Grace
I wakeup early the next morning.
Wait. Did I do it? For a few seconds, I’m not sure I actually did. Was it even real?
I test my limbs. Oh, yeah. That shoulder’s bruised. Amongst other things.
I give myself a long, lazy stretch, and check in.
Am I okay, though?
It hurts, yeah. But other than that… I feel used in the best possible way. And excited, like there’s something unexplored winking on the horizon.
Crap. That’s not how this is supposed to go. I’m supposed to feel replete. Satisfied. Done with the fantasy. I’ve had the orgasm, after all. I’ve completed the thing, gotten it out of my system. Now, I can move on with my life. This fantasy and any relationships I might have don’t even exist on the same plane.
But theorgasm. It was nothing like the ones I’ve had on my own. I mean, I know how to make myself come just fine, but feeling that close to the surface, that big and open and pulsing with pleasure from another person’s touch was a different beast entirely.
Grinning to myself, I cast a glance at Max and see she’s rolled up into a little ball on her bed. Better get out before I wake her up.
Outside, the air is fresh and it’s absolutely quiet, aside from the bright chirping of birds. And still. The surrounding campsites and their late night scenes of bacchanal and mirth appear entirely deserted. I guess kink campers aren’t exactly morning people.
I’m glad for that. After slinking back to the Thunderdome last night under cover of darkness, I didn’t take the time for a drink or a shower or a moment’s contemplation under the stars. I just barely cleaned myself off and made it into my PJs and plush glamping bed before passing out.
Out in our kitchen area, I put water on to boil and stretch again, luxuriating in the twinges and pains and the aches yet to come. My body’s like a machine that’s been taken to its limit. Used, for sure, but in the way God intended. Or something.
I sigh, giving myself an internal eyeroll.
No. No, I’m not doing embarrassment or shame or any of that other bullshit. This is one morning after I’m going to relish as much as I can. I’m going to soak in it and relive it and do my best to remember every single second. Because it’s mine. The whole experience. It’s my totally guilt-free, one-off chance to get it out of my system.
And that’s just what I did.
I give a passing jogger a giddy wave and reconsider making coffee myself.
Maybe I’ll see if the café’s open. I can use the wifi to check in on Mom. And maybe I’ll look at the wall where I first spotted that ad and maybe I’ll just wallow in every moment of this thing I’ve done, from start to finish. Just once. And, hell, maybe while I’m at it, I’ll revisit the scene of the crime and look for clues. Signs of our passage, so to speak. My sex clenches at the thought.
With another smile, I grab my wallet and set off for the coffee shop, my body sore, but light.
It’s not until I get inside and see Lamé behind the counter, that I realize I’m not just here to relive it. She waves hello and I wave back and what I really want to do is see if he’s put up another one of those ads.
I give the wall a surreptitious look, but can’t tell a thing from this distance. There are too many papers pinned and taped up; too many scrawled messages, typed ads, too many responses.
What was I even thinking? That he’d want a repeat, after specifically cutting that possibility out, from the start?
As I slink up to the bar, something a little frantic beats in my chest and, though I keep the smile on my face, part of me wishes I hadn’t come.
“Soooooo,” Lamé leans far forward, setting both of her elbows on the counter and, in the process opening the neckline to her diaphanous turquoise gown and flashing her lightly furred chest—the hair’s dyed blue today—and a sparkly, sheer bra that reminds me of mermaids and an Ice Capades show I saw with my grandparents as a kid. Her hair’s long and sleek and liquid and everything about her is like water. The way she oozes when she moves, slow and graceful and easy, the happily placid way she watches me, waiting, not forcing things. She’s a bright, cheery person, on the outside, but there are depths here, I think, that not many people probably know.
Of course, all that’s conjecture. An impression. But then the urge to draw her takes me by surprise. It’s more like an itch than getting bopped on the head, but itches, I think, will get to you when shock and awe fails. For years, all creativity’s left me. I paint houses for a living, not canvases, and suddenly, my second morning at Kink Camp, the day after I’ve let myself live my deepest fantasy, I want to pick up a stick of charcoal and see just how fluid this woman would look on the page.
“Whoa. That bad, huh?”
Confused, I meet her gaze. “What?”
“Last night. Your, uh, encounter.”
Without meaning to, I give the message wall another glance and then turn back to her smiling face and I swear she knows everything going on in my brain right now. She confirms this when she leans closer, lowers her head to my ear and says, “I knew it. It was good, right? Like the best sex you’ve ever had?”
Just the mention of it brings everything back to me in an overwhelming wave. The way his big hand cupped my neck, the warm, even cadence of his breath—until things got wild and he lost that controlled edge and—
