with its smoothness and then a few moles, like the hints of the grain of leather or the slight irregularity that lets you tell hand stitched from machine.
That body has dermographia, which means a nuisance and a mild daily antihistamine for him, but for me a sense of the absurd unreality of a submissive whose skin colours in perfect imprints. Are you fucking with me? A victim who gets a perfect pretty flush where your strike or scratch, but then fades away fast enough not to leave concerns for the gym change room?
There’s a lot about Silver that makes me ask if I am being given an unrealistically perfect thing that shouldn’t exist in a person. Yes, an incredibly motivated, beautiful man who combines a perfect submissive urge with the libido of a guy half his age. Masochism and enough fetishes to be fascinating, assertive with desire enough to reassure and yet never overlaying my needs.
Able to give, but also accept when I don’t want with no fuss.
We end up with some interesting poses, the corner of his bed, then a weird overlap where he set up an air mattress, that again somehow works (core strength!), with knees on the air mattress and elbows on the bed. The crop I use us a sports sheets number that has a longer strike pad, and suits my clumsy style. I whip him into the shakes and get sensations of my own.
Then there is latex. Expensive, dehumanizing stuff that smells like bitter dandelions or old tires, the price and complexity had largely discouraged me. I liked the cling and the texture on the body, but I wasn’t running out to drop hundreds of dollars.
His tastes inspire mine. Latex is a luxury material that is impractical as it is fragile, but I find it has wandered into my fetishes. I already woke up once, body aching, dreaming of us twined up and rubbing together, him clad in shiny dark.
At first I leave him to suit up, watching. The masturbation on my part is probably unfair, but, although he’s slithered his way once before into its tightness without help, this time I get him properly encased. I like it.
I shed my lingerie to avoid staining it with the silicone lube used to finish it, and in a spare bed sheet draped environment I have him buffed to a gloss and then on his back.
Then I mean to fuck him with the stout length of a tantus silk “large” but the bulbous head is his the wrong size, enough to get an active exclamation of the wrong kind of pain, but small enough a gentle nudge homes it, too fast inside him.
I know this, and know the moment, and get doesn’t need me to focus on my own embarrassment at the accident. I reassure him I wanted him to protest, that I need to know if he is actively being damaged.
I think he’s disappointed, but my job, as a good lead, is to take that back. He cannot and is not allowed to be further hurt by this.
I end up finishing him off with a less intimidating glass toy that does the job nicely, Tenga egg filling with cum and the heart shaped nubs suddenly standing out bright in the rush of white.
It isn’t the last time in the next 16 hours. My body alone seems to revive him, over and over again.
On his knees on the floor chanting that he belongs to me and sending a line of cum over my naked lap.
In the shower, I bend him over and work the tips of my fingers of one hand into his ass and the longer length of the other into his mouth. Then I pin him against the wall and he comes again, splattering my hand with it.
Four times total.
There is so much emotion and vulnerability rolling around the apartment, me, him. I am the veteran of these kinds of wars. I bridge the awkward even as he finds me at one point hugging my legs to centre myself.
We are both intense by nature. He presents perfect control to the outside world, I occupy space and let my energy expand and express.
I pick the tomatoes out of my taco to see how he reacts. I need to know how he handles the reality that people cannot be pleased always, against his razor edged perfectionism.
I empathize with it. I know it, I have the cuts of my own self castigation.
I don’t see him as a blob of clay to mold into form, he feels like a plant I have found, rootbound, and popped into roomier fresh earth and watered. He expands and grows and brings so much into our trysts.
So many surprises and pieces of him, so much subtle communication and yearning.
He watches me strip off my lingerie, sees my manoeuvre from burlesque class to make it theatrical. I do it by putting my legs together as I slide the now well saturated lace-and-plum-modal-satin down to my ankles. I catch that I have hooked his gaze and ask him what he is thinking.
He says he is afraid I will shove them in his mouth.
I do, wet side turned out on his tongue. He looks thrilled. Of course. These things turn on a sort of enthusiastic resistance- one of the things I like about Silver is is constant ability to provide his own desires.
When we first started, when it was negotiations, I mentioned, because I didn’t know his level of experience with the so called “lifestyle” side of things, I didn’t expect to be paid. I mean typing that out it feels weird that the lines of dom-play and sex work are so blurred.
He said he hoped he could still do things for me.
I don’t think I expected that answer, expected to be charmed when he… just trying to help, acquired a couple of introductions to erotic hypnosis. He pulls off bold maneuvers like that constantly.
I would normally swat away any man who tried to be that presumptuous. I am an ice queen, quick to put those who court me in their place.
Somehow his behaviour catching me off guard isn’t intolerable, but interesting.
And then he does something so innocent and endearing, like buying condoms with spermicide. Ribbed for her pleasure, naturally. I explained that spermicide is a very complex thing for vaginas and mine is more than a little reactive.
It’s so fucking sweet. In the end he got what he intended entirely, which was that warm fuzzy feeling.
I think he was trying to tell me he wanted to have traditional sex, but I am waiting for him to say exactly that. The Aesthetic demands, like having your property close the lock on their collar.
Of course the end of quarantine feels right for me. But, I am careful with his thoughts on the matter.
I don’t know when I will see him again, with a border between us. It could be June. It could be September.
A lot is up in the air right now.