It was a dark and stormy night.

Fuck, all nights are dark, unless you’re downtown somewhere. No, it was more like a cloudy, starless, moonless night. Lightning revealed what patches of sky were still unoccupied. The rain fell, at times intermittent, often in a drenching slow drizzle, and then hard downpours.

I waited for the cops while my friends left for the strip club. There I stood, tragic figure in the rain, hang-dog expression and all, my hair drooping and my nice white shirt see-through. The other person involved in this sad but momentary scene of my life was a little girl named Kim. At the ripe age of eighteen she’s hit half a dozen cars, but not people she quickly corrected. But my luck, or her luck, was that tonight I hit her, instead.

She sat in the car after the first half hour. I opted to stay out and wave down whatever trooper was so unfortunate to deal with the two of us. So for an hour I tracked the progress of the clashing weather-fronts, and keenly observed the feel of cool droplets sliding through my hairline and down my collar, where the cotton soaked it all up. I wasn’t quite cold, it must have been seventy degrees still despite the dreariness, and it was October at that. I sipped what the nearby café called a terrapin; don’t get me wrong, I preferred the aromatic complexity of a good tea, but behind all the sweet milk the bitter tang of espresso shots kept me wired for the wait.

Inside I was walling off somewhere, half numb, half electrified.

The merest taste of what shock must be like.

Eventually an officer rode up and took our information. The other girl, Kim, actually locked her keys in her car. Priceless, I sighed. Sometimes I wonder if I’m that clueless and blissfully dopey. I offered to buy her a cocoa again, guilt-ridden if wry, but she refused. I promptly left, dusting the whole thing off my hands.

It was only nine-thirty. What to do.

I dialed two on my speed-dial as I walked back to my car. It kept ringing until: “Hello, you have reached Daniela O’Mara. I cannot answer the phone, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you. Thanks; have a good day.”

“Jordan? Hey, it’s Archer. I’m just calling to tell you that I got into a bit of an accident. I’m okay. The car’s okay. The girls left me for the strip club, of which I am actually rather relieved; could you see me in that kind of place? Don’t answer that, you’ll just use it later to embarrass me. So I was just calling to ask you if you wanted to hang out tonight, like planned. Okay. Love you. Peace.”

My shoulders sagged. I walked back to the café to get a cup of Earl Grey and dry off before heading home. I sat outside, smoking a clove, a rare reflex more out of nerves than pleasure. The fragrant cigarette hung from my lips as I stared absently. Then I saw her.

“Hello, Archer.”

She was impeccably dressed, as always. Her jeans were a dark wash, and a baggy cut. She had her t-shirt tucked in, a white undershirt, and over it her black leather biker’s jacket. Tonight she was wearing black combat boots and a cocky grin. As she strutted to my table she put an arm around my shoulder, leaned over, and kissed me on the cheek. Her silvery bangs hung over my cheeks and I blushed and smiled like a girl.

“Hi, Jordan.”

“So what’s this about wanting to hang out?”

“Oh, you got my message?”

“Yeah. I was heading towards the Kine theatre. The film festival’s still going on. I think you’ll like tonight’s show, and I just happen to have a ticket.”

“Really? As in, you were going to surprise me until things came up?”

“Something like that. Pack up. We’ll make it just in time.”

I snubbed out my clove and tossed my tea. Jordan stood back up, took my hand, and rushed me the three blocks over to the Kine. Outside a line of lesbians waited, impatient and excited. My ears figuratively pricked up.

“What’s showing?”

“You’ll see. Come on.”

Inside the room was filling up. A couple of acquaintances waved at me, but Jordan steered me towards a section in the back corner, where the row was only two chairs. She insisted she sit on the end, and then carefully draped her jacket over her lap.

“Feeling antisocial, are we?” I quipped, a bit annoyed.

“Ssh. Trust me.”

“Right.”

Soon enough, I saw why she was acting so peculiar. Tonight’s feature was “Sexipollusa: Invasion of Lesbian Erotica.” I whipped around to face her.

“We’re watching porn?”

“Ssh! No; lesbian erotic cinema.”

