9. Jack
9
JACK
I told Bunny I would trust him, but doubts are already creeping in as I lay awake, staring at the ceiling with him asleep next to me. He stirs and makes little noises that don’t sound happy. I roll towards him and drop an arm over his body. He lets out another murmur and goes quiet again.
Part of me is a little afraid of my desires and how badly I crave breaking him. What if I break him too badly to put back together one of these days? My brow furrows in the darkness.
I know it’s necessary, but aftercare has always been the most uncomfortable and awkward part of a scene for me. Until now. I promised Bunny I would put him back together every time after I broke him. Although I meant what I said, I didn’t expect to actively enjoy it.
But I do. Tonight’s crying jag makes me feel a little guilty that I hadn’t thought to warn him about aftershocks, but I think I handled it OK and allayed his fears that he’d somehow fucked up, or that I thought less of him when he went to pieces.
Truth is, while I’ve seen people melt into puddles of tears and exhaustion before, none of them seemed to hit the drop as hard as Bunny did tonight. Then again, I’ve never had a scene quite as intense as that one. I went into it promising myself that I wouldn’t be disappointed when he safeworded because I fully expected that he would.
The fact that he didn’t shocked me. It thrilled me. It also scared the hell out of me. Because, holy shit —what a fucking rush. Seeing all his hurt and fear and humiliation, and knowing that I was doing that to him — that I had that power over him — was intoxicating.
Before that fateful afternoon when I caught Bunny reading outside with a hand down his pants, I’d lived my life nibbling around the edges of my fantasies —a graze of the teeth here, a crumb there. Now it’s completely different: I’m sinking my teeth in deep and tearing at them, ravenous for more. I want to devour him. But I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll look up after licking my chops to discover that there’s nothing left.
I’ve never been afraid of my desires before. I came to grips with their dark, violent nature years ago… didn’t I?
I suddenly realize why it feels more charged and more dangerous with Bunny: With other partners, it always was a dynamic of my taking however much they were willing to give. I understood and accepted that my cravings to inflict pain and tears and shame would always be a negotiation of increments. Spanking, yes; paddling, no. Blowing a load on their chest, fine; on their face, no way. Begging, sure; crying, hard pass.
Respect their limits, be grateful for the latitude you’re given and don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. That philosophy served me well, but I’m only realizing now that it means I’ve always conformed to somebody else’s limits. Now, it’s all on me. I know what I want, and what I want is to keep doing this. But how do I know that’s what he wants?
I just have to hope he’s telling me the truth. My mouth pulls into a grimace in the dark. Bunny has no idea how much I’m really trusting him with. He makes me feel all sorts of things I’ve never felt before.
I want him the way you want a thing , with a primal, selfish possessiveness — the way you want a favorite toy as a kid. I want to hit him, make him cry and treat him like a plaything.
But I’m coming to an awesome, alarming realization that I don’t just want that. I want the rest of it, too… and that’s where it gets scary. Because I don’t know what that rest of it looks like. All I have to go on is what he said one of those very first nights: I know we’re not boyfriends.
I sigh quietly. Whatever the hell he wants to call it, I don’t want it to end. Even if we’re going to be dancing around the words, maybe I can still show him what I want — and what I can give him in return.