They walk hip to hip, knuckles brushing, as they measure their potential in the rhythm of their feet.
It’s a few days before Christmas and I love Christmas. In fact, Tim Minchin pretty much summed up all of warm, cosy feelers my atheistic little heart has about Christmas in this song (which totally makes me cry, by the way. Big feelers).
I normally do at least one Christmas story for the blog, but December’s been crazy and I haven’t written anything that didn’t make me want to stake myself with mistletoe, so I decided to post a story I wrote for Rose Caraway a few years ago for a Christmas edition of The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast.
This story, “Christmas Yet to Come”, is an unapologetically romantic take on Scrooge’s redemption in A Christmas Carol, one of my favorite Christmas stories, especially when performed by the Muppets (don’t judge). And, if you’re looking for a distraction while you’re wrapping presents or baking or cooking food for an army, you can listen to Rose Caraway read “Christmas Yet to Come”, as well as her own sexy take on the Dickens story (this one involving candy-striped knee-high socks), by clicking here.
“Christmas Yet to Come” by Malin James
“If I have to say merry Christmas again, I’m gonna kill someone….”
Mark adjusted his glasses and picked up the invoices he’d been trying to file all morning. It was Christmas Eve—the world wouldn’t end if he left them. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Claire was about to leave early, so he was stuck on the register saying “Merry Christmas” when he’d rather be in his office ignoring the holiday altogether.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Claire, asked as she shrugged on her bright red coat. “You don’t look good, Mark. I hate thinking of you here all alone. I mean—”
“It’s okay. I know what you mean.”
Mark ran a hand through his rumpled hair, frustrated to a degree he knew was unreasonable. The divorce had barely gone through, and his ex, Bethany, was spending the holidays with her new fiancé—their former marriage counselor, Travis Dean. It was the first time in five years she wouldn’t be with him at the store on Christmas Eve.
“Look, Mark,” Claire said, straightening the bookmarks in their little, metal rack, “why don’t you come to my sister’s house? She made goose! And plum pudding…whatever that is.”
Claire’s brows crinkled beneath her fluffy white hat. Mark tried to smile. He knew she was only trying to help. Everyone and their mother was trying to save him from a lonely, miserable Christmas. The only problem was that a lonely, miserable Christmas was exactly what Mark wanted.
“Thanks, Claire. Really. I just want to keep it low-key. Go and enjoy the goose.”
“Are you sure? I mean…it would be great if you to could come.”
Claire met his eyes and blushed. Despite everything, Mark’s stomach flipped. For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other. Finally, Mark shook his head.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.” Then he handed handed Claire an old umbrella. “Here—you’d better take this. The storm is getting worse.”
Claire smiled, but couldn’t quite hide her disappointment. Mark turned back to the invoices. Her pretty, blue eyes were almost enough to change his mind.
“Okay, then. If you’re sure…” Claire said, as she headed to the door. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Mark.”
“Merry Christmas, Claire.”
Despite the busy morning, the store remained empty all afternoon, thanks to the massive storm hitting the Bay. They’d always stayed open on Christmas Eve to catch any last minute business. Needless to say, he wasn’t up for that this year. This year, Mark’s big plan for the holiday was to bury himself in paperwork and turn off the Christmas music. Now that would be nice, Mark thought, contemplating the silence. More than anything he just wanted Burl Ives to shut up.
Mark flipped the Closed sign and locked the door before eying the Christmas lights Claire had insisted they put up in the window. He was itching to turn them off, but that would have required rummaging through a tangle of cords and power strips, which wasn’t worth the hassle, so he left the lights blinking and headed back to his office.
His office. Not his and Bethany’s. Because Bethany was in Peru with Travis Dean.
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, torturing the headache he’d had for months. Bethany loved Christmas, and she was missing it because Travis Dean loved Peru. Fucking Travis Dean…. Every trip they’d never taken twisted Mark’s gut as he shoved past Bethany’s chair. Then he shook a handful of Tums out of an industrial sized bottle and tried to get work.
Mark squinted, trying to make sense of the inventory screen, but the numbers kept bleeding together. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was so goddamned tired. He could have slept for days….
Mark heard something, but chose to ignore it.
“Dude, wake up.”
There it was again. Mark shifted but didn’t open his eyes.
“MARK! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
Mark sat up and slammed his head on the shelf above his desk.
“OW! Fuck! What?”
“There you are! Finally. You’re a super heavy sleeper, huh?”
Mark blinked and rubbed his head. There was a girl sitting on his desk. She was wearing a pencil skirt and cowboy boots and a leather jacket over a Metallica shirt, but despite the thrown-together look of her clothes, her hair was glossy, and her cat’s-eye make-up looked airbrushed on.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Marley,” she said, kicking her feet.
“Marley? Like Marley in A Christmas Carol?”
“No,” Marley said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a dumbass.”
“How did you get in here? Did you break in?”
“No! Of course not!”
She looked indignant, as if he’d really offended her. He almost felt bad, but then he remembered she was sitting on his spreadsheets and he still didn’t know why.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, before standing up and whacking his head again.
“OW. Never mind. Just go.”
“I can’t go,” the girl said. “You’re my assignment.”
Marley smiled and patted his arm.
“Why don’t I start from the start. Strictly speaking, I’m not here. The only reason you can see me is because you’re asleep—see?”
Mark looked down. His body was slumped over and his head was on the keyboard. The screen was filled, appropriately enough, with zzzzzz’s. He didn’t look good. He might have been drooling. Embarrassed, he tried to shake himself awake, but his hand passed right through his body. Marley smirked.
“Sorry, dude. You can’t touch yourself.”
“Then why could I hit my head?”
“I dunno,” she said, shrugging. “It’s your dream. Look, I just need to give you the skinny on what’s about to happen. Then you can go back to sleep for real. Okay?”
“Sure,” Mark said, edging into Bethany’s empty chair. It took his weight with a groan. He gave Marley a look.
“Seriously, why can I sit in this chair but not shake myself awake? Is it dream logic…? Or something else?”
“I told you I don’t know. It’s your dream. Jeez, you think too much. Anyway, like I was saying, I’ve been assigned to you. Every year I get sent to someone who needs a little perspective. You’re my someone this year.”
Marley paused, swinging her legs back and forth. Mark shifted uncomfortably. She had really good legs.
“Thanks,” she said, grinning. “They’re not my best feature, but they’re all you’re gonna see!”
She gave him a wicked grin. For the first time in months, Mark felt his cock stir. All of a sudden, Marley jumped down off the desk and into his lap. Mark tried to shift away, but his cock only got harder.