“I.e. porn.”

“Just sit back and relax, Archer.”

And she turned her attention to the flickering screen. I followed suit, anxious. They started a photo montage of older lesbian porn mags, the underground ones I’d heard of but rarely ever glimpsed. It was here that flashed something of great shock to me.

The girl in the picture looked almost twenty years old. Her hair was blue and in a mohawk tall enough to be called ‘freedom spikes.’ She was pierced everywhere: nipples, eyebrow, septum, lip, and a dozen times in the ears. Her skin was pale and freckled, and her body had a thin layer of soft baby fat over hard muscle. Her expression was cock-sure and defiant. She had numerous tattoos, of anchors, barbed wire, pin-up girls, and symbols; prominent was the Latin phrase odi et amo, excrucior. And I knew. Labeled 1985, when I was two years old.

I knew each of those tattoos.

That was my girlfriend.

“Jordan!” I hissed.

“Ssh!”

“Don’t shush me; that was you!”

Another photo came up, this time with her and another punk-rocker dyke. She was gorgeous, with a pixie-cut and leather chaps, full fishnet body stocking. There Jordan was, small breasts pressing against a white wife-beater, and ragged jeans, cowboy boots this time instead of combat boots.

“Who’s that?”

“My ex.”

“You ex? Why? She makes me look like a troll.”

“Because. Now be quiet and watch. And you’re not a troll.”

There were only two more photographs of her in a montage of almost a hundred. In one she wasn’t much older, but bald, and dressed perfectly in a tuxedo. Prominent was a bulge in the black pants, which mystery ex-girlfriend was pressing her forehead against. Mystery-ex was in a vintage 1920’s flapper outfit complete with beads and the same haircut.

The last photo was perhaps ten years later, making Jordan in her early thirties. Her hair was still blonde, but the silver was just barely creeping in- she told me once that all her sisters went prematurely grey. She was in all-leather, pants and vest and boots. She was leaning on a bar table, beer in hand and cigarette hanging from her lips, a cool and distant expression on her face like she’s either too tired or too amazing to pay attention to you. Her hair was buzz-cut this time. She was alone; no mystery-ex. She almost looked like James Dean fresh from the army. She looked unspeakably beautiful and sad.

I gripped her arm unconsciously, eyes glued to the screen. She glanced over at me. “What?”

“Nothing. Just, it’s, your… breath-taking.”

“Was.”

“Are.”

“Ssh.”

I had no time to argue. Hoots and cat-calls rang through the theatre as “Real Dyke Porn” came up on the screen. I braced myself but was ill-prepared for the twelve-foot pussy right in my face, being plumbed, as it were, by a gargantuan pink rubber or silicone cock. I winced. It was almost but not quite too much. The next shot was easier, not being a super-zoomed taping of the intercourse. In fact, it got much more bearable.

Then I felt Jordan’s jacket across my lap. I swallowed hard. Oh. Fuck. I kept my eyes ahead of me, watching woman after woman advance through foreplay and sex, all of it very real-looking, all of the lesbians authentic. There were no long-haired bleach-blonde and long-nailed, super-tanned and cosmetically altered women here. And the orgasms were real: the telling flush of neck and chest, the convincing jerk of hips. And all the while Jordan’s hand was committing the kind of torture Zen-Buddhists would find hard to resist.

I yelped when her fingers dug into my thigh, having snaked up both short and boxer leg. She shushed me again before leaning over and kissing me. My eyes were riveted to this particular clip which showed an older dyke dominating a younger, androgynous lesbian in a very BDSM scene. I could tell others in the audience found it a bit heavy for their tastes by gasps and hushed fervent muttering. But the crop and Saint Andrew’s cross, the leash and gag were all familiar to me. Even comforting. Jordan continued to tease me, her mouth nibbling at my neck and fingers tracing an obscene language on the seam of my crotch.

