A Hotel in the Middle of Nowhere

You hand me the card key to the room in this town that seems despite the suburban sprawl around it to be in the middle of nowhere and send me ahead, bringing to mind memories of that very first time when you sought my complicity, as you unload bags from the car. I’m giddy and sated; red wine and dinner are responsible. Spending time doing normal things - picking out wine together at a suburban liquor store, eating dinner in a restaurant decorated to be cartoonishly reminiscent of a small Italian village, complete with a clothesline strung across the room, the few garments pinned to it swaying softly in the breeze of the air conditioner, talking and laughing over a meal – lets me see the side of you that is often lost to the expediency of tearing into each other.

I enter a functional but bland hotel room and run to the bathroom as soon as I put my bags down. The need to pee, always a good idea before sex, is urgent after a shared bottle of Bogle Petit Sirah. I hear you come in behind me and smile to myself. The heavy butt plug has been inside me for nearly six hours and though I had visions of your fingers pulling on the steel ring that is nestled between the cheeks of my ass and replacing it with your thick, hot cock, I remove it myself, placing it with a heavy thud onto the bathroom counter.

Emerging, I find you all smiles, your customary darkness nowhere in evidence. Work, wine and pasta Bolognese have drained most of your sadistic energy. I find that I don’t mind. I know that first slap across my face will prod and poke your demons into being.

When you do slap me, it takes me by surprise, a flash of light obscures my vision as your open palm connects with my cheek. You cross the room to my bag and remove a skein of black rope, wrap it carefully around one wrist but it ends up forgotten when you abruptly flip me onto my belly. Your rough hands pull my hips up and press my face into the mattress as you push your cock to the tight bud of my ass. No matter that the plug has been removed only minutes before, I still tense up, terrified of that one initial burst of lightening that sears through my whole being every time your cock penetrates me in that way. I fight you, moving away when the pain begins; begging you to go slow, please, please, please. You ignore me, in fact, now that the demons are roused, you simply maul me into place and hold me there with sharp teeth digging into the back of my neck as your cock finally impales me. Nothing makes me lose my composure, my civility, like this; this feral act complete with bared teeth, short bursts of breath, screams, fingers struggling to find purchase in the sheets and nails that dig into your arm at the moment when I no longer can even remember why I shouldn’t mark you.

Then you’re spent, your body limp on top of mine, but as always your cock still semi-hard in a way that never ceases to make me want you immediately. All over again. And again. And again. And you do; you replace the filled condom with another and poised over me, grab my ankles and spread my legs wide, too wide before mercilessly plunging into my cunt. You bend over and I attempt to move away knowing what’s coming, but you grab a handful of hair, pull and twist it so that not only does my scalp throb but each strand seems to vibrate with tension. Your mouth finds my nipple and you suck at it gently as my anxiety increases waiting for the hard edge of teeth to replace the gentleness of tongue. You bite down, clamping your teeth firmly around my tender nipple and then pull your head back, stretching, stretching, stretching. A sharp scream escapes my lips and your hand falls over my mouth and nose in a way that pushes me close to the edge of panic.

Your eyes regard mine. I wonder what you see in them. Do you note all the conflicting emotions that swirl under the surface? Do you see pleasure combined with the pain? Trust wrestling with the fear? Desire overcoming anxiety?

Your eyes are cold when you hurt me. They search mine eager to ferret out all my secrets. They search for that basic instinct that trust can’t completely annihilate in a sane person – fear. It’s my fear that makes you grow rigid no matter how many times you have come, that feeds your demons until their bellies have grown to bursting and they are finally sated, at least until the rumbling begins anew.

After, we sleep together for the first time. Exhausted we sink into a sleep that will be fitful for me and sound for you. I want more of you. I want you to be rougher. I want you to leave me battered and bruised. And I want you to sleep and to get the rest you so desperately need.

Morning comes too fast. We wake and kiss and I take your already stiff cock in my mouth. Half an hour passes before you come in my mouth.

“You know what?” you query.

Before I can question what you mean, I’m trying to protect myself, your hand is entwined in my hair and you drag me off the bed, somehow finding your belt amid my flailing limbs. You get me in position over the edge of the bed and hit me hard. I shout and curse at you but you don’t stop, you hold me immobile by my long beloved tresses, so that I have to decide whether I’d rather stay still and let you continue hitting me with your belt or struggle and lose more hair.

When you’re done reddening my bottom, you push my onto my knees and push into me from behind while you relentlessly dig your fingers into my flaming skin. The pain is exquisite. A pain I love in a way I can’t really explain. While my relationship with your belt is altogether ambivalent, the feeling of your fingers damaging me further somehow makes me transcend the discomfort and fly. I forget everything and just feel.

I shower and dress as you watch the news. A ritual couples everywhere share, one that I never envisioned for us. You take my place in the bathroom and I watch you begin to shave.

“Come on then, shave me,” you say.

“No, baby, I don’t want to cut you.”

“You can’t cut me with this razor. Come on.”

I take the razor from your hand and run it way too carefully over your thick stubble until you show me that I can press harder. I pay close attention to the planes of your face: the swell of your lips, the cleft in your chin and the hard line of your jaw. When I’m done you need to lather up and shave again.

I’m drinking my coffee, when you come out of the bathroom.

“I wasn’t going to let you shave me with this,” you say, opening the straight razor. Though the room is dark, I swear it glistens malevolently.

“Come here, bitch. Give me your hand.”

“No, no,” I spit out, shaking my head, backing away instead of coming towards you.

“Come here.” And you grab for me, pulling me to you, my back against your bare chest, my eyes fixed on the razor making sure it’s nowhere near my throat.

I feel myself get smaller, my shoulders round and close, my eyes squeeze tightly shut. I can’t look, I don’t want to. I just hear myself saying, “No, no, no, baby. I’m scared. I’m scared.”

You pull me closer, whispering in my ear, telling me how sharp it is, how just one touch against my skin is all it would take to cut me. I feel the coldness of metal against my arm, and I think you must be pressing the dull side against my skin, you wouldn’t risk cutting me, but I can’t make myself open my eyes to check.

Finally, you take the blade away and I open my eyes. You still hold onto my trembling arm.

“Shhh, shhh, don’t move, don’t move,” and the blade is again cold on my skin, my body wound tight as I struggle not to move, and you glide the blade along my arm and hold it to the light so we can see the fine hairs that cling to it.

You put the razor down, a metallic clang against the marble bathroom counter, and I begin to breathe again.

“Look what you do to me, bitch,” you say, pointing to your rock hard cock.

As we leave, I wonder just what makes you so aroused. I know it isn’t strictly me. It’s my fear and my reliance on you to keep me safe and my grudging submission and your control over my destiny in those moments that makes you so damn hard. I’m sure my great tits and lush ass don’t hurt either.