“Aw! That’s super sweet! I haven’t given anyone a hard on in ages! Yay me!”
Mark stared at her, vaguely horrified.
“Don’t worry, dude. I’m older than I look,” she said. “So anyway, here’s the deal—”
“Let me guess,” Mark interrupted. “I’m going to be visited by three spirits.”
Marley rolled her eyes.
“God, you’re such a dork. No. They’re busy with people in way worse shape than you. You’re going to have a dream.”
Mark shook his head.
“I thought I was already having a dream.”
“You are having a dream, but not the real dream. Pay attention to the real dream, because the real dream is going tell you something you need to know. Plus, it’s gonna to be good, if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her brows suggestively. “You’re going to wake up happy.”
Marley ruffled his hair and jumped down off his lap. Mark tried to ignore the fact that his dick missed the curve of her ass. He wanted that hard-on gone. Suddenly, Marley shoved a finger in his face.
“Keep that hard on. That hard on is good. I swear you’re gonna have a merry Christmas if it kills you.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, warding her off. “Take it easy. Why do you care?”
Marley cocked her head. Suddenly, she looked serious, and much, much older than she’d first appeared to be.
“Because I get where you are. I remember. And because I’m assigned to you. Okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
“Cool. Don’t flake on the lesson thing. And don’t think too much—you think way too much. Just have a good time. But learn something. I don’t want to see you next year.”
“Sure,” Mark said. He was starting to feel drowsy again. It was getting hard to process what Marley was saying.
“Poor guy,” Marley said, softening. “You’ll be okay. I promise.”
The little clock on the desk began to chime. Mark squinted at it, but couldn’t see the numbers straight. It looked like midnight, but that didn’t make sense if he’d only closed at four….
“Oh shit! I gotta go! Good luck. And Mark?”
Suddenly, Marley was gone. Mark looked down at his body, but even as he did, things got blurry and he drifted back to sleep.
Mark heard something ringing. At first he thought it was the clock on his desk, but it was too insistent for that. Groggily, he sat up and wiped the drool off his chin before stumbling out of his office. His head ached like a sonofabitch, and the ringing didn’t help.
Outside, the storm had picked up—the wind was rattling the windows, and it would have been dark as midnight if it weren’t for Claire’s Christmas lights.
The chime rang again. Mark looked around, rubbing his head. The phone wasn’t ringing and nothing was on. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Then he heard a knock at the door and peered through the gloom.
Claire was outside, stomping her feet and blowing into her mittens. Even through the glass he could see that she was soaked.
Pushing his glasses up, Mark turned the lock and let her in.
“Claire, what are you doing here? I thought you were at your sister’s!”
Claire took off her sopping woolen hat and wrung it out before stepping over the threshold.
“Jeez, Mark. I wish you’d listen to messages. I forgot my sister’s present so I had to come back. Then is started to rain and there were no cabs, so I had to walk but when I got here, I didn’t have my key, so—”
“I got it, I got it,” Mark said. “Come on in.”
He was just about to close the door when the wind snatched it and slammed it shut.
“Whoa. It’s bad out there.”
“Yeah. I’m soaked.”
Mark glanced at her. It looked like someone had shoved her into the Bay. Her blonde pixie cut was plastered to her head and red woolen coat was soaked through. He didn’t usually notice how little she was because she was such a dynamo, but right at that moment, she looked like a miserable fairy. Then Claire started shivering and Mark’s protective streak kicked in.
“C’mon. Let’s warm you up.”
“Thanks,” she said, teeth chattering like a wind-up toy.
“The heater’s on in the office,” he said. “Take off your coat. I’ll dig up some towels.”
Mark went into the tiny stockroom and brought out a bath towel leftover from who knew what.
“Here,” he said, passing it to her. “It’s old, but I think it’s clean.”
“Thanks,” she said, giving him a lopsided grin. “I don’t suppose you have any spare clothes too?”
Claire plucked at her ruined leather pants.
“Uh…,” he said, noticing her figure for the first time.
She usually wore layers, but in tight pants and a wet sweater, he could actually see her proportions. She looked like a dancer—tiny breasts, slender waist, hips like a champagne flute…. Mark’s cock stirred. He wanted to see more, but he wasn’t about to con her into getting naked.
“Let me go check,” he said. “I might have a sweatshirt somewhere.”
“You know what,” she called, as he turned away. “It’s okay. I’m already warming up.”
Mark looked back at her, surprised by the husk in her voice. Claire was not a flirt. She was bookseller. Not that a bookseller couldn’t flirt, but she wasn’t that kind of girl–
the kind with a come-hither voice, who stripped down in her boss’s office. Except apparently she was.
Mark watched as she drew her fingertips down over the little metal button at the top of her ruined pants. Then she popped it and drew the zipper down, before working the wet leather slowly down her legs. He’d only just noticed her pink satin thong when Claire lifted her sweater up and slid it over her head. Mark caught his breath. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Naked, her breasts were as beautiful as he’d thought they would be—sweet and round with little pink nipples that were puckered from the cold.
Mark wanted to fill his mouth with her. He wanted to slide in between her slender thighs. He’d have given anything to see her without the useless little thong.
Claire smiled. Then she wiggled her hips and kicked her panties off as if she’d read his mind.
“Merry Christmas, Mark” Claire said.
The playfulness was gone, replaced by a lovely, sweet softness he was starved for. He wanted softness from her. He was tired of hard edges and strain. Mark cleared his throat.
“Merry Christmas, Clai—”
Before he could finish saying her name, Claire closed the distance between them and fit her hips against his, pressing his now massively hard dick into the hollow between her legs. Then her mouth was on his, gentle and sweet, despite the insistent push of her hips.
Mark, the man who never stopped thinking, stopped thinking then. Every ounce of his awareness sank into the silky chill of Claire’s skin. He felt as if he’d been asleep for years, and that her mouth was waking him up. He wanted to touch her everywhere, he wanted to touch every inch of her, but she broke the kiss before he could push her back against the shelv
“So,” she said, grinning as she unbuttoned his shirt, “all I needed to do was drown in a rainstorm and strip in your office? If I’d known it was that easy, I’d have done it months ago!”
“Well, the leather pants didn’t hurt,” Mark said, grinning as he shrugged out of his shirt. Then she sank to her knees and his smile faded.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said
“Do what,” Claire asked, clearly confused. “Suck your cock?”