At the climatic scene, Jordan’s mouth found my ear, and over the echoing moans, some of which were my own, she whispered “Just wait ‘til I get you home. Just wait ‘til I fuck you.” Then her teeth clamped down on the ridge of my ear. I gasped into sudden silence. People applauded and I turned tomato-red. Jordan clapped laconically and stood up as graceful as a panther and stretching. Idly, calmly, as if nothing had happened, she lifted her coat and slipped it on. The house lights popped on as I rearranged my pant legs, awkwardly flustered.

Outside the theatre the air was brisk but clean. I lit a clove and watched somewhat wistfully as a small group of older women surrounded Jordan, ribbing her. They were more her friends than ever would be mine and it saddened me; clearly I enjoyed the company of the ‘family elders.’ I was an initiate. I was a child.

They were laughing about Jordan’s “porn exhibit” and the golden years of their past. A couple glanced at me, and with no disdain. One even looked as envious as I did. I took a drag and walked towards the street, out of the way.

A couple friends found me. Two of them, dating each other, looking glowing and excited. No doubt they were going home to have sex. The other friend was alone tonight, her girlfriend working. She, too, was buzzing with energy. They beamed at me and finally one said “Your girlfriend is a pornstar!”

I flinched. It was true. I nodded, took a drag.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t know.”

For a moment their smiles faltered. Then they reassured me, telling me that these were glad tidings; that I had a little bit of celebrity. Never mind that everyone in there, friend and foe and absolute stranger, had seen Jordan- my Jordan- absolutely naked. I wanted to mention how she’d taken out all the piercings, but it seemed too much. I gave a weak smile and they wended off into the night.

Jordan caught my elbow. “Ready to go, m’lady?”

“Yeah, in just a sec.”

She removed the cigarette right from my lips. “Nasty habit.”

“Hey!”

And then she kissed me.

“Your place or mine?” she laughed as I leaned into her, hands flush with her collarbone.

“Yours,” I said, somewhat breathless for some reason. “But my car…”

“I walked over, so we can go get it.”

She pulled me along stumbling in her wake. She chatted innocuously, bouncing over the sidewalk, immensely happy. I, however, felt withdrawn and unsure. My girlfriend, the pornstar. What else was there I didn’t know? And why was she with me? All the insecurities I had roared up relentlessly. That other woman, she was hot in those pictures. I could never do that.

I unlocked the car and we sat there for a moment, quiet as the engine thrummed. The rain had long since dissipated. I pulled out, overly attentive to the traffic around me. Jordan gave a rueful expression and asked “Oh, how is the car? I forgot to ask about the accident. Are you okay?”

“Car’s fine, I’m fine, my insurance probably isn’t.”

“It’ll turn out okay. I’m sure of it.”

I couldn’t help but grin.

Her house was only three minutes away but the trip returned to silence. I wanted to say something to her, tell her… what? I wasn’t sure. I was deflated. How could she have overlooked this glaringly huge detail of her past? She’d poked around her rocky history, the punk rock scene and the excess of drugs and drinking. How hard it was to walk away from it; even quitting smoking because she wanted a cleaner life. But she never mentioned the world she’d lived in, or the people.

Jordan, however, seemed distracted the whole time, wholly preoccupied by some other thought. She was grinning like she was waiting for something pleasant to happen. I thought to myself “Relax! It’s not big deal.”

Wasn’t it?

We walked up the three flights of stairs in her apartment complex, which was the kind of place with a gate and a person at a front desk. She opened the door and my nose was delightedly assaulted by the smell of bergamot, the source being from about two dozen candles flickering about the living room and kitchen.”

“Whoa!” I stepped inside, head twisting around in the guttering semi-dark. “Someone’s trying to get laid. Who’s the lucky mistress?”

“You like? I remembered those candles you bought last week, cobalt blue, smelling like Earl Grey.” She walked inside and hung her coat up, but didn’t take off her boots. Instead she scuffed them on the mat and wiped them off. I followed her, opting to remove my skater shoes. I had no jacket.

She went into the kitchen, calling out “So what did you think?”

I thought for a breath, trying to stay neutral. “I, um, well I liked it; it was a good enough show.”

“Oh. That’s it?”

She was searching, so I blurted out “I didn’t know you were a pornstar.”

