But.
“I like hurting you,” I say quietly, “but only for pleasure. I like making you come. That’s become my favorite fucking pastime.”
She doesn’t respond.
I don’t know what I expected, maybe a laugh, a gasp, a witty remark. But her silence tells me something I don’t want to admit.
She’s disappointed.
Good. Let her be—better than false hope.
“Why do you do this?” she asks after a beat. Her voice is quiet, but not timid. “Why sit in this dark room with a mask over your face? Why be blind to the person you're pleasuring? Why hold yourself back every time?”
“My life is very controlled. It feels like a tightrope walk some days. I work hard all the time. I go to the arena, and I work hard. I go to the gym, and I work hard. I manage my businesses, my family’s business, and I work hard. There is no time for anything else. When I come here, it’s an hour a week where I can shut everything out and just feel. And the goal in here is never to find a cheap thrill. Do you understand that? I am a professional athlete, and if I just wanted someone to fuck, I could walk out of the arena and find someone willing and waiting. Some of my teammates take full advantage of that.”
“I bet,” Ana says with a breezy laugh.
“People want to be around people with money or status or whatever. I want…something else. I want to make a connection without it being about my name, my celebrity, or my perceived power. I want to be here and have no one know any of those things about me. Here, I am no one. What happens in here isn’tabout anything other than having a moment to feel and touch and smell and taste.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Ana says. “Did you care about the woman who used to dance for you?”
“In the sense of caring for her overall well-being, yes. But otherwise, no.”
“Did you have sex with her?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“Do you miss her?”
“No.”
“Would you missmeif I didn’t come back?”
I should say no. I should not indulge this false hope she seems to harbor that this could be anything other than what it is. I should, but my mouth is a traitor. “Yes.”
“Why do you deny yourself a climax? Why can’t I touch your body the way you touch mine?”
“You can. It’s just that it brings me pleasure to please you.”
“You didn’t answer the first question.”
“I did. I like making you come. My climax is less important to me in the short time we have together.”
“So I'm staying later tonight. Is that so you can…”
“Perhaps. If we hadn’t spent the whole night talking.” I feel my lips twitch in an almost-smile.
She snorts, then I hear her hand slap over her mouth.
Then she is on the floor in front of me, unbuttoning my shirt. She’s running those small hands over my chest, skin-on-skin. She’s running them down my stomach, audibly thanking God for “washboard abs.”
She unzips my pants, pulls them down, and without hesitation, takes my cock into her mouth.
The desire to take off the mask is almost overwhelming. I want to see her. I want to know what color her hair is.
I want to know how her lips look when they curve around my cock.
I want to see her hands as they fold around the shaft, as they cup my balls.