Mark didn’t know what to say. Bethany had hated oral. On the few occasions she’d done it, it had always been part of a “gift.” He was used to his partner not wanting to suck his cock, so the fact that Claire was kneeling in front of him, unbuttoning his fly with the intention of doing just that made him feel a bit gun shy.
“Uh, yes.” he said. “That.”
Claire slid his boxers down and stroked shaft, slowly, from base to tip. Mark’s knees almost buckled.
“Of course I don’t have to, silly,” she said, angling her head. “I want to.”
Then she kissed his cockhead and slid it into her mouth. She sucked once, then twice, long and slow, before she released him with a smile that said she could have sucked him off for hours.
“You don’t understand, Mark,” she said, working his dick with her hand as she settled herself more comfortably on her knees. “I’ve been wanting to do this for years, but you were married, so there was no way. Now though…it’s okay, right?”
Mark’s pulse throbbed.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to see straight. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
“Good,” she said, licking the tip of his oversensitive head. “Then I’m going to get back to it.”
Mark braced himself on the doorframe, and began to thrust cautiously into her mouth. His ex had hated having her face fucked, but Claire seemed to be urging him on, pressing her fingers into his ass, and moaning when he began to move with less restraint.
“It’s okay,” she said, glancing up at him, before going right back to it.
She tongued his shaft and sucked him back in so hard that her mouth pulsed around him tighter than a cunt. He felt the tip of his head nudge the back of her throat, but even as the muscles contracted, Claire softened and pressed him deeper. Suddenly, Mark couldn’t stand it. He hauled her up and kissed her before she could protest.
“I need to fuck you. Now.”
He’d never said anything like that to a woman. But then he’d never needed to fuck anyone like he needed to fuck Claire.
She smiled as he picked her up and carried her back into the office. Her hair was a mess and her lips were swollen. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Suddenly he knew he’d been waiting. He’d been waiting for this. He’d been waiting for Claire. Claire’s heart-shaped face was the only thing wanted to see, and he wanted to see it every second of every day.
Mark backed her up against the messy shelves and lowered her onto the desk. The keyboard and a pile of invoices fell to the floor, but Mark didn’t care. Not when Claire was spreading her legs and tilting her hips with a dreamy, peachy smile lighting up her face. Mark reached down and touched her clit, rubbing gently as she whimpered and ground against his hand. Then he slid into her sweet, wet warmth.
She was an impossibly perfect fit. She was made for him, he thought.
“Are you okay,” she whispered, stroking his back.
Mark pressed his face against her neck and thrust in long, languid strokes, as if fucking her answered every question he’d ever had.
“I’m happy,” he said, smiling against her neck.
“Me too. Now, answer the door, okay?”
Mark looked at her, confused.
“Answer the door, silly. I’m standing outside. Let me in so we can do this for real….”
Mark’s head began to spin. He squinted, trying to control the vertigo that was twisting the space around him. Then it stopped.
Slowly, Mark opened his eyes and saw the computer screen blinking like a Christmas tree. Mark rubbed his jaw and grimaced. He had drooled. He hoped the keyboard would be all right.
Very faintly, he heard a knock at the door. His cock was still hard. So hard, he was amazed he hadn’t come in his pants. Marley hadn’t been kidding—it really had been a good dream.
Knock, knock, knock.
“I’m coming,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. The dream was still vivid in his mind—he could practically smell sex and Claire’s sweet, violet scent. Shoving it aside, he hurried out to the tiny sales floor.
Claire was standing in the window. The rain had stopped. She was dry but her nose was rosy from the cold. Mark’s heart slammed hard enough to break his ribs. Telling himself to pull it together, Mark adjusting his glasses and opened the door.
“Hey,” he said.
He felt breathless. He felt like he was going to pass out.
“Hey,” Claire replied.
He stood there for a second, taking her in. This was the Claire he’d known for years—not the soaking wet minx wearing leather pants, but the bright-eyed sweetheart with her hand knit beret….
“Hey, wait. Are those leather pants? You have leather pants?”
Claire gave him a quirky little look.
“Sure I do. I wore them to work last week. You said you liked them…remember?”
Mark nodded. “Yeah. Now I remember.”
He remembered her looking hot.
They stood there awkwardly as something fragile passed between them. Mark wanted to pull her into the store and wrap his arms around her. He wanted to kiss her. But the dream was just a dream. He couldn’t assume….
“Hey, Mark? Look up.”
Mark looked up. Dangling over the doorframe was a sprig of mistletoe.
“Where did that come from,” he wondered.
“I hung it up the other day. Silly….”
She smiled shyly and leaned into him. Her hand was cool and sweet on his face.
“Is this okay,” she asked. Her mouth was a whisper from his.
“Yeah. This is okay.
Then her lips were on his, as soft as they’d been in the dream.
“Merry Christmas, Mark,” she whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Claire.”
For more on the holiday theme, check out the links below. An most importantly, Merry Christmas. May it be full of all the best feelers a holiday can bring.
In the Bleak Midwinter (nonfiction)
She thinks of his voice, his soul-grinding voice as she drifts off to sleep in a bed that’s far too big. His voice, that voice, drips through her. Its echo coats her skin, like frost on the windows of the winter dark room at the top of the narrow house.
Humming, lilting letters tumble down her spine and slide into her hips. In his mouth, her name is the drip of melting ice, fragile and quiet, a secret dark and deep. It’s the forest in a poem, his mouth and her name, in the snowy, winter dark.
What is it about the way some people, one person, says her name, her name, the name she gave herself, that makes it the language of home? Not her physical home in the too-wide bed at the top of a narrow house, but the home where her pulse rests deep in her belly, buried between her thighs.
She thinks of the language he makes of her name as her hand slips past cotton, down to her skin, skin that strains to meet her. Her name on his tongue is the country they create, the map of her slippery soul. She arches, placing the whole of herself in the cup of her capable hand.
Sounds, not words, filled the room long ago, and fill the room again. His breathing, her breathing, catching breath, bitten moans. They melt ice and salt the bed. She strains and falls open, longing for home, his voice, her name, the ache of an absence, the weight that isn’t there. Her mind is somewhere dark and deep, slick with dripping frost.
Her mouth parts like a shell. It is round and full of a name, his name, the name he has given himself. They tumble down her spine, her voice and his, tight, pulsing echoes in her shuddering bones that crack, like ice, in her chest. And then she is home, for a moment, for now, in the country they once made.