She poked her head out of the kitchen and looked to see if I was amused or mad or merely puzzled. “Oh, yes, well, there was that. It definitely helped pay my way through college.”

“I bet.”

She came back in carrying two glasses of wine. “I didn’t think… you know…” She shrugged.

“That other girl was pretty. Why aren’t you with her?”

“Who, Miriam? She… had a lot of issues. Don’t we all? but she just refused to grow up. I did.”

“Oh. She was pretty cute, though.”

“So? What are you saying, you don’t think you are?”

“I think I’m her antithesis. Your antithesis.”

“You need to stop this nonsense. You can never appreciate what I see in you. and that’s okay because if you did you’d be horribly vain and your ego could not fit in my tiny apartment. I like you. You’re attractive. Get over it! I’m not the only one to see you like that, either; and I’m not just saying it because you’re my girlfriend. Besides, if you keep second-guessing me it only makes me feel like you don’t value my sense of beauty. Which I know you do. Now drop the ‘I’m so ugly’ routine and drink your wine.”

I was overwhelmed. I took a sip, meek; then I quipped “Trying to liquor me up?”

“Of course. But I doubt I need to.”

“So… do you have a folio of those photographs?”

“Liked what you saw?”

“Artistically, yes.”

Jordan snorted. She set down her wine on an end table near the couch, and took a cardboard-covered book from the bookshelf. “Here. Look at these and have some more wine. I have to finish up some work and then I’ll join you. Try not to fall asleep on me.”

“With this book? Besides, you know I’m running on night-shift time. I won’t sleep ‘til the sun comes up.”

Jordan flashed a cunt-wrenching smile. “Good.”

Then she left me alone with the book.

I finished up my glass first, mouth dry with anticipation. This was an uncensored part of history. I padded quietly into the kitchen, which was festooned with more candles. The wine was a large bottle of Hazlitt’s Brambleberry, which was my favorite. “Someone’s really trying hard tonight,” I muttered, laughing into the still air. I brought the whole bottle with me and started my investigation.

Not all of the pictures were of Jordan, or of Miriam. The photographer reminded me of Jessica Tanzer’s work. The first photo was from 1985, when Jordan was legally old enough to be in erotic art. I couldn’t help but think “I was barely two.” In most of the sets she’s half-clothed, often topless, making muscles and moues. In some, the more Tanzer-esque shots, she’s almost innocently courting and kissing this Miriam woman. The photographer had a way of making the entire act, from introduction through seduction to fornication, seem without guile or jadedness. It was certainly beautiful, but also artful. Even more political or vulgar shots weren’t slimy like some erotic work felt. It was… tasteful.

The collection chronicled, indirectly, Jordan’s transformation during the eighties from punk dyke to biker dyke to just… Jordan. At some point, just after the 1995 bar shot, she began to look more focused, healthy, but somehow sweetly melancholy. The last shot, taken in 2001, she appeared as the manifestation I knew now: boots, jeans, white shirt tucked in, and a cocky grin. No frills, really. She didn’t need them any more.

I couldn’t be more smitten or stricken.

“Like what you see?”

I jumped, giggling. Muttered, “Yeah.”

She sat down next to me and refilled her cup. She’d changed, but discreetly. When I noticed what, I almost choked on my wine. Then I drank it faster.

There was a none-too-subtle bulge in her jeans.

To keep from completely caving in, I curled up closer to her, to keep that vision out of sight, and chirped “So tell me about it. The photography and whatnot.”

Definitely chagrinned, she cleared her throat. “Well, the photographer was a friend of mine. Really talented, making some money from the porn mags. Not really a career track for her, but it was enough. So one day she asked if I would model for her. At first I was camera-shy…”

“Yeah right.”

“…but clearly I warmed up to it. She paid me for each set; not much, but it was recreation for me. Whenever she sold a picture of me, she would give me a third of the profit. If she sold a whole set she’d pay almost half. Miriam and I would split the money once we were doing shoots together. Eventually the photographer moved into the more artistic realm, given its appeal of more viewers and revenue. She kept in touch and would take a couple candids when she visited. Haven’t talked to her in a couple years.”

