While I was away, I peppered J with emails and text messages promising lots of hard use and abuse when I returned. I told him I’d hood him, bind him, abuse him, and use him to the point of exhaustion. I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to wait until we got back to the house–night after night, while I laid in an unfamiliar bed, I fantasized about seeing him at the airport, dragging him to the parking garage, and fucking him in the back seat of his car.
But when the flight touched down, I was physically and emotionally drained. I met his smiles and warmth and eagerness with little energy and no want for play. I barely spoke on the ride back.
When we got to my place, I told him to go upstairs, take off his clothes and get into bed. I left my luggage in the hall and followed him up. After I brushed my teeth, I got into bed next to him without bothering to change out of my clothes. I slid my thigh between his, wrapped my hand around his throat, and I remember thinking that he felt like home to me. That was the last thing I remember before I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I was roused by the delicious smells of breakfast–the whole house smelled like a bakery. I glanced at the clock, muttered something about “not being allowed in the kitchen…” and then fell back to sleep.
Some time later, I opened my eyes and found J sitting at the foot of my bed, waiting. Neither one of us said anything.
I stretched and stripped off my clothes right in front of him, leaving them crumpled on the floor. I went into the bathroom, ran the water to get it hot, and stepped into the shower. The shower enclosure offers absolutely no privacy–it’s all glass and gives anyone in the bedroom an 180 degree view of the bather. In the past, I’ve disliked being “caught” naked. But recently, I’ve learned that sometimes I enjoy being watched. While it’s still a “rule” that he isn’t permitted to watch me without permission, I’ve been lax in enforcing it–I typically let him off with a pleasant punishment and whatever comes of my feeling admired and wanted.
More than enjoying the feeling of being admired, I enjoy watching him as he watches me. Even after dating for a year and a half, it’s rare that he sees me completely naked and it’s fascinating to watch his reactions. I imagine his range of emotions is much the same as a teenage boy who finds a dirty magazine–he knows he isn’t supposed to look, but can’t help himself. I like seeing his countenance shift from shock (as if I’m the first woman he’s ever seen nude), to discomfort and conflict (he knows he isn’t allowed to watch me), to a hungry sort of wanting that reminds me of the way he looked at me when we first met, before we ever touched. He wanted–openly and actively. I remember finding his forwardness equal parts presumptuous and hot.
The struggle that plays across his face is delicious. He objectifies me while simultaneously fighting the urge to do just that. I love watching his conflict–he’s beautiful when he fights himself.
I wonder if he notices my conflict. On rare occasion, my vanity wins out and I find myself enjoying his admiration.
Despite our various conflicts, that morning it felt safe being watched from behind steamy glass.
As I rinsed off, he noticed me watching him as he watched me. He made eye contact for a moment and then averted his eyes. He stared down at the floor looking equally wanton and ashamed.