My wrists are decorated with a soft, but firm rope, anchoring my body and mind.
I whispered in a breathy, desperate voice, “More, please. S’il vous plait, mon chéri.”
I can’t quite see anything, but I can picture my beautiful scheming Frenchman standing inches away, grinning in self-satisfaction. The object of his desire, a heartless tease, is finally trapped.
“Pas encore, j’adore quand tu mendies, ma chatte.”
His voice was just the right amount of condescending. It incensed my ego, but lit aflame my desires.
I tried writhing my hips against the soft sheets, undulating my hips, trying to entice his gaze towards son chatte. The part of me that is controlling and neurotically type A is furious I ever slipped my wrists through the rope; she’s even more furious I ever stepped into the room. If it were up to her, my lover would be left on read. Forever.
There is a part of me that also is completely pliable to his touch, melting faster with every stroke, every lingering caress, every kiss that was deliberately cut short a few seconds. His touch was electrifying, almost effervescent.
This liminality, the space from where I was when I stepped in, to where I am going, terrifies me. It is not just “letting go” nor “being vulnerable” nor “giving over your trust.” This man is about to ravish me, down to every last molecule of my being. Like musician to his instrument, he’s about to play with my body until he has mastered it, until it croons pitch perfect melodies. The fear is not simply just relinquishing control. It is the fear of the perfect façade I’ve worked so hard to preserve crumbling between his fingertips. The fear that he’d discover beneath the surface of this woman I present to the world lies parts of me I am angered of, ashamed of, afraid of. To fathom the liminal continuum from here to there, it is a feeling that punches the air from my lungs and vaporizes it into