On magical realism…

“Miss me?”

Her voice, low and disembodied, is a welcome respite. She’s inside, she’s unseen, bouncing off the mirror, hot on my flesh. From that gesture alone, I almost break down and cry.

For the last twenty minutes, I have been lying naked on the bed, my ass up and my legs splayed, my head down on the bed, eyes covered by a blindfold. I am laid out like a science experiment, like a newborn animal, like a religious figure. Take your pick. The front door is unlocked. There is a cold gin and tonic on the table. These were her instructions.

The fear sets in as the cold seeps into my extremities. It started at my feet, a hollow numbness in my toes and brain. The door is open. Anyone could come in and expose me, take advantage of the situation. When the spring breeze reached the inside of my thighs, I was shivering, cowering when the door unlocked, but she brings her scent of mint and spice, salt and air, and I know. I know so little, but I know what this feels like.

The vulnerability strips me further, from clothing peeled to skin scrubbed to splinters and thoughts, it leaves my joints aching and my mind raw. Every noise and shift in movement evokes a reaction of pathetic defense, however paltry in my nudity. She hits me before we speak, her fist is inside of me before I see her eyes. The mental desire, the sheer ache of two weeks of such a delicate crescendo makes each touch exquisite and agonizing. How open I am for her, how easily she can twist her fist inside of me and shift, pause, devour.

Like she’s said before, she’s still a stranger.

I know so little, but I know what this feels like.

She tells me she has a surprise for me and I ask her, too eagerly, what it is. Her fingers invade my mouth and she tells me not to ask questions. Her calm renders my frenzy insane, I can tell how deliberate the pads of her fingertips can be, how pristine her expression, and it only causes my breaths to deepen. I curve into her scratches, and with each slap of her belt across the backs of my thighs, my ass, I cry out, but I can only move closer. The yearning outweighs the pain. The pain shadows the desperation.

She knows.

The first I see of her is her cock, mahogany, suspended in front of my face and she grabs me by the jaw and fucks my face, hard, gasping strokes with ropy saliva at the end and I cough but keep my eyes averted. I am in a space far, deep away, closed off inside of me. In this moment, I am more than content, blissful to exist only to take her inside of my mouth. I move beyond words and into a rhythm.

She pulls out of me and plunges deep inside my ass. Red’s catlike nature makes this animalistic, her nails down my back turns hunger into a hunt, her breath hot at my ear. I am quivering softly, I am cradling my arms underneath me, defending myself from inevitability, and she sinks her entirety inside of me. She holds me in places that are rarely touched – the scruff of my neck, her wrist circling around my forearm, the creamy backs of my knees, the tissue-paper pulp of my eyelids and in this delicacy and deliberation consumes me from the inside out, the outside in.

Her silence is a cloak around me. I do not expel, only receive, I inhale her sweet, musky scent, I gulp down air. Finally, I look at her. She is smiling and I am, too. I ache with want, with the sensation of invasion and conquer. She maps my body with her hands, I bruise and spill for her with pure need. The heat falling from her body meets the pallid chill of my skin, and she presses her warmth into me from the palms of her hands and weight of her breasts. I am so greedy for her touch. She pulls out of me with a sigh and replaces the cock with her fingers. Low and enunciated in my ear so I do not miss a thing—

“I know you can take my fist.”

For now, I can’t, not yet, but I shudder beneath her weakly and I feel brave and shattered simultaneously and fiercely pleased that we have reached this conclusion and juncture and are now hurtling down it in pursuit of beauty and cruelty entwined. I ask for things that make no sense, my words are meaningless but radiant, petite erotic prayers to no god whispered into the pillow. I explode and she moves inside of me with a sense of conquest and we collapse on the bed. The floorboards creak above us, and briefly, we are still. She holds me closer than before, holds me underwater in this murky beautiful deep and breathes air in the form of kisses down my bruised throat. Glancing at the door makes me wonder how I’ll leave the confines of this room and face the outside world when the sun comes up again.

We entwine sleeplessly, we chat in whispers and our laughter reverberates off the walls. She leaves before dawn, she is restless, she is kind. I watch her slip her belt buckle on and recall the fractal patterns her necklace traced along my back as she puts the chain around her neck. Long after she leaves the air is still steeped with cold, as if she has taken the warmth with her. It renders my voice husky, sleep-tinged when she leaves the comfort of my arms. “Take me to your alternate reality,” I tell her after tangents and trips, to which she replies,

“You’re already there.” Now she has slipped away with the morning and night and I smell metallic, my inhalations are ozonic and sensitive, filled with blood. I fall into something dreamless, I curl my fingers out for her in the night and wake up wanting, fervent. And it’s too dark to read the tea leaves in the sink, so I flush the message down the drain.

-C.

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