Frost limns the window, but she is warm. Her breathing deepens and slows. Memories, murmurs, whispers on skin, so many years ago…she rests in the language they made for themselves, a secret dark and deep, long ago in winter dark room at the top of a narrow house.
About three years ago, I had a story called “Open Me” published at a now defunct site called The Erotic Woman. Recently, a lovely reader let me know that the link to “Open Me” no longer exists (neither does The Erotic Woman). He then asked if I might have a copy of it somewhere and,as luck would have it, I did.
“Open Me” is a pretty old story about an exhausted tax auditor and the woman whose suitcase he grabs by mistake. Hijinks ensue (as they always do) involving a pair of expensive lace panties and our hero’s camera phone.
I wrote “Open Me” when I was still cutting my teeth on erotica, so it’s a bit rough around the edges. Still, it’s a fun romp and one of the first pieces I ever wrote featuring a female dominant. I’m reposting it without any edits or improvements so forgive its (many) flaws. If nothing else, I hope it’s good for a laugh.
“Open Me” by Malin James
The day Will flew home to New York, (which was, incidentally, two days before he was supposed to fly back out), he felt more than gritty. He felt more than tired. He felt existentially exhausted. His life, his career and his prospects were not where he’d hoped they would be. Even his sex life was stale. He was in and out of town too routinely to engage anyone but a call girl. Even that had become it’s own under-whelming routine.
Will stood listlessly at the baggage carousel, barely paying attention as bag after bag lumbered past. Black with wheels…blue with wheels…fucking ugly tapestry…golf clubs…battered gray. Will’s hand shot out. That was his—battered gray with wheels. He hauled it off the conveyor belt and rolled it out the door, right into a wall of rain.
Feeling put upon and victimized, Will hauled his luggage away back into the terminal. He kept a small umbrella inside his suitcase. He’d have to dig it out. Sitting down on a flimsy chair in a bank of flimsy chairs, Will flipped open the lid. That’s when he realized that he’d snagged the wrong bag.
Rather than a pile of stale shirts and boxers, the case was full of silk and wool…all of which smelled amazing. The case’s owner must smell fucking amazing. Resting on top of that amazing smelling stuff sat a broad, flat box. Hanging off the side from a silver bow was a tag that read, “Open Me.”
For reasons unknown even to himself, Will’s cock stirred with the first hints of real, spontaneous sexual interest that he’d felt in weeks. He wanted to follow the box’s instructions. He wanted to open it. Without even realizing he was doing it, Will pulled at the silver bow.
“So, not only did you take the wrong suitcase, but you opened it and prowled through my things….”
Will snatched his hand back before looking up. Then he looked up some more. The owner of the voice, which was female and sexy in a Marlboro kind of way, was tall. Really tall. And extremely comfortable cocking her hip in a pair of stack-heeled boots. Will’s eyes traveled up her extravagant length of leg, which was covered by a pair of snug black jeans. Craning his neck like a supplicant, Will tried to see her face. It was pretty but not remarkable. He’d seen prettier faces, but none with so much natural self-possession. That’s what flustered him. The woman was a force.
Feeling like an idiot, Will stood up. The woman raised her brow. Uncomfortably, he stood his ground.
“I’m, uh. I’m sorry. I was distracted,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket to hide his sudden erection. The woman grinned.
“Don’t bother, cowboy. I can see what you’re packing.”
“Uh. Right. Okay. So…you want your suitcase back.”
“Of course. But first, you owe me for poking around.”
She crossed her arms over chest. Will looked at her. She was serious. Really serious. But her eyes crinkled around the edges, as if she were laughing…at him. Will straightened his back.
“Uh, I don’t think—”
“Open it,” she said, indicating the box with the silver bow.
“Open it. Now.”
“Yeah. Okay, sure.”
Will pulled at the ribbon, feeling like a Neanderthal as he tugged the delicate bow. Holding the box in one hand, he set aside the top. Then he parted a layer of tissue, revealing a wardrobe of delicate lace panties. Will flushed, unable to look at the woman.
“Take the first pair off the top. Then put everything back the way you found it,” she said.
“Without thinking to question her, Will did was told. When he was done, she plucked the box out of his hand and tucked it back into her suitcase. Then she looked at Will.
“Those were meant for my girlfriend,” she said, indicating the scrap of ivory lace Will held in his hand. “But you get to have them instead.”
Will flushed harder. “I couldn’t, I mean—”
“Stop. You’re going to take those very expensive lace panties home, and when you get there, you’re going to check your email. Now, give me your card.”
“I don’t have a card.”
The woman gave him the most skeptical look Will had ever seen. Any more skeptical and she’d have been a cartoon.
“Yes, you do. Look at you,” she said, waving her hand at his rumpled suit. “Of course you have a card.”
Will handed her his card. He had no idea why he was doing what she said, but he felt compelled. And he was curious…or rather, his cock was curious. His cock could sense an adventure a mile away and it was ready to go, like a dog cooped up in the house too long.
The woman took his card, glanced at it and then put it in her pocket.
“Okay, Will O’Neil. Check your email. Since this is New York and I don’t know where you live, I’ll give you two hours.”
The woman threw him a wicked grin. Then she picked up her suitcase and rolled away.
By the time Will got home, the panties were burning a hole in his pocket. All through the drive he’d felt them—soft and gauzy, made from the kind of lace you’re almost afraid to touch. Briefly, Will considered jerking off, but the fact that he was so insanely turned on, (and that it had nothing to do with what a call girl was charging him to do), felt too good to cut short, so he pulled out his laptop instead. Five minutes to go. Will’s cock strained a bit in his pants. Fuck it, he thought. Ignoring his nervousness, Will logged in.
At the top of depressingly thick stack of work related nonsense was an email whose subject was Open Me. Clearing his throat for no one but himself, Will did as the email said.
Welcome home, Will O’Neil. Take the panties I gave you and put them on. Yes, on you. Then take a picture of yourself masturbating. No face—I’m not trying to ruin your life. When you’re done, send me the picture from a non-work account. You’ve got thirty minutes. –K
Will read through the message twice more. Then he slowly shut the lid. It was bullshit, really. There were no consequences. After all, the worst thing she could do was email him again…and yet. He was tempted. Really tempted. By now, his dick was straining miserably against the zipper of his pants. He was clearly going to jerk off, and if he was going to jerk off, he might as well do as K asked. Or said. Or commanded. Or…whatever. At any rate, he was going to do it. A thrill of arousal ran through his body as he pulled the panties out. Goddamn, he thought. They were small.
