Stripped Down (29 page)

I felt cocky. “I didn't hear that.”

“Yes, yes, Jean,” she said again, angry. Who was she angry at? I made a note to ask her.

“Okay then, let me fix you some.” I opened the can of Mighty Dog, shook my head at the odor, and spooned it onto the plate.

Nudging the water bowl to the side, I laid the plate on the place mat. “Good slut, Misty. Eat and I will give you the big bee as long as you like.”

She looked to the plate and then me. “Now, Misty, don't you want the bee?” I gave her another buzz, just to remind her what the choices were.

She looked at me for a moment as if she hated me. “Just one bite. I never said I would do more than that.”

I couldn't read the look in her eye so I didn't push it. “One bite and you can have the big bee for as long as you like,” I agreed.

She looked at me long and hard, weighing me, and I found my gaze sliding away first. She sighed and turned to the plate. “Ugh,” she said as she bent down, paused and delicately took one decent bite, gagged and then gamely chewed and swallowed. She lifted the bowl and drank the rest of it. I added more and she drank that too.

She had done it. “That was great, Misty. You are the best slut, the most wonderful slut I have ever seen,” I said as I picked her up and carried her to the bed where I petted her and kissed her, heedless of the lingering Mighty Dog flavor.

I undid my pants and took out my cock. I saw her pleasure because I hadn't said I would, but I knew how much she liked my cock and a vibrator together, and she really did deserve it. She got up on all fours and I put it up to her and leaned in.

She sighed and let everything go loose as she pushed back.
I slid in. Her hands slid out in front of her so her tits mashed into the bed. I hit the continuous button.

I took hold of her hips and started at her and her cunt tightened up like it was trying to push me out.
Oh, no,
I thought.
No you don't, you take every bit.
She always thinks she can pace herself against the vibrator, but not before the first orgasm and never against my dick seated against her G-spot and the vibrator going full tilt.

She started wailing, “I'm coming,” and our legs and the bed were soaked in a flood while that rubber band in my chest pulled tighter and tighter and I was coming great guns. She had several more, smaller but longer lasting, and finally said, “Okay, I'm done now.”

I flicked off the remote and after a moment we rolled over on our sides. I held her and we fell asleep. I woke when she got up and took a shower. I meant to get up but somehow fell back asleep.

When I got up, we had breakfast and I was going to start the debriefing after the dishes, but she said, “I won't eat dog food for you again.”

“Why? I know it was bad, but that was the best scene we ever had.”

She didn't look at me. That was a bad sign. Slut remorse?

“Because I give everything up for you, and you give me back nothing.”

I was confused and angry. “Nothing? I work hard to get you off, to give you good scenes.”

“But you don't give anything back, Jean.”

“You call that whole thing nothing?”

“Pleasure is easy to give. I'm not talking about sex.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the way that I humiliate myself for you.”

“I don't ask you to do that. I just take you where you want to go.”

“And that's all there is for you?”

“What else do you want there to be?”

“I want you to give something back. I want reciprocity.”

“If our sex is not reciprocal, I don't know what is.”

She smacked the table. “This is not about sex. This is about making yourself vulnerable. I've made myself very vulnerable for you, over and over. I trust you to not take advantage of that.”

“And I haven't taken advantage of it. I've been honorable.”

“But you haven't been reciprocal. There's no real intimacy between us.”

“What we do is pretty damn intimate.”

She shook her head. “What we do is just acts. I'm talking about sharing. We don't share anything that's important. And that's what I want. If I'm going to trust you with my vulnerability, I want you to do the same for me.”

I stared at her for a moment. “Then you're doomed to disappointment.”

“But why? What are you afraid of?”

“I'm not going to do it, so there's no chance for you to find out.”

“Then I guess that's all there is.”

“I guess so.”

She got up and went into the bedroom. I cleaned up the kitchen. When I came out she was carrying her bag and some hangers. I stood, shocked. I hadn't realized she meant she was finished with me.

“Where are you going?”

“I am not going to open up like that for somebody who can't give it back to me.” Tears formed in her eyes.

“I'm not eating dog food for you.”

“I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking for you to show me the same side I've shown you. That's what couples do.”

“Is that what you thought we were?” I hadn't really thought about it before.

“I guess I was wrong.”

She left and I just stood there. After awhile I threw my ropes in the washing machine. I rinsed off the vibrator, shoved it in the toy bag and tossed it into the closet. The chair went into the corner; the dog bowl went into the wastebasket.

“I guess that's all there is,” I said, imitating her. “Well, I guess this is all there is of you now.” I took the trash out and marched back in the house and slammed the back door and then opened it and slammed it again, over and over.

During the day I moped around, telling myself I was angry at her. “She was the one who wanted to be made to do stuff. I have no desire to eat dog food for her or anyone.”

But a few nights later I started wondering about why she wanted to be made to do things, which led me to that pull I felt when we played.

It was easier to bury it than think about it. I went to the dungeon the next weekend, picked up a sweet little thing, tied her up and whaled on her like she asked. But it wasn't fun. I just kept wondering what made them put themselves out there like that, ask for it, thank me for it? What else was I supposed to do with it?

I untied her, got her to a couch and made sure she had a
snack and some water. When I turned to go, there was Misty. I don't know how long she'd been there. I was mad because I felt guilty.

She smiled at me. I wanted to smile back, but that would be admitting…something.

“Poor Jean.”

“I'm not poor.” I walked on out the door. She followed.

“Then why are you taking it out on that poor little sub?”

