My grip on the phone is so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shoot out of my sweaty little hand. How does it sound? Heavenly.
‘What the hell’s he saying that’s got you that colour?’ Niamh asks. ‘D’you want me to leave the room so you can get your boobs out for a sexy selfie.’
‘It’s... I... no thanks.’
That sounds suspiciously like sex,I reply.
Sex sounds like fun. You offering?Oh, he’s not quite done yet.
I might be persuaded.
I’d like that job. Sounds like sex. Smells like you.
Eww! I smell like sex? I might need to change my deodorant. Sex smells like shame and tears in my experience!
I’d meant it as a joke, but in the absence of those little dots, I begin to worry, chewing on my thumbnail and wracking my brains for a witty addendum, some way to laugh this off. Then, my phone vibrates again, causing my heart to feel like it’s about to dissolve in stomach acid.
Check your email.
Shit. Flirty banter: Nil.
I quickly toggle to my email account.
From: Kais Al Khalfan.
Subject: Sex.Oh, God. This isn’t going to be pretty.
Your text was disconcerting and I needed a moment to think and respond.
We both know sex and power go hand in hand and ours is a sexual dynamic that gets us both off. But while it’s amusing to pretend I’m in charge, for me to hold you down, watch you struggle a little; the truth is that you want that, too. It’s there for us both to see. Your gasps and trembles are invitations. You don’t resist and you don’t tell me to stop. Pretending the opposite doesn’t hide your knowledge of this. It’s time for you to acknowledge and accept this is who you are. This is what we do.
K
P.S. Sex with you smells fucking fantastic. I’d bottle it if I could.
I suddenly want to cry. He’s totally right. I can’t tell myself that what I do, I must do for him, that I can’t actuallylike what he does to me.What we do together. That being restrained, that experiencing shame and embarrassment, doesn’t yield to my release. I know my denial is always in retrospect because, in the moment, I’m too busy enjoying myself to stop.
I’m Brer Rabbit, begging not to be thrown into the briar patch, yet secretly relishing the thorns.
Holy crap.
I feel foolish, need some advice and I want to talk to Niamh. Unburden myself, confide in her. But where do I begin? How could I possibly begin to explain how one look from him has me tied in knots so tight I never want to be freed? How do I explain what I don’t understand? I can hardly tap her on the shoulder and tell her I want to discuss my sexual awakening to the other. For a start, it makes me sound like I’ve gone gay.
Hi, my name is Kate and I like being tied up and dominated.
I can see her now. “Yeah.” she’d laugh, “And I’m thinkin’ about becoming a nun.”
I have shed loads of questions and nowhere to turn.
‘Whatcha reading?’ Rising from my chair, I lean over the back of the sofa and read the title of the magazine article she’s reading. ‘Work stress: Is your career spoiling your orgasm?’’
‘I’ve forgotten what one of those is.’ She flicks the page quite aggressively.
‘You don’t manage with ...menage a moi?’
‘Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth to be buying Cosmo,’ she says, slapping the magazine closed.
‘I buy it for the articles,’ I deadpan. ‘Besides, you’re the one reading it. Hey, do you remember before the pool party, you said Rob was big... you know,downstairs. How do you know, if you haven’t...’ My expression twists indelicately.
