When he cups my sex, I go on tiptoes.
Bending over me, he whispers in my ear, “You’re soaking wet.”
I am. I’m wet between my legs and where his wine-soaked shirt presses on my naked lower back.
“If you have any requests about how I make you come,” he says, brushing the words with a kiss over my cheek, “now is the time to make them.”
I don’t reply.
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “That’s a very good answer.”
I watch him as he looks at me. For a few moments, that’s all he does. He holds me down and looks. How can something so wrong feel so good? It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to touch me, but I’m not ready to take responsibility yet.
Finally, he gives me what I want, bringing his hand down between my legs so fast I yelp. Holy hell. My sex is on fire. Instead of removing his hand, he rubs away the sting. The heel of his palm moves in a circular motion over my clit. My need climbs. My skin prickles. He hasn’t even removed his jacket. The image of his hand between my legs while he’s dressed in a fancy suit and my butt is naked only makes me wetter. It’s so hot I commit the sight to memory. I’ll use it in one of my future sketches.
Just as I give over to the sensations and relax, he pulls away and spanks me again. Rubs. Spanks. He hits and rubs until my hips buck and the sparks under my skin start burning differently.
Fuck. What’s wrong with me? How can this turn me on?
An orgasm builds in my lower body. It’s not like when I touch myself. This is much more powerful. Maybe it’s the burn. Maybe it’s the unapologetic way in which he spanks me as if it’s normal. Maybe it’s because he watches. Whatever the reason, when I come, the climax bows my body like an arch and pierces me like an arrow.
I’m dead to the world. I only live in the picture he’s created, feeling content and safe in the confines of the lines he’s drawn.
Using his fingers pressed together, he massages the sensitive spot between my legs until he’s wrenched every aftershock from my body. I remain slack, my muscles no longer tense. It’s only then that I have the courage to close my eyes.
He doesn’t make me promise not to defy him again. He doesn’t use my weakness to wrestle commitments from me or bask in my surrender. Like a good winner, he doesn’t rub my face in the fact that I’ve lost. He simply pulls up my underwear and slips a finger under the elastic, adjusting it until it fits comfortably before lowering my dress.
Drawing my back against his chest, he keeps me up with an arm around my waist and presses a tender kiss on my neck. I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t waste his breath on meaningless words as he scoops me into his arms and takes his key from his pocket to unlock the car. He opens the door, lowers me onto the passenger seat, and secures my seat belt. I lean my head against the backrest, watching him through the window as he goes back for my bag. He gathers everything and drops the bag in my lap as he gets into the driver’s side.
“Unlock your phone,” he commands.
“Why?”
“So that I can save my number on it.”
“I don’t want your number.”
“Just give me the phone,” he says, taking his phone from his jacket pocket and waking up the screen.
Too exhausted to argue, I do as he’s ordered, unlocking the screen before handing over the phone.
A notification pings as he presumably sends a contact card to my phone. He swipes his fingers over the screen, darkens it, and hands it back to me.
“There,” he says. “That wasn’t so hard.”
I don’t reply.
When he starts the engine, I no longer have the reprieve of ignorance. My life is my own again. Reality wraps around us as he pulls out of the parking lot onto the road under the bright streetlights. For a crazy moment, I want to be back in the dark lot where nothing but the story exists, but this is life, and, as he promised, my backside hurts.
He’s focused on the road with single-minded attention, changing gears as he skips lanes.
“My car,” I say.
“Don’t worry about your car.” He checks the rearview mirror. “I’ll sort it out.”
That sounds so easy—letting him sort it out. I never give up my control. I should insist that he takes me back to my car, but I’m simply too lethargic. I’ve blown off what feels like a lifetime’s accumulated steam, and the aftermath left me weak.
He switches on the indicator and turns left toward Midrand. “Why did your mother call you Violet?”