On gin, tarts, and stained beds.

Red came over for dinner. She stayed for dessert and fucked me until I bit my lip.

She’s getting in my head, resting and reclining as we sprawl in post-coital bliss.

I sigh and snuggle into her breasts.

I hate you,” she snarls, her words biting as her teeth move toward my cheek. I am shivering, but I am not cold. I twist inward violently, I coil in on myself. I gnash my teeth to stop from thinking too hard.

“You can’t,” I say, to the inside of my palm. “You can’t hate me.”

“I hate you,” she says, and she kisses me ruby-red on my jaw.

I kiss Red in the middle of her chest and place my ear to her heart. She breathes small gusts of wind, a winter storm brewing in her ribs, and my eyes flutter shut, calmed for a moment.

She uncaps the marker and I close my eyes, inhale the scent. I can feel her writing across my skin. Moments after she has belted me, flat and sharp atop my shoulders, the raised welts meet the cool ink and absorb it, seeping underneath my skin. I shiver. I dip. I can’t read what she writes without seeing it, but the shutter of the camera does that for me.

“What does it say?”

I read it aloud and I feel my face redden, my eyes blink rapidly in succession.

“Blow queen,” I say, the words stiff and alien and she grabs the back of my head and shoves me down on her cock.

“That’s right.”

I flip through the camera and snap a photo of her. We are eating our leftovers with our hands, strewing through the empty wine glasses and dregs of gin and ice and are smiling. The fervor in the air is good, the mood clear, the weather hazy and inviting in the still of the night. We gorge ourselves on pleasure, we smile with the implicit knowledge of hedonism. The world is satisfying. The world is asleep.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” and she leans languidly over me and whispers into my brain. She waits for me to condemn myself. I pause, but it is too late and the leather crackles around my spine, electric, frenetic.

We know it’s late, but I don’t want to know what time it is.

“Twenty lashes, and I’ll fist you. You can  do that.” I nod silently, ringing after the first lash. She counts for me before I collapse, spidered on the bed and she unfurls inside my body. She slices through me until I cry out into the dark.

We slice into the meat and watch each other through the wine glasses. I kiss her and exhale into her,

“Thank you for coming.”

She comes so hard I can barely hold tight.  She ejaculates with a beautiful, brute force, all over my hand and the bed as I gently palm her clitoris. Even in orgasm, Red has control, but when she lets go, her eyes flutter shut and she breathes with a controlled regularity despite the sheer energy behind what has transpired. Her thighs are slick, the bed is stained. I inhale as she exhales and her scent is exquisite, molecules of aleatory beauty.

“We have such different personalities,” I tell her. I am dripped over her body, lain across her in the hazy dusky light of the oven. “But they complement each other, how calm you are.”

She moves her hand further down my thigh and we sip the last of our gin. I am restless, unlocked.

Mere moments after I come, I yelp. Something has happened that has never happened before. My calves have locked and pain pulses through my body. I have come so hard my body has stopped me, decided to remain in the perpetual paroxysms of bliss and pain. I look at them in wonder, throbbing with pain by the second. I’m shaking. 

I kiss her on tiptoes as she leaves, we make plans for dinner.

My calves are twitching gently of their own accord, the agony is written across my smiling face.


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