Will stripped down to his boxers, and then kicked them off so that he was standing, naked, in the middle of the room. Then he slid the panties on, stretching the lace as he drew them up over his thighs. They barely covered his dick. In fact, there was so little to them that his cockhead jutted up out of the waistband, which was, granted, cut pretty low. He knew he looked ridiculous. He knew he should feel humiliated. But all he felt was aroused.
Walking gingerly, so as not to fall out, Will headed to the couch. He set up the timer on his cellphone’s camera and sat down, spreading his legs wide. If he was going to do this thing he might as well do it right. Angling towards the camera, he tried to ensure the best view. Then he began touching himself through the lace. He began gently—he didn’t want to rip the panties or mess them up somehow. But the more he stroked, the better it felt, and the better it felt, the rougher he got. Finally, hungry and frustrated, he pushed the panties aside, so that, while he was still wearing them, his dick was free. Then Will laid back, enjoying full access to his shaft while feeling the rub of the lace against the base of his cock. Cupping his balls and fingering the panties with one hand, Will pumped harder, pausing only to spit into his palm before picking the rhythm back up. Distantly, he saw the flash go off as his phone took a picture of him, and it pushed him over the edge. With a final thrust, Will lifted his hips and came, milking himself as he shot all over his belly and chest.
For a second, Will just lay there, panting and smiling, fighting back laugh. He was a grown man wearing panties, and he was fucking satisfied. Somewhat reluctantly, Will stripped them off. Despite the rough treatment, they were in surprisingly good shape. Immensely pleased with himself, Will got up to check the photo on his phone.
There he was – back arched, hips thrust, legs open wide. The ivory lace looked delicate and sweet next to the meaty length of his cock. Will’s dick stirred. He smiled. Then he titled the email Open Me, attached the picture, and hit send.
Originally, this story was called “Rough”. I wrote it years ago and always had a soft spot for it. I dug it out not long ago and realized how green I’d been when I wrote it, so I set it aside, figuring its time had passed.
Then I did a post about sex and intensity. As I wrote it, “Rough” kept coming to mind. When I pulled it out again, I realized that it contained pretty much everything I’d written about in Technicolor Sex, it just needed teasing out. So I decided to give it a tease.
It’s still a young story, but now it’s closer to what it originally wanted to be. Plus, I like the new title. Rough sex can take lots of different forms, but sparring is something specific. At its best, sparring is a dance; a meeting of equals; a give and take. For my money, there’s nothing quite as promising as an even field and room to play….
“Spar” by Malin James
A guy once asked if he could have “the honor” of licking chocolate off my breasts. He was fondling a strawberry at the time—an obvious hint at the pleasures to come. A lot of girls would have melted, but the thought of his tongue sliding over my skin made me want to bite it off. Literally. Off. I politely declined and went home.
I like rough sex. My perfect night would end with both of us bruised, bloody and possibly scarred for life. Candles and chocolate are not for me. I like a fight. Which is fine in theory, but finding someone you can scratch that itch with is harder than you’d think.
I don’t like thugs and I don’t like jerks. I want a nice guy who loves dogs and calls his mom once a week. I don’t want a guy out on bail for assault; but finding a nice, well-adjusted guy who’ll laugh at your jokes and choke you out is, to put it bluntly, pretty fucking hard.
That’s why I started kickboxing again. If I couldn’t find a nice guy who liked it rough, then at least I could beat the hell out of a bag. That’s when I met Mike. He was there every time I went to the gym. Turned out the gym was his.
After eight weeks of mild obsession interest, I signed up for a private lesson. I didn’t really need it, but by then I didn’t care. I don’t like pining (I’m awful at pining) and I needed him out of my system. Besides, I’d exhausted my supply of sparring partners by then, so at least I’d get a workout.
When I walked in that evening, the place was empty except for Mike, who was beating the shit out of a bag with the kind of single-minded intensity that makes my belly clench. He stopped when I came in. My belly stayed clenched.
“Hey,” he said, taking off his glove. “I’m Mike.”
He extended his hand, and I took it. I liked the way it felt—strong and solid, but not overbearing. This man was a man with nothing to prove. My belly clenched again.
“Hey,” I said. “Marie.”
Crooked smile. Lean muscle. Steady, calm gaze. He was very, very present. His eyes felt like the edge of a cliff and I took a running leap.
“So, I’ve booked an hour. What do you offer?”
He was still holding my hand when our eyes locked. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t awkward at all. It was the kind of blood-rushing, cunt-swelling turn on that sinks right under your skin. Cue music. Fade to black. Except this wasn’t a movie, so skip the fade to black.
“It depends,” he said. “What are you looking for?”
“A challenge,” I replied.
His hand tightened and relaxed, an instinctive, light pressure, like knees brushing under a table. We were having a conversation. I tried to keep my face calm. Do you want this? Yes. Do you want this? Yes. Are we doing this? Yes. I smiled and squeezed his hand. Negotiations were done.
“Sure,” he said. “A challenge. I can give you that. Need to warm up?”
“No. I’m plenty warm.”
We circled each other, testing. He threw a left hook and I dodged. It barely grazed me, but I caught enough to know that he hadn’t tried to pull it, and that, my friends, was hot.
We’d been at it for just a few minutes when I decided to move things along. Tucking my shoulders in, I drove him back against the wall, but I’d underestimated Good Guy Mike. He wasn’t above playing dirty. To my snarly, feral delight, he picked me up by the waist and pressed me into the wall.
(I don’t have to tell you that sweatpants won’t hide a hard-on. All I’m going to say is that by the time he pinned me, I knew everything I needed to know, thank fucking god).
“Now what,” he said, grinning at me. He looked like a wolf daring me to throw a stick.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and bit his bottom lip. He growled and bit me back. Then his tongue was in my mouth and he caught both of my wrists. Yes…yes, yes, yes….
But I still wanted more, so I (very, very sweetly) kneed him in the gut. He swung me down hard, just like I’d hoped. I landed on the mat, but before I could roll away he’d pinned me with his weight.
Now, I’m not tiny. I’m fit and strong and tall, but Mike was so quick and so big that the sheer, immovable weight of him made me relax. Fighting him was like running at something you know won’t budge, and that’s why you do it – for the sheer, crazy joy of not holding back. Mike was so strong, so reliably strong, that I didn’t have to hold back.
“Gotta get you out of these clothes….”
He yanked down my pants and I tore at his sweats. The gym was a fishbowl and the doors were unlocked, but you couldn’t have paid me enough to care, not with his mouth on my tits, sucking and teasing with his rough, hungry tongue. I groaned and spread my legs.
