On midnight mornings.

(Alternatively titled, on statutes of limitations and limits of stationary bodies.)

This is from a long time past.

The shift in the dynamic lurched me off my mind and into the chair and rendered me more aware of the situation around me—the tension in the room and the timbre of my breathing tipped me off, circled around me like vultures, obvious signals that I could only marvel at the sight of. Something had changed and I was caught in the crosshairs with no means of escape.

The only thing I could do was move closer and closer.

Before she told me not to worry, and went downstairs to bed, something was different about us. She piqued my curiosity. It’s not that I was worried, I was confused. I asked to touch her and she declined. I squirmed, steeped in uncomfortability—how can I give you what you want if you do not tell me what you want? When I get zealous, when I get aggressive, that is all that I truly desire. Tell me the result and let me make it happen. She looked me in the eye and would not allow me that respite, and that’s how I started to crack. I knew it when it started, I had no idea how it would finish.

“I hope you feel like prey right now.” I blinked and she was closer, though I saw her coming, though she took her time, there was no mistaking the deliberation in her voice. We are kindred in our documentation, our careful planning, and that is how I knew she meant what she said. That is why I told her,

“Yeah, I do.”

She wrenched me by the hair to the kitchen and pushed me to the ground. I was shaking, I was bisected firmly, a part of me wanted to halt, break the fourth wall and process until we’d ground our thoughts and emotions into a fine powder and swallowed them bitterly, but the rest of me want to see it play out. There’s no shame in hungering for it, there’s nothing to be pitied about curiosity, and there was nothing to process or discuss about the wetness seeping into the threads of my Levis out of my core. She was tapping me gently against hard things and I was curious to crumble.

Her tumbler was filled with cider and vodka from an unknown flask, and I parted my lips for a sip. She tipped the glass, pouring, choking, filling me with it until I sputtered and the juice leaked down my cheek.

Filthy.

But in that mess, I looked her dead in the eyes and she smiled. It was breaking me, shaking me, that I couldn’t get a quick read on her. My five-minute leeway for infiltrating the mind was cast to the floor along with my shirt and I was splayed at her mercy, displayed in the light of the kitchen at 2:30AM. Neither of us were tired, and either way, this would play out as it needed.

She grasped the front of my hair and pushed me backwards and I sank, blinded by her hand over my eyes and nose and quivering, my lips ebbing of blood flowing downstream. Her hand delved inside of me, swiftly, without hesitation, and when her hand went away, her eyes never left mine, her smile never faded. I was shaking from head to toe, nothing could penetrate my thoughts but for the knowledge and the notion of this intimacy spread out and seeping into the cracks of the floors.

Somehow, this would play out.

We plan before we say to elicit the maximum of impact, but on my knees, I was nervous and plaintive, plaintiff but accused, and she whispered in my ear above me from high,

“I like the way you look at me, but there’s something about you that I don’t like,” and I could feel my heart skip a beat, choking in my throat and locking my elbows rigid, clouding the blue of my eyes as I wrenched them shut.

“You’re everywhere. I want you alone sometimes, I want to be able to have you for my own,” and she sank back over me, she reared over my body and claimed me in shudders on the hardwood floor. I absorbed her words because I was too dumb to take my own for once, for again, and shook again and again.

She fell, and I held her, I held her until she stopped.

Even as I write now, I can see her through the tilted origami folds of our various laptop, magazine, paperback barriers, the corner of her eyes reduced to slits five feet way, but she knows what happened and how I broke. It’s not mine alone now, it’s a story shared, and I do not look away.

“What gets you off more?” she asks, “Is it the pain or the humiliation, or both?” in my ear, supine, sprawled on and over and around me as we breathe the morning back again.

“The fear,” I say, and she stands me up and slaps me across the face. It is the only recognizable sound in the room, outside of the murmurs and twitches of the house, and for a moment, seems to absorb the rest of the noise and rings in my ears. We are unstoppable atop each other, connected as if magnetized, hungry as if the only remedy to this is to swallow each other whole. I kiss her without abandon because I know I cannot hurt her, the curtains are down and we are cloaked in darkness and a flickering sense of sonorous closeness eclipsed in hours when most are dreaming.

We close ourselves in the master bedroom, her cock erect, her hands insistent, and I take her inside of me as far as I can go. She tells me I am dramatic, and I inhale with the utmost of gusto. She pushes me, with her hands, with the twinkle in her eyes. I’d have thought I’d be fading in the dusk and night sky, but I’m on a different level of energy, a frantic slip from one day to the next bracketed by the squeeze of her fingers on my upper arms, the taunt and bait of her slaps. I’m in rare form and she knows it because everything is on the table, every whisper and glance could be written down later on and I wonder if she’s holding back or pushing forward for that very reason.

I want to say, the things we do are more than just words on a page,

I want to appropriate inappropriate words for dissonant feelings: I lust you, I linger over you, they are statements and they are riddles.

I want to breathe in you that it is okay to break me.

That I want it.

That the things that I want make sense and the things I think are clear and smooth in the back of my mind, even if, as I bark them out, they are dark, steeped in strangeness. I am a fool unto myself, but things become far clearer when her hands are wrapped around my throat, breathing the clarity back into my mouth.

The cock sinks down inside of my throat, hair over heels as I lie with my head dangling over the bed. She goes almost all the way down, then again, and again, until she is sure I can take it. With each thrust, my vision blackens for a second, and returns. As my breath is stolen in steadied thrusts, I can smell her skin, taste the sour tang of lust and fear on the back of my tongue. Looking her in the eye solidifies my initial theory: this must play out, as she says, it’s the very first rule of writing. Show, don’t tell.

My mouth erupts in gasps of air broken off by the intrusion, I falter like a hanged man and suck her in deeper and deeper. Consummation of the soul, that’s how it feels as I’m beneath her, as if with each slip of the finger she works herself deeper within me, to horizons uncharted. I swallow her with my mouth, she plugs me and stops the flow of words. She taunts my inability to take her whole, but it only enervates me to higher performance, and with every gulp, I feel my body twist into itself, expose my tears and snot. There’s nothing left to hide.

I curl myself next to her, watch the rise and lift of her chest and work my fingers inside of her. She is taut around me, fitted to my form, and I angle myself atop her to take it all in at once. Holding both of her wrists underneath my hands, I waltz on the edge of the tension with reckless, feckless fey, each glance into her eyes a sample of what’s to come, dark and penetrating and never leaving mine. I crane my fingers inside her, she’s so wet and hot and I can feel her pulse from deep inside. I’m greedy, I want more, I want to give and take and I grunt my mounting arousal out into her. When she comes, it coats my fingers sticky-sweet, and I collapse atop her, my lips shaking and my cunt quivering. I want her, I fucking want her.

She takes back the reigns, looming over me and plunging inside. She squeezes me from the inside out to a runny pulp and breath of a scream bitten down upon. I want it so badly that I’m shuddering, that my words are shuddering though my voice is strong, that I’m begging for things I never thought would burble up from the depths of my scratched throat, I’m piling my indignities on the bed as she reaches up inside me and finally, it comes, I’m not asking, I’m not demanding, I’m not stating, I’m begging, bargaining for more, more, anywhere I can take it.

Her affirmation breaks me; my self-implication shatters me into sopping wet, sweating pieces on the bed. I’m panting and glowing on the bed, so immense was the orgasm, the sheer momentum of it all now just weighing on my eyelids. She’s under my skin, I’m under her thumb, and the sky is getting lighter.

-C.

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