She pushed closer to me and I swallowed. Sipping more wine, I asked “So why did you leave Miriam, and, you know, drastically change. I mean, you took all your piercings out, changed style… that’s a lot.”

“Honestly, life in the eighties was rough on me. I was no angel.” She winked. “After a couple years the drugs just messed me up. Nosebleeds from the coke, sometimes constant nausea, and the loss of friends and family, be it from death or disgrace. I found out my liver was going to shit out on me if I didn’t stop drinking. And after my dad died from complications from lung cancer, I quit smoking. Quit the coke, the pills, the hook-ups. Nothing’s scarier than getting tested for H.I.V. Try getting tested three times in a year. I was done with that. Miriam kept at it all… who knows, maybe she’s still alive.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not a clue. The break-up was hard. She saw me panicking but didn’t slow down. Eventually she caught something…”

“A.I.D.s?”

“Naw. Hepatitis. She was a wreck. I moved on.”

“So, your dad… is that why you don’t like my smoking?”

“No… I don’t like the taste. And it makes me wanna go back.”

“What about the piercings?”

“When I got my first professorship I took ‘em all out. I figured, they’d just make life harder.”

“Not me, I’m keeping what I have. I’ll be the most popular writing teacher there is!”

Jordan snorted. “Sure. Anyways, no more questions.” She closed the folio and put it gingerly on the end table. Then she finished her wine- I quickly did the same- and took the glasses aside as well. Her sudden attention and my empty hands shook me. My hands ended up balled with my shorts in the grasp.

Jordan reached forward with the pretense of adjusting my tie but really she yanked it towards her and kissed me hard. Her fingers undid the knot and pulled the tie free; she broke off the kiss with a laugh and practically winked at me.

She traced the solemn, solid silver chain choker around my neck, ending at the artistic but definite and functional padlock which rested in the hollow of my throat. From around her neck she drew the key and unlocked me, before taking from the end table drawer my collar- a sturdy length of black leather, padded, with an O-ring in the front and a lock-able buckle in the back. She put this on me and then sat back, admiring the look of the leather against my throat and the pulse beating underneath it.

“You know, I’ve been planning this all week. I almost cried when you said you couldn’t make it. But I understood why.” Her tone was sardonic, but it quickly changed to business-like.” So. You know the rules: speak when spoken to, unless I give you permission otherwise. Do precisely what I say, or you’ll be punished. Refer to me only as sir or daddy. Behave. If you need a break or cannot continue, just give the safe word: blackjack. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Then it began in earnest.

She took out several tools and laid them out on the end table, and removed the wine glasses while I sat silently, waiting. She returned and picked a few things up, seemingly deciding over the minutia of what should happen next.

“Stand up.” She clicked into place my leash: a thin steel chain about five feet long.

I stood ram-rod straight and unwavering as she touched me, in a way that was more assessing than arousing. Jordan unsheathed a knife; I flinched and she yanked on the leash. “Move, and you may find yourself cut,” she stated calmly, reasonably as she dragged the cool flat of the blade along my cheek. Then she methodically cut off the buttons of my shirt; I did not protest, for I knew with certainty I would wake up to watching her sew them back on lovingly. The buttons made muted clinks as they hit the bare wood floor.

Jordan removed my shirt and placed it over an arm of the couch. Then she unfastened my belt; this had the unmistakable effect of causing my breath the increase and my cunt to clench. Soon my belt, shorts, socks, and underwear followed suit of my shirt. Together we managed to get my sportsbra off without tangling it on the leash. I was utterly naked and bereft.

She left me shivering there as she milled about, gathering the buttons and putting them somewhere safe, and then turning up music I had just slightly registered before. This was my music; a mix of late nineties trip-hop artists like Massive Attack and Portishead and Hooverphonic was playing. The blend of jazz-like orchestration with heavy machine bass-beats and sometimes rap-style delivery of lyrics had caught me early on. It was the kind of music perfect for an all-night sex scene.

Or dancing; whatever.

She came back to me, lifting the chain, which had been hanging idly between my breasts down to the floor, bisecting me.