He slid into me, deep and hard. I pushed my hips up, slick and open, wanting more. The way we fucked wasn’t tender. It was raw and rough and real, but under the bites, we were watching, gauging, asserting, retreating…. The give and take made me high.
We were wet and slippery with sweat. I tasted blood, but I didn’t know whose. Red welts. Dripping salt. Fists in hair. Hands on necks. Teeth and nails and blooming bites. When I came it was almost too much. My nerves felt like hooks in my skin, my lungs, my swollen cunt. I came and kept coming. I couldn’t stop coming. I sank into my body and pulled him in deep.
I felt his mouth on my neck, his teeth on skin, light pressure, harder pressure…. It started all over again. I came as I watched. I watched him and I waited. You can do that if you breathe. You can come and watch. Focus. Breathe. I watched his face and breathed.
He wrapped his fist in my hair, and I let him. He marked me, and I let him. He saw me, and I let him. And when he came, I saw him too.
We were quiet for a long time after. Gradually, I looked down at our bodies as we lay back on the mats, sweaty, panting, bruised. I hurt everywhere a person could hurt and it felt glorious. Like a brand new, shiny day.
“So,” he said, touching my jaw. I could feel a bruise forming. It’s a beautiful feeling, when you like how you got the bruise. “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”
I gave him a satisfied grin.
“It depends. How do you feel about dogs?”
“I love ‘em,” he said. “Lost my Sadie last year. I haven’t had the heart to get another. Someday. Maybe soon.”
He looked away, embarrassed. The man had clearly loved his dog.
“In that case, dinner would be great.”
“Do you like it?”
“What? The model or the dress?”
“The dress…and the model, I suppose.”
The woman cocked her head. The dress was the sort of thing you’d wear to a cocktail party. The model was the sort of thing you’d bring home from a cocktail party.
“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “I do.”
The man raised a brow but failed to look surprised.
Standing on a platform in a dead woman’s clothes wasn’t Laura’s idea of high fashion, but it was a paycheck and paychecks were good, especially when you liked to eat.
“Lot 398. Christien Dior. We’ll start the bidding at….”
Laura ignored the auctioneer. She didn’t want to know. It made wearing the dress depressing, like sampling a pastry she couldn’t afford. Laura hated not affording so she canted her hips and ignored the bidders too. These days the bidders were worth ignoring.
There were two types of people at auctions like this—collectors and ghouls. Ghouls, with their shabby collars and hard mouths, came to watch a rich person’s things get sold off. Collectors were different. Collectors went hunting for very specific things, but what made a thing special was anyone’s guess. Just the week before, someone paid $500 for a soap dish with an impeccable provenance…whatever that meant.
Laura pivoted and tried not to yawn. At first, the keen, avid eyes in the audience had turned her on so much that her thighs would be slick by the time she left the platform. Once or twice she’d even come (quietly, of course). It didn’t matter if she was modeling last year’s lingerie or someone’s ridiculous hat, being scrutinized felt good. But that had been ages ago. The novelty was gone. Now she barely noticed.
Laura unhooked the dress’s train, revealing an obscene amount of leg for 10am. Suddenly, the soft hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she looked up.
A couple was sitting in the middle of the room. They were young and golden and bright as if they’d gathered up all the stray light. Now that she’d seen them, she couldn’t look away.
Laura’s center of gravity dropped into her hips. She did a half-turn as the nerves in her belly coiled. She wanted the couple to notice. She wanted to make them bid. Laura moved to center stage, rolling her hips. She knew she looked like a woman begging to be kissed. Then the golden woman winked, and she almost fell off the stage.
The woman scanned Laura’s body, from her hem to her face, with the kind of cold interest she was used to in men. Every nerve in Laura’s body clustered between her legs. The woman smiled like a collector. She smiled like she knew. Laura squeezed her thighs tight, felt how plump and wet she was. She swore the woman knew.
Silver shoes peeked out from beneath her hem. The woman met Laura’s eyes and raised a brow. Without thinking, Laura raised the dress so the woman could see the shoes. Ankles, knees, halfway up her thighs…she would have kept going, right up to her waist, but the woman gave her a tiny nod, so Laura stopped. She didn’t lower the dress. The woman looked pleased. Still, they didn’t bid.
Laura squirmed, unwilling to drop the hem as the bids rose higher and came faster and the pressure built. She squeezed her thighs together as tight as she could. She could come like that. She had before. She would come and the woman would watch her. She would come and the woman would know.
But the woman shook her head.
Laura went still.
A Catalogue of Very Specific Things:
Silver dress. Silver shoes. Twitching fingers, shifting hips. A trembling mouth that makes a quick but perfect O. The flush of a lip, a swollen lip, soft between hard teeth. Wide eyes. Young skin. Impulses waiting to spill….
The woman whispered to the man.
The gavel cracked.
“Sold, to the gentleman in the middle of the room.”
The woman sighed.
“Thank you, love.’
“Have you got your eye on anything else?”
“No,” she said. “Let’s collect.”
“So. Henry has this fetish….”
Marjory swirled her martini around with a naked swizzle stick. She’d already eaten the olives.
“Okay,” Jackie replied, waiting for the ellipses to run out. They didn’t.
“So, is he into feet or something?”
Marjory shook her head.
“Breast milk? Teddy bears? Tell me it’s not corpses.”
“No, no. It’s none of that. Besides, Henry’s too squeamish for dead people.”
Jackie downed the last of her cosmo and signaled for another.
“So, what’s he into then?”
Marjory blushed and looked away.
“Yeah. You know… Greek statues.”
“Like…the kind in museums. With boobs and missing bits?”
“Yeah. Like those.”
“Huh. That’s interesting.”
Marjory had always played it kind of straight. Jackie was the one who’d gotten around. She waited for her sister to say more, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t.
“So what’s the problem? It could be worse. It could be corpses.”
“Stop with the corpses. This is serious.”
The bartender set down Jackie’s cosmo. She tossed him a wink for the extra twist.
“So,” she said, toying with the little curl of lemon. “Tell me why it’s serious. Can’t he get it up? Can he only fuck in the Met? Museum fucking is hot….”
“No! I mean, yes. He can get it up. But he really, really wants me to do this thing and I’ve never done anything like it before and I don’t know if it’s normal or not.”
“Sweetie,” Jackie said, “there is not such thing as normal. There’s just stuff you’ve done and stuff you haven’t. So what does he want you to do?”
“He wants me to…you know. Dress up.”
