Between sips of merlot, I clipped my nails and tried to continue our conversation from dinner. While J made some effort to engage in the conversation, he was clearly distracted. He kept looking at my hands, his thoughts already elsewhere.
When I was done with the clippers, I picked up the emery board and started smoothing the sharp corners and jagged edges. J watched me with such intensity and longing — you would have thought I was performing a seductive strip tease instead of filing my nails.
My irritation at the extra sensitivity in my fingertips was compounded by his obvious anticipation. It bothers me when he takes pleasure in something I don’t find pleasurable. It annoys me when his excitement feels more like expectation.
“You know I hate doing this. I shouldn’t have to do it… you do it.”
I pushed the nail file across the table towards J, pulled my chair next to his, and offered him my hand.
He picked up the file and took my hand cautiously. After he found a comfortable position, slowly — excruciatingly slowly — he dragged the course file across the free edge of my index fingernail.
I winced immediately. Every muscle in my body tensed and I remembered why I don’t go to salons for manicures. I can file my own nails, but when someone else does it, the sensation makes me cringe. It’s worse than nails on a chalkboard — it’s like having someone else pull my fingers across a chalkboard. It makes my teeth hurt.
When he moved to drag the board across my nail again, I jerked my hand away.
“No. Stop… bad idea. I can’t stand that feeling… when someone else files my nails… I just… I can’t stand it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Just leave them the way they are.”
I took the file from him and started rounding the edges on my index finger myself.
“I can’t leave them this way. If they aren’t smoothed out, the edges will catch. If I have an itch and scratch myself, I’ll draw blood… and what kind of damage do you think that might do to you, huh?”
I pointed at him with the nail file, gesturing below his belt.
As I watched him struggle not to smile, I found myself doing the same. His smile is contagious — even when it’s selfish and even when I’m irritated.
“Greedy, greedy boy,” I shook my head at him in reproach, “all you can think of is getting fucked… am I right?”
“Yes ma’am,” he confessed.
I pursed my lips dismissively and turned my attention back to my hand. As I dragged the emery board across a corner of a nail, I had a thought. It was such a tiny little idea, but potentially evil enough… my face cracked into a broad grin at the possibility.
When I smiled up at J, he stopped smiling. His eyes went wide. I fucking love when that happens.
“Open up, please,” I beamed. (I’m incapable of playing it cool, especially when I’m proud of myself.)
He did as he was told, without hesitation, opening his mouth wide.
“Not that far… just a little.”
He closed his mouth halfway and looked at me for approval. I nodded, smiled, and stuck the emery board between his teeth.
“Now… close. Close your mouth…. go ahead… bite down. Hold it there.”
He bit down into the sandpaper and cringed at the grit between his teeth.
“No… that angle isn’t right. Look down… no… not with your eyes… with your head. Put your chin to your chest… Good. Right there. Now hold it tight… ”
Slowly, tentatively, I dragged a fingernail across the file between his teeth.
His eyes squeezed shut and the muscles in his neck tensed. His hands balled up into tight fists in his lap.
I smiled and dragged my nail in the opposite direction.
He struggled to keep his head still while the rest of his body squirmed. When I stopped for a moment, he planted his feet further apart, took a deep breath and held it, steeling himself for another go.
I was delighted. Not only was I pleased with myself for thinking of it, I was so-fucking-overjoyed at his pained reaction.
I dragged my nails back and forth over the file between his teeth for a while and stopped to check my progress. It wasn’t good, but going through the motions was more than worth it, just for his reactions — for the way he contorted his face and for the strange strangled sounds he made.
He was feeling the same sort of visceral revulsion I feel when someone files my nails… only the sound and the feeling were inside his own head. He was feeling the same ‘nails on a chalkboard’ irritation that makes my teeth hurt… only the thing making his teeth hurt was literally between his teeth. It pleased me.
I kept at it through all five fingers on one hand and moved on to the other.
At some point, I realized he was really, truly experiencing some sort of discomfort, but experiencing it in a completely different way than if I had struck him with a flogger or sunk my teeth into his earlobe. Neither one of us was naked, we weren’t in bed, and at that moment, I was absolutely sure that getting fucked was the furthest thing from his mind. I had managed to rid him of his expectations — he had no thoughts beyond the sandpaper between his teeth and the awful vibrations in his skull. He hoped for nothing except an end to his discomfort.
There was nothing wanton or sexy or hopeful about his distress… but somehow, it was hot as fuck.
Watching him squirm was both deeply satisfying and strangely arousing. I rushed my way through the last few fingers — I’d have to file all my nails again properly before I fucked him, but there would be time for that later.
“You’re done. Open.”
He opened his mouth just a fraction of an inch, letting the emery board fall into my hand. He didn’t close his mouth or stretch his jaw; he just sat there with his lips parted, motionless.
“You’re fine,” I concluded. “Now go upstairs, rinse your mouth out… well. Get all the grit out and then brush your teeth. I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom… Go.”
He didn’t respond with his usual “Yes, ma’am.” He just did as he was told.
I refilled my empty wine glass and went upstairs after him. I heard the water running in his bathroom as I got to my bedroom, stripped off my jeans and panties, and propped myself up in bed on a few pillows.
I sipped my wine as the sound of water running was replaced by the buzz of J’s electric toothbrush.
He entered the bedroom a minute later and stopped a few steps inside the doorway, still silent.
“Good boy…” I purred.
I leaned back and opened my legs. I was already so-fucking-wet. Without a word, he got between my knees and went to work.