You check the mirror for the last time. The blue slut top. The collar and fishnets. The heels look good. And the riding crop feels at home in your hand. You’re ready for him now.
As you leave the bedroom and make your way to where he is waiting, you find an anger you didn’t know you had welling up inside.
You’re high on the energy of what you are about to do. You want to feel the crop bite his skin, see him writhing under it as you rain down blow after blow, you want to mark his back, draw blood, hurt him. You have no idea where this feeling has come from, surging up from somewhere inside – but now is not the time to worry, you are past thinking, past caring, you want only to pour yourself into the business of pain.
You enter the room. You have not prepared what you are going to say, but it does not matter. The words come by themselves.
“I want you undressed now, and on your fucking knees, all right?”
Already you can see in your mind’s eye the look of surprise on his face, the uncertainty as he begins to hurry himself out of his clothes, the fear and excitement in his eyes…
But something is wrong. You know what should happen. You can see it so clearly. And yet – he has not moved. He stands looking at you, a sad smile on his lips.
You weigh the crop in your hand, try an experimental swing. It cuts the air with a satisfying sound.
“You’d better start moving, honey. Or you’re going to regret it.”
He considers this for a moment. And then turns away. He busies himself with a lamp on the bookcase. He picks up a silk scarf and drapes it over the lamp. At once the room is filled with a soft orange glow.
“You should get candles”, he says. “They give a softer light. You’d like it.”
You’re angry now. Really angry.
“I’ve got fucking candles, now do as you’re told!”
Again he takes no notice. He goes on, closing curtains, turning off lights until he is satisfied with the room and you are both standing in a warm underwater glow. He’s still smiling the sad little smile, looking at you as if you were a child.
“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s ok.”
Your mind is racing. You can feel your grip on the situation begin to slide. What the fuck does he mean it’s ok? Who the fuck does he think he is? You feel your palm tighten on the handle of the crop. You watch him move towards you, unhurried, calm, certain. You measure the space between you. Your mind is made up. One more step and he will be close enough. His cheek you think, you can already see the livid red of the mark flaring on his skin. He won’t look so clever then.
But he’s here and somehow the chance has gone. He steps closer and reaches for you. But this is impossible. You’re not having this. Anything but this. You stiffen as he takes you in his arms. Nothing is going to make you give in to this.
You can smell the clean shower smell on him, feel the outline of his body as he holds you. For a moment he is still. You remain rigid in his arms. And then slowly, very slowly, he begins to move. He begins to sway and despite everything, despite your anger, and the fight in you, you feel yourself responding, going with him. You don’t want this. And yet here you are moving with him. You feel the tension leak out of you as you move. Your head is suddenly unaccountably heavy. You want to rest it on his shoulder, Your hands hang limply at your side.
“It’s ok,” he says again. “It’s ok.”
Now something liquid has entered your movements. You feel yourself dissolving. The light and the music and the warmth of him, and the undulations of your body possess you. It feels as if the sea has entered your veins, a warm sea, that floods through you and lifts you up. You bow your head. And then, without warning, you feel the tears begin to come, slowly at first, and then in deep racking sobs. The crop slips from your hand to the floor. And all the time he is dancing and you – you are dancing with him.
“I don’t think you need this any more.” His voice is a warm current in your ear. You feel the collar slip from your neck. ” Or this –” and the blue top is falling away and you are glad to see it gone, glad to feel him warm against your skin, to feel your breasts swell against him. In another moment – you are not even aware of it happening – you are naked. And still the music takes you and the flow of the dance, even as you feel the sofa on the back of your legs and you sink down, open to him as he flows through you and into you, embracing you as you move in the warm interior of the dance, and his dark, liquid presence penetrates to your core. And you cry out.