“Like what? A statue?”
“Yeah,” Marjory said, chewing her lip. “Like a statue. He even bought me an urn.”
“Aw! He bought you an urn? That’s super sweet!”
“Yeah, but is it? Sweet, I mean? Isn’t it kind of weird?”
“I don’t know. What does he want you to do with it?”
“While he fucks it?”
“No. Just hold it. While I watch.”
“Yeah?” Jackie smiled. It was a smile she knew Marjory hated, but only because she’d never smiled that way herself. “Watch what?”
Marjory leaned in and dropped her voice.
“He wants me to watch him…masturbate.”
Jackie slapped the bar and laughed.
“That’s it? He wants you to hold a vase while he wanks? That’s great! Oh! You know what you should do? You should wear, like, a sheer toga thing and expose one breast. That would be lovely! He’d be so surprised!”
“Jackie, I’m serious!”
“Marjory, so am I! Of all the fetishes in the world, this one is pretty sweet. Random, but sweet. It’s not like he’s asking you to cut off your arms for authenticity. Besides, haven’t you ever watched a guy get off? It’s fucking hot!”
The bartender glanced over and pretended to straighten the cocktail napkins. Jackie pounced.
“Hey! Sexy guy! Am I right? Isn’t being watched by a woman you’re into hot?”
“Uh…yeah. Actually, it is.”
The bartender smiled. Jackie grinned.
“See? It’s hot! And the only other thing he’s asking for is that you hold a thing and stand super still while he does it. My vote is that you go for it. Expand your horizons. Embrace the new.”
“I don’t know….”
“Of course, you don’t. You’ve never tried it. Go on. Be a statue. Live a little.”
“Okay…if that’s what you think.”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Jackie said, scrawling her number on a napkin and sliding it to the bartender. He took it and tucked it into his pocket. “You’ve already got the urn. Now all you need is something sheer.”
“I don’t have something sheer.”
“We’ll go shopping for curtains tomorrow.”
They haven’t been dating for all that long. Two dates. Maybe three if coffee counts. Three dates…. Is that dating? It’s hard to tell. Who knows.
Two dates. Maybe three. Some kissing. No sex. But the kissing is good. Really, really good. Quick tongues. Swollen lips. Nails on his neck. Then he says goodnight like he’s closing a door. She stays cautious and light on her feet.
They have their third date (maybe fourth?) on the hottest night of the year. Dinner and drinks. Maybe dancing. They both like dancing. They talk about dancing a lot. It’s a handy metaphor.
Do you dance? Where? What do you like?
Oh, you know…depends on my mood.
She wishes they’d just have sex. Sex is her looking glass. It lets her see who a person is, (or rather who they are with her). It lets her see who she is with them. She wants that view more than she wants to get off. She wants to see if they fit. Normally, it doesn’t matter so much – sex has told her a lot and it’s not always good. But she wants to see with him.
They have dinner and drinks. They talk. A lot. But she can’t stop watching his mouth. Good conversation. Great wine. Killer food. Enjoy the evening for this. She addresses herself in the ladies room but she knows it won’t do any good.
He pays the check (he insists, which is lovely), but dancing is a no. Early morning, he says. Brunch, work-out, weekend routine…. Sure. She has one too. They head off down the street.
The night is brown and murky with a filthy, electrical buzz. The grid is overtaxed and the city’s power is low. No air conditioners. Sluggish fans. People tumble around the street—it’s too hot to be inside.
They’d parked their cars several blocks away in a tall, glass monolith. As they walk, their knuckles brush, comfortable and easy, but he doesn’t take her hand. That would maybe be too much. After awhile, she pulls her phone out of her bag so it has something less awkward to do.
The parking lot is deserted. He hits the button and they wait. The elevator takes ages and their easiness drains away. A thick, gray silence expands and takes its place. It’s not a sexy or promising silence. It’s dense and pre-emptively sad.
Cool sheets, breakfast, dancing, fucking…she imagines these things while the elevator drifts…slow, slow, slow…considering the universe at every floor. For one irrational moment, she wishes they’d never met.
The elevator arrives. It’s steel and glass and disturbingly hot inside. Like a greenhouse, she thinks, which would make them the plants. It’s a weirdly appealing thought. She swipes her hair off her forehead and hits the button for level six.
“I’m on six too,” he says.
She smiles. “That’s good.”
“That’s good” is not what she’d meant to say. She’d meant to say something clever but she’s tired and hot. Her grid is overtaxed too.
Flickering lights. The elevator stops. It jerks and she stumbles. He reaches out – reaches out but doesn’t touch her, as if he’d brace her with the Force.
“Power outage,” he says.
She feels heat coming off him. The nape of her neck is salty and wet, and her cunt is a swollen ache. He’s close. Too close…and not close enough. She’s stupidly wound up and now they’re stuck in a small, glass box.
“Fuck, me,” she mutters.
“Sorry, what,” he says.
She watches his fingers skim over the phone. Blunt tipped. Strong. Decisive.
Fuck it. She wants to see.
“I said, fuck me.”
He looks up. Her cultivated, quippy, clever voice has dropped into her chest. She sounds like a woman again. Not a placeholder or a diplomat. She sounds like the woman she is.
He puts his phone away.
“Hello,” he says.
His teeth catch her bottom lip.
She leans in and bites him back.
A generator kicks in and the elevator fills with a dim, green glow, but it’s still dark down on the street. People wander around, checking their phones, waiting for the light.
“Someone could see,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
They lean back into the glass. If anyone looked up they’d see him lifting her skirt. She smiles and tilts her hips.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
It’s a breath against her neck. She’s wearing nothing underneath. No knickers. No bra. Just the dress and her favorite heels. Maybe she’d hoped a bit….
Sweat drips between her breasts as he crushes her close. He’s stronger than she thought. Then his hand is on her warm, bare hip and his mouth is hard on hers. Her legs want to spread. She kisses him back and turns to face the street.
The glass is soft beneath her palms. She’s wet, so wet she can barely feel his fingers until they’re deep inside her cunt. Little sighs. Little moans. Her hips begin to thrust. She’s hoping, hoping someone will look up. Then he’s in her, fucking her and she’s fucking him back. Their eyes meet in the glass. Intense, happy…she likes the view. She had a feeling that she would.
I wrote this years ago – before I sank my teeth into writing sex. My inner censor, which was kind of a fascist, had been strangely lenient. When I read it back, it felt like proof that I wasn’t the person I wanted to be (at the time, which is to say “normal”…whatever that means).