“Like the music?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

She led me back to the couch and sat us down. The key to the night- the game- was to ascertain her mood. Sometimes Jordan favored slow seduction with very few BDSM-esque elements except for the overt power dynamic. Some nights were still slow but it became about the meticulous art of humiliation, torture, role-playing; the build-up. Some nights she wanted things violent and hard; she focused on punishment, on using her crops, floggers and whatnot; force. And then there were nights that were just fast and furious but there were not instruments of torture, just a good hard fuck before bed. Tonight she seemed to want a scenario, but I would have to let her show me what it was. All I knew was that I was to submit to her in any way.

It would be slow.

At first she just watched me; this has always made me intensely uncomfortable, especially given my nudity. My breathing resumed its elevated pace, and subconsciously my limbs rearranged themselves to try to regain my modesty. As always when this happened, Jordan switched the leash, so that my neck jerked slightly. “I didn’t say you could hide yourself, Archer. Put your hands back at your sides, your legs uncrossed, turn back towards me, and stop slouching.” Her voice was firm, but not yet malevolent. I corrected my posture. I started to blush and would probably be blushing all night.

She started to fondle me, hands admiring the curve of jawbone, breast, and belly. It was humiliating, which was exactly the point: for some people this would make them brim over with pride or vanity, but with me there was uncertainty. Add onto this an imposed silence, an inability to hide myself, or to touch her, and all my well-groomed defenses were gone.

She knew this, of course. She knew that before her, before this grand experiment, I had typically been the stereotypical butch figure of fuck first and stay stone. What lies I swallowed to protect myself from feeling, of facing fears; that I denied a desire deep in me that Jordan recognized. Perhaps recognized as something similar to her own, for we were both anathema to the archetypal lesbian world and its pairings. So she knew that to avoid shame in going against my desires I would remain dressed until the last possible moment, touch while avoiding caresses, fuck while avoiding reciprocation. It didn’t make me come, but it kept me safe and there was some definite satisfaction in making another woman orgasm. If that made any sense. And because she knew these things she could counter my resistance, work through every defensive posture until I was open and deprogrammed and forced to adapt, to learn. Or to walk away. It wasn’t about the humiliation as an arousing factor- we had discussed at length my virulent distaste for it, especially in public- but as a way to strip me down to my most vulnerable, so that I had to trust her completely. To accept her.

So her fingers continued to trace over my skin, and she gave a running monologue which I could not answer. “You never picked up a tan working nights, but this paleness suits you, contrasts so well with your dark hair. And I can never get over how soft your skin is, and it isn’t fat, it’s the actual skin. Plenty of lotion companies market for skin like this. And you’ve lost weight, and you’re too thin already I can feel your ribs more than the last time… I’ll have to cook more dinners for you. Fatten you up for the winter. Huh, I never understood why you felt the need to shave for that family reunion; they have to accept that you’re just a big hairy dyke. That stubble has to itch something fierce…” She was running her hands over my crotch, feeling the week-old growth of hair. Under my arms and down my shins it was the same, and it did itch something fierce.

When her hand passed down my spine I couldn’t help it, all my back muscles spasmed, forcing me to arch and gasp. This was calculated, because Jordan was aware of how ticklish I was, especially there. She yanked on the leash and I whimpered inaudibly.

“Stop fussing about.”

“Yes, sir.”

The act repeated itself; this was the real torture, trying to keep muscles rigid from their reflex.

“Stop it, Archer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then, again.

“Archer.”

“Sir! It tickles, I’m sorry…”

“I did not ask for an explanation or excuse. I asked you to keep still. You are not obeying even a simple direction.”

“Sir, how can I apologize?” I wheedled.

“Lovely,” the sweetness in her voice was the complexity of the game- loving, mocking, and underneath both, gentle. “Are you trying to avoid punishment? Tsk. Just stop moving.”

For five whole seconds I succeeded, as her fingers outlined delicate spirals over my shoulder blades. But when the calloused ridges of those fingertips caught on the skin of my lower back, I couldn’t help it. My back arched again with a sharp inhalation, as I awaited the inevitable reprimand.

