8
The belt isn’t cutting off my circulation or hanging loose; just tight enough to keep my wrists still and not want to pull free.
I get the dumb giggles and feel like shushing my own brain.
When exactly did life deal me this hand?
I wouldn’t let anyone do this to me for money and, look at me—here I am, posing.
And yeah, obeying hits an old nerve I don’t love and still turns me on.
I get me. My therapist does too—that’s what I pay her for.
Nat climbs on top, porn-star cowgirl, and looks at me like she’s starving. She slides her hand over my belly, slow, and murmurs in my ear:
"Spread your legs. What you want is to be left shaking."
"You're such a pain," I say in a good-girl voice that doesn’t come naturally. "And yeah."
I hate her a little because she’s right, and because she says it in that tone.
I bite my lip, all casual, when what I want is to bite her finger to see if she reacts.
She keeps touching; her nails scrape lightly and I arch my back without shame.
She goes down to my mound and my brain just…
leaves. Moves out. She kisses my neck and traces my shoulder.
When she gets near my cleavage, I’m already letting out little cries, sighs, and probably my Social Security number, because I forget everything except her name.
I swear to myself: no theatrics, no begging, absolutely not—but girl, I know me.
In two minutes I’ll sing her a gospel hymn if she asks.
Every other second she grabs my face with one hand, makes me open my eyes—I wanted to stay in nirvana, but fine, queen— forces my eyelids up so I look at her. She wants full focus on her face, the bossy thing.
She nips my earlobe and blows in my ear, pressed close: "Look at me. Eyes open. Obeying gets you off when I say so."
"You don’t know shit," I huff and laugh. "Okay, you do."
Between every touch and every filthy thing she says, I lose my shame and my grip.
She sets the pace; I fall in line without a fight.
It’s a relief to stop deciding. She strokes my face, trails down my neck, licks my collarbone, and my whole body breaks out in goosebumps because subtlety has left the chat.
She kisses my chest, squeezes my waist, provokes every nerve.
Smack—my thigh. Hard. She lifts my legs; another on my ass. Harder.
I whine, all drama: "Girl, hey, I have skin, you know."
"You’ve got an ad-worthy ass." She winks. "And I want it red."
She goes back to kissing my chest, plays with my nipples slow and shameless, licks them, pinches them, stops, resumes, repeats because she feels like it and because she can.
And yeah, giving in stirs things up and fixes things at the same time.
I nod; for once I’m not driving, and it feels weird and perfect.
I don’t know where I am, what time it is, or whether this is real or I fell asleep watching art-house porn. I only know my hands are tied, my cheeks are blazing, my ego’s in the gutter, and my body’s on fire. And if this is losing control… then I regret nothing.
She doesn’t even slow down to get a breath, I swear.
It’s almost annoying how at home she is in her role as mistress of the universe.
She devours my neck, half-biting, licks my ear, and I keep swallowing, trying not to let out a ridiculous squeal that, if the neighbor hears it, she might bring me a beer from her balcony to cheer me on.
She rubs my clit with her knuckles, slow at first, in circles that get tighter and tighter. An ah slips out and she looks at me, pleased as hell.
"There," she whispers. "Give me that face. Don’t hide."
"I’m not hiding," I lie.
She’s a fucking pro, I swear. She knows exactly where to drag that nail (did she take a class?).
Then she clamps my hip with that woman’s hand that could crack walnuts and, if I act up, even watermelons.
A detail I fully plan to tell my grandkids, if I ever make it out alive from this fuck with side effects.
She pinches my nipple and takes it into her mouth like she’s savoring, and I no longer know whether to ask her to keep going or invite her to move in with me.
Her hand goes lower, slow; she gets off on watching me suffer.
If I had a pause button between my legs, I swear I’d hit it.
But of course, no pause, not a chance: she finds me two levels past soaked and grins.
Then she slides two fingers in and pushes in and out, feeling for the spot.
I bite my lip and my belly trembles. She buries her other hand in my hair and pins my head to the pillow.
"Not the ceiling," she orders. "Me. Here."
"Here," I repeat, obedient and a goner.
"Sit up," she says, unbuckling me.
She smacks my ass again, short and sharp, and I pull my best pissed-off girl-from-the-block face.
"That hurts."
"You’ll thank me later." She smiles. "Quiet and open," she says, and I cough-laugh.
I open up. She lowers her mouth, licks my nipple, gives it a little bite, blows warm air. I grip the sheet with both hands so I don’t scratch up her back. Need wins and I tug her by the nape.
"More, goddammit."
"Ask nicely."
"Make me yours," I blurt.
She pushes me until we can see ourselves in the mirror again. I obey, because hell, I’ve already lost and we might as well watch something. And fuck, what a face. Flushed, mouth a little open, eyes like a lost lamb, hair like I got electrocuted on live TV.
And then I start laughing, because I can’t tell if I’m sexy or a cubist painting. That turns her on—she smiles wider.
She sits on my hips and starts moving slow, rubbing on me, setting her rhythm. She puts her palm on my throat, presses a little, gorgeous and in charge.
I go still and let it happen. Trusting and dropping the drama.
"Breathe with me," she says. "Count."
"One," I pant, "two…"
"Three," she finishes. "That’s it."
She lifts a little and slides in another finger. Three total. She opens me from the inside and drops me into a trance. She hooks them upward and I almost scream, but hold it in as this strange, very-me sound.
"Say it," she asks. "You like it?"
"Yeah."
"Say it clearer."
"I love it. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop."
A moan rips out of me from the soul, loud, mortifying. Heat floods up—belly, chest, neck, face. And Nat doesn’t give me a breath. No letup in the pace. Zero mercy; pure vice and control.