“She asked for it.”

“I don't think that was what she was asking for.”

“She asked me to flog her.”

“She asked you for a scene.”

“Same thing.”

She paused, shook her head, confused. “Isn't there anything else but the scenes? I admit I never considered you might think so. Now I have. Poor Jean, I did it too fast. I should have worked up to it, but I was mad.”

“Worked up to what?”

“To telling you. I know you work up to asking me for big things. Little steps, sometimes baby steps, depending. You worked up to the dog food ever since we first talked about it, didn't you, getting me ready, breaking the walls down, getting me there step by step.” She looked at me again.

“I should have done baby steps with you. I was just so mad at eating dog food for you and you not giving anything back that I stormed out. Then you didn't call.”

“I was supposed to call? You say that's all there is, and I'm supposed to call?”

She made a face. “I was mad. I gave you everything you asked for and you didn't give me anything back.”

I turned. “Why do you keep saying I never gave anything
back? I gave you toys, clothes, the scenes you asked for, all kinds of things.”

“Yes, exactly. Things. You never gave me anything from here.” She touched the center of my chest, where that pull was anchored. I stared at her.

“I never give anybody anything from there.”

“But why? What are you so afraid of?” She waited but I didn't say anything.

“I trust you, Jean,” Misty said. “I play with you because you use it for our mutual pleasure; you aren't going to misuse it. What do you think I'd do with anything you gave to me? I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to use it against you. I love you.”

She loved me? I couldn't answer because that confused me and, besides, I never showed any weakness. Ever.

“I have to go.” I turned and walked away. She just stood there. She was still standing outside the club when I drove past her.

I went home, made a drink, drank it, poured another one, and walked around the house. I ended up in the laundry room, kicking a clothesbasket. It had the sheets from our last night together in it. I put the drink down and lifted them up to my face. I could smell her, us, in them.

She loved me. She went everywhere I took her, did everything I asked, always came back for more, no matter what. I just couldn't go where she wanted. My chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. That place in the center of my chest felt like it was being crushed. The first tears burned my eyes. Then they were streaming and I was sobbing.

I didn't understand why and I couldn't stop. I finally rolled over on the floor and wrapped the sheet around me and just
cried. I woke in the morning and got up, stiff and sore and cursing. Curiously, my body was hurt but my head was clear and my chest felt light, although it ached right there in the center when I thought about Misty.

She loved me. And I had bawled like a baby smelling her on the sheets. When my mom was alive, she used to tell me I had to pay attention to my body, because it never lied. After she died, I hated what it told me. Life after that wasn't so good and it became easier, safer to bury what I felt.

So what was my body saying that I would cry so hard from smelling sheets? Keeping everything hidden away was such a habit, I didn't know if I could figure it out.

But the one thing I knew was that I didn't want that ache in my chest when I thought about Misty. I wanted the pull that I felt when I asked her to step over a line. I wanted it to pull us together so I wouldn't ever have to wrap myself up in a sheet alone on the floor again.

I called her. She was awake. “Will you meet me at Nash's?”

“Sure, in an hour?”

I was hoping for sooner, but beggars can't be choosers.

She was there, at our favorite table hidden behind the palms.

“You look like shit,” she said.

“I don't feel much better.”

We sipped coffee for a while. I kept looking at her, remembering how transparent she had been as she'd worked through the decision to eat the dog food. Why was it so easy for her?

“How can you do them?”

“What?”

“The things I ask you.”

She sat thinking for a moment. “Because I know I'll learn things about myself and because you are such wicked fun.”

“I thought you didn't like the dog food.”

She smiled. “It was awful. But I really liked that vibrator. And I liked the way you understood how I got there. At least I thought you did.”

I looked down at my coffee. “I understand that my chest hurts when I think about you being gone. I understand that I hate it and I want it to go away.”

“You understand what I am asking for?”

“Yes, no, maybe. I don't know if I can do that.”

She smiled and patted my hand. “But you just did.”

“Huh?”

“Honesty is its own kind of vulnerability, Jean. Thank you.” She curled her fingers into my hand. “My chest hurts too. And I want it to go away too.”

That spot ached as it tightened up and my eyes burned. I wanted her with me. No matter whether I could give or show or have, I wanted her with me. She lifted my hand, held it to her mouth and kissed it. The tension in the center of my chest tugged and I realized it would pull us together if I just let it.

I wondered what that would be like, her tied to the chair, me with my hand on the remote and that rubber band pulling tighter and tighter. She kept watching me. How different was this from eating dog food and how many steps were there between where I was and what she wanted?

“Hey, let's go home,” I said suddenly. “I just thought of a really interesting game.”

“There's no dog food, is there?”

“No, but it'll take several steps and probably lots of tries.”

PHONE CORROSION

Julian Tirhma

 

 

 

 

A gray screen's readout tells how long I've been on the line. I move the handset away from my ear to check the duration—21:27. While the phone's away, Mei says something I don't quite catch.

“Yeah.” My standard response. Everything she says is more or less interchangeable. I light a cigarette and inhale right at the receiver so she hears the sucking sound.

“Are you smoking again?” she deadpans.

“It got hot. Smoking makes me feel less sweaty.” Dusk overtakes the sky. From the roof, I see clouds spread thin as butter smeared on a pan to let the cake slip out. Satellite dishes decorate the roofs of other apartment buildings. Twinkly lights litter the top floor windows with flashing epileptic rhythms.
Red, white, and blue. I want to bend coat hangers into an extended hook and pull them down.