“On the floor.”

“Yes, sir.” I knelt, assuming what I was guessing as the desired position. My eyes were glued to the floor, afraid to catch what might be next. Was I to kiss her boots? Like humiliation, it was something that I did with the desire to please, but was ambivalent to. It was hard to stomach, the thought of where those boots had been, even though I had seen her wipe them off before. I could imagine that particular salty taste and sandy feel of grit in the tender places of my mouth as my tongue pressed hard into the leather…

She tugged the chain. “On your back. Since you feel the need to move, you’ll move precisely as I tell you to.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” I knew what this was. Oh. Fuck.

She stood over me, one leg a colossal beam on either side of my torso. She held the leash imperiously, glaring down at me, savoring what words she would say next. I stared up at her, her green eyes slits in her angular face, her silvery hair falling over her forehead and creating odd shadows. She looked golden in her blinding-white undershirt and dark jeans. I waited for the command I knew she would give, and what those words would do to me.

“I want you to masturbate.”

It was hard to swallow again. “Yes, sir.”

And I complied, her watching me, face now closed off. My blush deepened and spread. My embarrassment ate at me even as my desire did. And my eyes fixed on hers. Masturbating like this was difficult; usually since I needed an impetus like pornography, a vibrator, privacy. Here, in the open, her gaze studying my arm reaching down, the movement of my hand, it was hard to concentrate.

“Are you wet, Archer?”

“Ye… yes, sir,” I stammered.

“Is your clitoris hard?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

She would ask questions, and somehow it stimulated me, it put me in the right mindset, distracted me. At some point, when I had traveled into my head, I felt a substantial pressure on my chest. My eyes opened and saw that Jordan was half-standing on me, one boot gingerly planted on my sternum, where the weight would not suffocate me. One hand clutched at the leash with utmost authority.

Better- or worse, but really, better- she was groping at her crotch, at the bulge in her jeans. That spurred me on. I finally slipped back into my body and felt heated blood rise, getting so close to orgasm, so close…

And then she stopped me, which pissed me off.

“Stand up.”

“Yes, sir,” I gritted, waiting for her to remove her foot. Once I was standing, catching my composure, eyes downcast, she brought me to the bedroom by the leash. There were precipitously less candles, but instead a greater cliché: rose petals on the bed. I paused upon seeing this romantic gesture, and she yanked me in.

“You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.” I carefully unfastened her belt and unzipped her jeans. There it was, her black strapped-on cock, waiting. I was always bad at this, but I did the act with the intense desire to please. It was more of a visual act, for there were no strong sensations, no living nerves to receive my efforts. Her palm cradled the back of my head, grinding into the stubble. I couldn’t help but moan, even as I felt myself choke.

As I gagged she pulled my head back by the hair of my fauxhawk- no easy feat. I thought she’d be mad, but when I looked up she looked vastly pleased.

“Is daddy’s dick too big for you, boi?”

Without missing a beat, “Yes, sir.”

She gave me a bark of laughter and lifted me back to my feet. “Get a condom from the nightstand, and the lubricant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jordan had me open the condom and roll it onto her strap-on. Then, with a sudden unexpected shove, had me bent over the bed on my stomach. To add to whatever mortification I already felt, she slipped a hand between my thighs.

“Never mind the lube, it seems you won’t need any.”

She teased me, refusing to penetrate me flat out, making me urgent, waiting for me to beg. She held the leash firmly in one hand and used the other to smack my backside. My ass awkwardly ground into her pelvis, seeking respite as much as dodging blows, feeling the head rub against my clit. I was shameless.

“Do you want it, boi?”

“Yes, sir,” I mewled.

“Say it.”

“I want it, sir.”

“Say it so I can hear you, boi.”

“I want your cock, sir.”

“No, not like that. Tell me. Say: I want daddy’s cock. Say it.”

“I want daddy’s cock.”

“Louder!”

“I want daddy’s cock,” I wailed, at a loss. Defeated. Desperate.