She brushes my hair from my face, gives me a quick kiss, then bites my lower lip.
I almost come right there. I hold back by pulling her hip toward me.
She wets me with her mouth as she goes down my stomach and hovers over me, breathing against my pubic bone, not touching yet.
She’s got me right on the edge and she laughs softly.
"Say please," she whispers.
"Please."
"Again."
"Please. Please. Please now."
"That’s it."
She sucks my clit. Straight, no detours. Her tongue makes my whole body vibrate, sets the speed while her fingers inside never let up. I can’t breathe right. My legs shake and I press her head without thinking. She growls, doubles down, takes the rhythm and carries me.
She whispers, in the hush of a lesbian confessional secret:
"Come, Alaska. Come on. Let go."
And me—dignified and all—but I didn’t bring any resistance tonight.
I let go. Boom—Earth, Pluto, and the whole Solar System: I detonate inside, see little lights, and turn to liquid.
I come apart, I melt, and I’m reborn—limited edition and trembling.
The orgasm climbs in jolts, cuts my voice, and arches my back.
I scream her name and a bad word followed by an even worse one.
She doesn’t stop until I’m shaking all over, then keeps going a little more, cruel and sweet, just to make me laugh through tears.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. Better than okay."
"You got scared for a second about the throat."
"Yeah," I admit, panting. "I’ve got a history. Today it worked for me. I’ll tell you one day, or not."
Fuck, if I had bones, they’d be rolling across the floor.
I try to look at her and I can barely see: she’s still got all her clothes on except her pants.
Me, naked on the outside and, to top it off, emotionally naked on the inside.
In my fantasy she starts a Britney Spears–style striptease, with a fan, confetti, and me in the audience yelling "bravo, bravo," but in reality she doesn’t even roll up a sock, the witch.
"Nat, babe, why haven’t you even taken your clothes off?" I manage to stammer—not even convincing as a protest. "What’s with all the mystery, why?"
The bitch is wearing that "I’ve got you by your want and you know it" smile, and she murmurs in my ear:
"You want to see me naked, Alaska?" Her voice low, rough, addictive.
I can already see myself undressing her, petting her soul and whispering poetry… Poetry my ass: I try to touch her and she dodges, all playful.
She pulls off her panties, peels off her T-shirt and bra with one hand, throws it in my face, and sits on my mouth.
She grabs my hair and sets her rhythm, firm, knowing exactly what she wants.
I lick her shamelessly, straight to her clit, flat tongue, pressure.
She moans, presses me into her center, wets my chin, my neck. She asks for more.
"Inside," she says. "Two fingers. Slow."
I obey. She takes me warm, tight, delicious. I feel her clench around my fingers with every thrust. I suck her clit, swallow her moans. She comes apart on me, slicks my hands, fists my hair, and lets go with a groan that drills straight through me.
She flops to the side and we laugh, sweaty and happy. She strokes my thigh, tracing slow lines.
"You can be so good when you want to," she whispers.
Without another word, she lays me down with my back to her—me, queen of random submission—and slides her fingers back in, slow, careful, and there I am, moaning off-key. I let myself be handled just because; sometimes you want to forget about being the one in control.
She flips me with a clean movement, leaves me face-up, and bam—pinch to the nipple, straight on, hard, zero warning. I scream. It bursts out real, from the shock and the pain. I try to push her hand away, but she pins me, dead serious.
"Shhh. Easy, Alaska. Hang on a second, this is gonna blow your mind."
“It’s gonna blow your mind,” she says—funny, because the one who’s all lit up is her. And instead of stopping, the smartass starts massaging me gently; she sucks on them and I’m not going to lie, I don’t want her to stop.
Then again: a pinch of the “I never thought my pain threshold was this flexible” variety. Another scream tears out of me, even more honest.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
She smiles, way more professional than me at other people’s pleasure, and murmurs, slipping into the role of a back-alley sex therapist:
"This is nipple play, baby. English label so it sounds classy."
She gives me the spiel—pleasure, pain, the line is thin and yadda yadda—but the practical is happening in real time. And yeah, damn her, she’s got a point: between the pain and the pleasure, I end up confused.
She looks at me for a second, very close, with that disconcerting calm, and goes,
"Relax your shoulders. Breathe with me. If anything feels wrong, tell me."
And me, all swagger for the messy fun and a total softie when it gets intimate, I nod and let out a nervous laugh, because surrendering to her makes me dizzy and turns me on—a hell of a mix.
I lose myself in that back-and-forth—massage, bite, scream, beg—she doesn’t let up.
Every time she lets me catch my breath, she starts again.
After who knows how long, my body is a jumble of sweat and saliva.
And when I can’t take anymore, can’t come one more time, she whips out her villain smile, stands up, and gets dressed.
"Pleasure, Alaska. We can do this again whenever. Next time you show up nice and tamed from the start, okay?" she says, full of swagger.
The smartass grabs my phone, holds it up to my face to unlock it, puts in her number, and leaves a single new contact with an emoji I’m not about to describe. She gives my nose a little tap and leaves. Just like that—no dessert kiss, no sweet look, door, hallway, bye.
I watch her go and spin a little movie where she comes running back, throws herself on top of me, and kisses me so hard it resurrects half my adolescence.
Reality does not cooperate. I’m left shaking, her number in my phone, the room smelling like somebody else’s victory, and me grinning, defeated and happy.
And I’m thinking, what a glorious way to lose control and confirm what I already suspected: the blonde plays in the big leagues, and tonight she’s the one taking home the trophy.