That was a long time ago. The only thing that makes me uncomfortable now is knowing that my censor was stronger than I’d thought. That’s why I’m posting it unchanged, (ie: unedited). It’s what I wrote when I wrote it and I’d write it again (though hopefully better this time).
Having said that, it may not be for everyone. There’s cutting, knife play and blood so if any of that sounds like a no-go, you may want to give it a pass. If not, thanks for sticking around for a short trip into deep depths of the archives.
“Cut” by (a proto) Malin James
They’ve talked about it. Quite a lot. And they’ve played with knives before – sliced through rope and tape. Her second favorite bra. Edge against skin. Her clit. His cock. Pressure. Implication. Never a cut.
But they’ve talked about it. They’ve talked a lot.
So she asks him one night without thinking. They’ve fucked each other senseless and she’s tucked up against him, lulled by the scent of his skin.
“Would you really let me cut you?”
He’s quiet. She waits. She can be quiet too.
She raises her head.
“Yes. But don’t fuck around.”
She meets his eyes in the half-light.
“You know I won’t.”
The knife they usually play with is in a drawer by the bed, but she doesn’t get that knife. Instead, she goes to the bathroom. The straight razor is old, perfect and old, made when things were meant to last. It unfolds in her hand like a memory…gnarled hands, lather, a boar bristle brush…. As an object, the razor has touched a lot of skin. Now, it’s going to touch more.
He’s resting on his arms when she comes back in. The razor is folded up, snug as a sleeping bird in her hand.
She straddles him. Then she place both palms flat on the bed.
“Keep your arms there.”
She knows he won’t like it – he’d rather be restrained. But she likes it and he knows it. He nods. He’ll do it for her.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Now. Be very still.”
His hands look relaxed but they’re not. She can tell. But he’ll keep them where they are – she knows he will. She has, and will, and would do the same for him. All the while, the razor is waiting in the pocket of her palm.
He stretches out beneath her, all angles and shadows, like a poster for a film. Beautiful, she thinks but doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to say. But her belly is tight as she moves down his body leaving a kiss on every rib.
One. Two. Three. Four…
She stops and nuzzles his skin. This is where, she thinks. She traces his ribs with her fingertips before pressing her tongue between two. Then, she slowly opens the blade. It settles in her hand like a fine, familiar weight.
Ripples under his skin though his body barely moves. There is no playfulness, no showmanship, no levity in her now. Afterwards she’ll smile and laugh with him, but for now, she’s blanks and calm. For now, she’s holding a razor like a natural part of her hand.
On either side of his body, his fingers flex.
Fuck. Get on with it.
She ignores his impatience and touches the blade to the tender place she’d kissed, waiting for it to breach his skin. And then it does and his skin isn’t skin anymore. It’s the silk and thread and rope.
He flinches and stills, palms flat against the sheets while her steady hand guides the edge along his rib. Once inch…two…and then it’s time to stop. She blinks as her focus widens back out. Then she sits up, resting her cunt against his cock while she folds and locks the blade.
Nothing at first. His skin looks untouched. But then blood wells up, almost black in the darkness, darker than red should be. She looks at him. He looks at her. They’ve talked about this too. Firm nod. She smiles and presses her tongue to the wound.
It tastes like salted metal, like blood should taste, but better because it’s his. But the cut is shallow and there isn’t much blood, so she worries it with her tongue, lapping and pressing and sucking as she does. She’s soaked and sliding over him when she sinks down on his cock.
Her hands clamp over his as he starts to thrust, pinning him with her weight. She sinks all of her weight into him and kisses the wound, as if her kiss will seal it up. Her mouth is red when she starts to come. Red and full of him.
They rest afterward, his hand in her hair. Her lips are red as berries but her teeth are shining white. She smiles against his skin.
“Next time, it’s your turn.”
He watches me approach, wary and very proud.
“You will learn to hate me, I think.”
The words drop into the silent room, as dense as mercury. My voice is strange. A stranger’s voice. I almost never speak.
I get closer. He tenses but doesn’t look away. They never do, not at first. He smells hot and metallic, like coal-covered iron. Sharp ribs. Sharper hips. There is a beautiful vein in his neck. Beautiful and thick.
I bring my face to his. He bares his teeth and lunges against the chains. They pull him up short, but he catches my bottom lip. There is blood when I step back. Laughter tumbles out of me, clean, like ice.
He doesn’t expect the blow.
It lands across his cheek, meant to sting more than hurt. The second one hurts. The third cracks his head back against the wall.
I search his eyes, but they are empty. And like that, my interest fades. Had there been something of his presence in that single word, had he shown me something true…. But his more is a hollow defiance. His more will break. I don’t care about his more.
He snarls and rattles his chains. What a sad, ridiculous show. This time, when I hit him, I deliberately draw blood.
He’s still shaking his head to clear it when I chain his legs to the wall.
What follows is routine. There are implements on the wall and I bring one down. A knife with an ivory handle. A slender, elegant thing, sloped like a woman’s back. I bring it to my friend. Now, he looks away. Now, with the blade in front of him, he grasps the position he’s in.
I can tell he’s about to speak.
“No. That’s quite enough.”
I no longer meet his eyes, though he’s frantically searching mine, looking for reassurances I don’t care to give. Not when they’re a lie. I kneel and consider the knife.
Very gently, like a mother, like a woman made of grace, I slice through the rags that hang off his hips, loving the nervous ripple of his skin as the clothing falls away. His defiance is in stasis. The vein flutters in his throat. He’s a delicate, crushable thing.
I should say this. Warn him. A good woman would. A good woman would, but I don’t.
I smile and rest the blade against his skin, skin no blade should touch. The metal will be cold against such a tender place. His breath gives a lovely hitch….
His cock stirs, making a final appeal. I wait for him to shift and rattle and beg. It’s what generally happens next. But he doesn’t. He’s quiet and very still. I press harder with the blade. I want to see what he’ll do.
His skin begins to sweat, but the response is autonomic. There’s nothing but silence from him.
I look up and meet his eyes. They are waiting for mine. His breathing is shallow, but otherwise, he is calm. He has great respect for the knife. His eyes tell me this. His eyes tell me things, things that drop through the silence, dense as mercury. There is a person in there now.
And, like that, my interest is piqued.
What May Sound Like a Stand-Offish NB: Though the trajectory of this piece was unexpected, I both stand by and am proud of it. That said, I am not personally into castration fantasies. While I respect them as a kink, please don’t feel obliged to send them to me.