Tuesday 5 September 2017

Let's go

I'm sitting down on a large leather couch in one of the not-quite-generic settings in which we play out these scenarios. Perhaps the cottage on the shore of the isolated cove at the end of a narrow single-track road, perhaps the log cabin in the forest, perhaps a hotel room somewhere in the Mediterranean.

I'm comfortable, at least physically, my legs stretched out, my bare feet crossed at the ankles, one of my hands resting on my left knee, the other holding a lit cigarette.

You are standing in front of me, not to attention, but not slouching, feet slightly apart, head slightly straight, as I told you to, as you obeyed.

I am looking at you, my eyes briefly scanning your body and moving to your face, stopping there. I am staring now, surveying your face in close detail, as if I've never seen it before or as if I was to never see it again, as if I was seeing it for the first time and for the last time, as if it was the hello and the goodbye, as if everything has always been the former and the latter. Sharp features, narrow lips with a hint of a smile, looking younger than you are, thick and a little unruly dark hair, grown a bit longer than usual, straight dark eyebrows, and the eyes, cast down, avoiding my gaze, as I told you and as you obeyed.

''Kneel,'' I say, one word only, spoken quietly, or at least quietly for me, my eyebrows rising a little to confirm the request, even though you can't quite see it unless from the corner of your eye.

I could have added your name, or the one we use between us, and I could have added one of those hot -button words, I could have said ''Kneel, slut'' or ''Kneel, boy'', or even make it more dramatic with ''On your knees, bitch''. But I don't, because we don't do This Kind of Thing any more, I am not even sure why, maybe the words have lost their magic or got worn out through overuse, maybe because we don't need them anymore.

You obey, dropping to your knees in front of me, your eyes still averted, as I told you, wordlessly, as I told you too.

Your face is pretty much on the level with mine now, maybe a few inches lower, the downward cast of your eyes more noticeable. I lean over, my hand on your cheek, my thumb running along your lips -- you knew it was coming, didn't you, there is little that's unexpected now in the grander scheme of things after all -- your breath on my skin, that touch, that gesture so obsessively overused for the simple reason that it still makes me shiver a little, however many times I do it, and maybe it always will.

I smile a small smile, my thumb sliding between your lips now, a slight movement of my hand making your head tilt up a little. My eyes still on your face, on your mouth, on your lips forced slightly open by my thumb.

''Look at me,'' I say and your gaze shifts immediately, catches mine, locks with it and we are staring at each other now, pale blue into dark brown, dark brown into pale blue, searching for something that's perhaps not even there, wondering if it ever has been, remembering, pulling it back, losing it again, waiting, waiting, and I know it's my move, my role, my prerogative to do something and I use it to do nothing, to keep looking, pale blue into dark brown, until time disappears and everything else disappears, until all that's left is my palm on your cheek, your breath, now deeper and slower, on my skin, the air moving into and out of my own lungs in the same rhythm, and my gaze locked with yours, the dark brown filling my whole field of vision, my focus sharp against the background so blurry than it's gone.

And now the brown is gone too, split into the myriad colours the human iris has, an endless vortex pulsing and rotating slowly, your eyes - your actual eyes - rolling back in your head, far enough for me to need to pull you back, not to the reality of the room, not to the couch or the rug under your knees but to the pale blue centre, to my focus for your spiral; a low, deliberate ''stay - with - me - boy'', my other hand in your hair now, holding your head still and steady, my breathing controlled to keep me on that ridge, to keep the golden eyed creature in its place behind the blue, until it's time to let it out to play and to feed, to ask the wordless question and wait until you answer, wordlessly at first, until I move my hand and free your mouth, until the ''Yes'' spills out, grows into ''Please'', morphs into ''Yours'', multiply into an endless sequence of those, alternating between whispers and moans, until you are ready, until you are yielding, until you are taken, held, mine.

Let's go.


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This was inspired by the ''Eye Contact'' prompt from Wicked Wednesday but somehow morphed into something not quite as smutty and exciting as it was supposed to be. But it is what it is. For other entries, check the WW page:


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

7 comments:

  1. This is a powerful piece of writing!

    Rebel xox

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  2. I love the realistic head-and-heart space that comes through.

    The worn-out use of certain words, the not-quite-slouch of obedience, the pursuance of silence that otherwise would be expected to be filled. These things are real, relate-able; there is a kind of sentimental beauty to be found in ritualistic minutiae, in the subtleties of imperfection.

    And THIS:

    " . . . searching for something that's perhaps not even there, wondering if it ever has been . . . "

    So much YES.

    Stunningly delivered.

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    Replies
    1. Thank you for the kind words on delivery and I'm glad the space is relateable. Also - why have I not seen your blog before??

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  3. Very nice! It might not have gone where you thought it would but it's an intense read nonetheless

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