In a stroke of dream-logic, we decide that I should spend some time with you to see if what we have can withstand real life. Somehow I explain it to my current boyfriend in a way that makes it okay. If you and I are as compatible in person as we are online, a break between Joe and I will be discussed. If our relationship is best with physical distance, then Joe and I stay together and you and I can have our online relationship.
So we work out that I’ll come and stay with you for a week. I show up one morning, suitcase in hand.
When I get to your door my nerves almost get the best of me, and I find myself unable to knock on the door. I lean my head against the door and close my eyes, steadying myself, and almost fall over as you open the door suddenly. You catch me by my shoulders, laughing helplessly as I drop my suitcase on your feet and look up, blushing horribly. You pick up the suitcase, and keeping one hand on my arm, bring me into your living room. We stare wordlessly at each other. I’m so nervous I don’t think I could speak even if I could think of anything intelligent to say! I hold out the paper sack I’m carrying. “Liquid courage. Figured we might need it,” and you open the bag to find a bottle of the best Scotch Whiskey. “Good call, apparently!” you say, with laughter still in your voice. You walk into the kitchen and call back for me to sit down and make myself at home.Â
I perch on the arm of the sofa, too nervous to sit, and silently take the glass you offer me, half-full of whiskey with an ice cube already dissolving. We touch glasses, smile, and drink. It’s strong stuff – we both inhale sharply – drink again – and the brew begins its work. We both exhale and relax a little. You ask why I’m so nervous and I tell you how scared I am that our daydreams will be just that – daydreams – and the spark won’t be there for real. You take another healthy swallow and say, “Well, there’s only one way to find out, hm?”, and come up to me, take the glass from my hand and set it on the table, and pull me into your arms. It feels so strange to be holding you after so long in memory. We’re both trembling, getting tenser and tenser – and then you sigh heavily, take my shoulders, and running your hands down my arms, bring them behind my back and lace your fingers around my wrists. In just a second the tension changes to a completely different sort. “I thought that might work,” you whisper against my neck, and nuzzle into the collar of my shirt to the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and nip me gently – and I gasp, and push my body against yours without reservation now. “See?” you say, “Spark intact!” and my case of nerves is *gone*, like that.
You pull away a little and really see me for the first time, and say, “Look at you! You dressed up for me!” And I have – I’ve worn an outfit I bought just for you – a bit of a shorter skirt than I’d wear normally and a wine-red silk blouse, high heels and stockings and all. I stand up and turn around – look over my shoulder and ask if you like? And you say the thing that brings a shudder to my soul every time, “Papa *likes*!” You’ve moved to sit on the arm of the couch where I was, and I turn around and move back close to you, between your knees, and slide my arms around your neck. You’re closer to my height this way, and I move in a wave to press against you – groin, hips, belly, breasts… I can feel my eyes going half-closed and my breath coming harder, your arms around my waist pulling me closer… I let my head fall back as I get close enough to let our lips touch and I’m lost as quickly as that. The spark flares quickly to a flame as you take my mouth with yours, my lips opening under yours, acceding control – and you take it, kissing me harder and harder, your tongue touching mine and then crushing me against you, taking me under.
When you pull away I’m drugged, my head spinning, and I slur, “Anything, I’ll do anything for you…” and you breathe, “Really?” and with your hands on my shoulders push me to my knees. I sigh, “Oh YES” and nuzzle between your thighs, feeling you hard against my cheek, and you take the hair at the base of my neck and pull me away from you and tell me to remove my blouse. I do, in a daze, pulling at the wrists before realizing I have to unbutton the cuffs, and baring myself for you eagerly. You keep me at a remove to admire the lace bra I’ve worn for you, and then let me go with a twist to the hair at the nape of my neck that brings tears to my eyes. I reach up to undo your belt and jeans, biting at the insides of your thighs in my impatience to get to you, and you lean forward to pull the material out of my way, wanting it as bad as I do. I lick the underside of your shaft in a long sweep, bringing an entirely sensuous groan from you, and then take you deep, working you as skillfully as I know how, wanting only to bring you more pleasure… after a time you pull me away from you, to my protests, but I want more as much as you do.
You move around to sit on the couch properly and gesture for me to come stand in front of you. You tell me to remove my skirt and I do, slowly, turning around so you can see as I unzip it and slide it over my hips. When you see that I’m wearing thigh-high stockings instead of pantyhose you murmur in appreciation, then tell me to come kneel next to you on the couch. Leaning over, you pick up my glass from the table and take a swallow, then hand it to me to finish off. You slide your arm around my waist and draw in to kiss me again, the whiskey flavoring our lips and heating us even more.
And then you straighten, look me straight in the eye with this impossibly erotic expression, and say low, “I’m gonna go Secretary* on your ass,” and putting your hand on my lower back you force me over your thighs. I shiver as I feel you lever yourself between my belly and your thighs as you push me down. You thrust against me, still wet from my mouth, and shudder hard and go very still, your breath coming fast. I feel deliciously exposed and vulnerable like this, and I can’t help the little cries that come out with each of my breaths. I wriggle my hips in pure pleasure and you smack my buttocks sharply – “Stay *still* for a minute!” and the shock of it ripples through me and I gasp your name. You lean forward and say against my back, “I guess that means you like it?” your breath hot on my skin, and I moan helplessly in reply. You begin to strike me, fairly gently at first but harder as I respond more avidly, until you’re going at me hard enough to leave welts with each blow, and I’m transported with this feeling like I haven’t been before, tears running down my cheeks from the pain but I don’t want you to stop, and tell you so between cries. You’re rock-hard against my belly, thrusting with each blow, and as you begin to come you slide your hand between my thighs and ram your fingers deep into me, two of them in me and two pushing forward. As you do this I realize how close I’ve been to coming the whole time, and almost immediately convulse against you, bringing you over the edge at the same time, feeling you shooting against me in hot jets and grinding my hips harder to get all the sensations I possibly can. We’re both shaking and pretty much yelling out our pleasure when we hear a banging sound from below – we freeze and realize it’s your downstairs neighbor protesting about the amount of noise we’ve been making! I glance over my shoulder and you’re laughing soundlessly and say, “He’s just gonna have to get used to it, isn’t he?”
*”Secretary” is a 2002 independent film directed by Steven Shainberg and starring Maggie Gyllenhaal as Lee Holloway and James Spader as E. Edward Grey. The film is based on a short story from Bad Behavior by Mary Gaitskill, and explores the relationship between a sexually dominant man and his submissive secretary.