She thrust in. I yelped, feeling the full length hit all the way to my cervix. I winced and pulled myself back, hips sinking into the mattress. She moved slowly at first, as much to torment me as to allow my body to acclimate. Strange noises permeated through my throat as I clutched at the mattress and tried to impose a faster rhythm on Jordan. I was getting lost in that point of connection, in the rough texture of denim against the raw backs of my thighs, in the sweat that rolled down my spine. My ears searched for her matching pant, for the occasional grunt or groan. The physicality of the act took away the last visage of resistance in my mind. There was no room for it.

But it didn’t take long. Even as I tried to distract myself, to make the moment last longer, I felt one hand grip my hip, vice-like, while the other hand slipped forward to stroke my clit. I gave it up, coming with the force she fed into me. Even as I sagged forward, panting, face full of those velvety petals adhering to my sweat-glazed skin I listened to her still behind me.

She pulled out slowly, making me groan. She stepped back and I turned around, silently pleading for her to let me finish her off. She acquiesced, knowing how significant it was to me, even as we both knew it wasn’t about keeping score, about who came first or more frequently. But I had been to that place where I had offered myself to her, every little flaw and wound, and trusted her. She knew this, and let me advance.

I cautiously removed the strap-on, with her help, and carefully put it aside- I was still in the thrall of my role. Kneeling as I was, I grasped her hips and steered her to the edge of the bed. She sat down, her eyes set on mine, communicating my deep privilege; and underneath that, her gratitude.

I was shocked speechless by the fact that she was soaked. It never ceased to amaze. My hands caressed her inner thighs, and she moved to accommodate me, lying back slightly, propped on her elbows, gazing at me with that romance-novel burning gaze. I closed my eyes and rubbed my cheek against one warm thigh before leaning forward with an inhale.

The wave of complex sensations made me leisurely, savoring the act. The taste of her was sweet because she had been eating strawberries and abstained from coffee all week, a clue to her anticipation. The heat she was generating. The smoothness of her inner lips and how they contrasted the pleasant scratchiness of her pubic hair. Her smell was strong but not disagreeable, and was distinctly hers.

A low moan above me and her hips pushing upwards told me to hurry up a little. Even as my tongue drew out a dark litany, I reached up and raked blunted nails over her stomach, feeling the muscles contract. She became more insistent; I bit down around her clit and sucked on it. She cried out at that, so I smiled and flicked my tongue down faster. Abruptly her legs clamped down on my head and blocked out all senses. In this dark, soundless, airless state I felt every tremor travel from her cunt to mine.

Then I butted my head back, growing desperate for oxygen, dizzy. She laughed despite panting and eased the death-grip of her thighs. I fell back with a gasp and just stayed there, eyes glazed, suddenly drained. She sat up and reached for me.

After a minute all I could croak was “Rose petals?” as I stood up and plunked beside her on the bed.

“Yeah, well, what can I say, I’m a romantic idiot,” she murmured. She undid my collar and tossed it to the floor. “Help me undress?”

Only then did I realize she was caught up in her t-shirt and bra. I couldn’t even recall how she got out of her jeans and briefs. I chuckled and peeled off the sweat-damp t-shirt over her head and threw it on top of her jeans. The bra swiftly followed.

“There’s a petal stuck on your forehead.”

“Get it off?”

She did, kissing me and licking my lips.

“Maybe I’ll give up coffee for good,” she joked.

I burned red, pushed her collarbone, and she flopped backwards, sending up a cloud of roses. I looked at her over my shoulder and said “What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten into that accident?”

“I would have brought someone else home.”

“Psh.”

“I would have come home, drank a glass of wine, and gone to bed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would have come home, drank a glass of wine, masturbated, then gone to bed.”

“See, isn’t it better to tell the truth?”

“Maybe called you while I was masturbating to leave a lurid message along the lines of what you were missing.”

I laid down next to her and bit her neck, whispering “Please do some time.”

Not hearing me, or perhaps ignoring me, she just laughed, “Hungry or something?”

“Not really, I think I’m full now.”

She grabbed a pillow and hit me with it. “Yeah, I bet.”