“Your cock,” she said, slowly bringing her hand to it and letting her fingers nest in the short pubic hair, and it wasn’t an insult or a jab, but merely a reflection as she finished her words: “gets so small when you’re not fucking.”

The television was on, but the volume was off, and the lights were off, so the room was lit with the flashbangs of commercials, scene changes, and random washes of green and blue. The sweat had cooled and the sheets now soaked us back. In all honesty, these were signs I should have gotten up, dressed, and made my way home.

“Yeah,” I said, acknowledging my limp and shrunken cock. I wasn’t offended or joking, but answered with the same tone as hers: “I’m a grow-er not a show-er.”

She left her hand on me and her fingers made the smallest of motions, and that was enough. I grew and it was soon that I was stiffer and fuller, and she noted the size difference.

“Travel-size,” she said, holding her index finger and thumb apart. “And fun-size,” she stretched them apart as wide as she could, but this play— this light-hearted and tender moment— was much too much for me to bear and I put my hand on her head, grabbed a fistful of her short brown hair, and roughly brought her mouth to my cock— it must have tasted salty with drying traces of my cum and her pussy— and the talking stopped because she knew what I wanted her to do.

If this doesn’t sound like the start to some fun, I don’t know what is:

I cover the bed with a beach towel as a precaution. Mister sits on the bed and pushes my knees apart. “If it feels like you need to pee, just go with it,” he tells me. Without warning, he slaps my pussy hard with his open hand. It startles me, but I like it. My pussy instantly feels warm and tingly.

“Put some fingers in,” I suggest, suddenly wanting to be stuffed with cock.

“Nope, we’re doing it this way,” Mister says. “Brings the blood right to the surface, makes it more sensitive.”

The man sounds like he knows what he’s doing.

Thwack. Mister smacks me again and again. I feel a pressure building, my cunt is already wet and waiting. “Stop holding back,” he says. Thwack. “Shit, I’m gonna pee,” I moan. Mister smacks me harder and faster. I try to hold it in. “Let it go,” he orders. I can’t. It feels like I have to piss and I just can’t bring myself to go there.

Mister brings his face close to mine and grabs a handful of my hair. “Listen slut, I told you to squirt. Do it.” He hits between my legs with his free hand. “Do it, let it go,” he hisses between clenched teeth. As he yanks my hair harder, the pressure in my pussy hits critical mass. My whole body feels like it’s teetering on a precipice. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it all in. “Now,” Mister roars.

And letting go, sometimes, is what you need to be ordered to do.

It was useless to regret standing in her doorway and walking through. It was senseless to have shame or doubt or whatever else because that’s not what she wanted when she called me, and it certainly wasn’t what she wanted when she turned and saw my face and asked me if everything was okay and if I wanted something to drink or eat or any of those pleasantries that are tossed so faintly into the open but they’re transparent and thin and weak little ghosts of a dying relationship that fly with the wind as soon as we acknowledge why I’m really here.

There was fear in her eyes, in certain lights, and I would catch it every now and then. We sat on her couch awkwardly and at a strange distance as our bodies didn’t know how close or how far to be from each other.

I didn’t think she wanted to talk. It was simply too soon. And I knew that I was also struggling to understand what happened last time, and why I made her cry— no, why it felt the way it did to make her cry, and to make her bleed. “Get up,” I finally said, even though we had just sat down. I issued another command: “Bedroom.”

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I am eternally in awe of those who craft poetry. I cannot do it, and I find its creation as powerful as the creation of sparkling gemstones.

Eight dark smudges
indelible beneath skin
a quartet nestled
beside each hip bone.

The staggering of words, the linebreaks… all to create artistically with both what is written, and what is not.

Small purple anemones
bloom under my jawline,
in the crook of my arm
and just next to
my left nipple.

Positive and negative, what is present and what is absent, is, to me, poetry.

“Everything is green,” she tells me idly, although I know it isn’t true. The sky is lit blue and the trees are still naked and bare and brown. The city is (still) swathed in varying shades of gray and grime, desperately waiting for Spring rains to wash the traces of Winter away.

Her face was fair and freckled, with only the slightest traces of makeup, and she tells me despite her blonde hair that she’s “some part” Irish and that’s what she really means. I laugh and tell her that I will kiss only “some part” of her then, and this is how we play (sometimes).

A carry-on is stuffed and sitting in the hall and she’s left the handle pulled up, and a tote hangs from it. Next to it is a larger, bulkier suitcase. Both are bulging and threaten to explode with clothing. And this is how I can tell that she can’t stay long. Sure, her jeans peeled off easily and she wore a baggy sweatshirt bearing the name of her college that went up and over her head easily. She didn’t rush or hurry or give me any indication that she had to go, but then again she knows me well enough by now: I figure things out.

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Close your eyes. Bring the thoughts to breathing— a breath in, held, and then an exhale out. And reminisce:

I can’t be there, in his bed, wrapped in his arms. I can’t be there, so I close my eyes and just imagine it. Remember it, more correctly.

Indulge, a little bit, in the soft sins we commit to memory. After all, these are little more than waking dreams.

His hands wander farther south, loving every inch of me as he whispers sweet nothings into my ears. I’m melting into the moment, not wanting it to end. I feel like I’m turning into a woman [now], like I’ve been a little girl my entire life and didn’t even know it.

He’s dominant in the purest way. He doesn’t tie me up or force me on my back or make demands. He just takes what is his. He moves from behind me and move me to my back, slipping a finger in me. And then, I realize how crazily I want him, how wet I am, how close I am to orgasming already. He got me to that point before even touching my pussy, before even thinking about touching my pussy.

And for the rest of us? Well, a memory not ours can simply be a fantasy. A very good fantasy.