“Saying you like to be in control is like saying water is wet.”
“That obvious, am I? There are different types of control though.” His fingers dance over the skin on my neck in a caress before he continues, “Knowing I’ll be able to think straight, that I’ll have a clear mind if anything comes up, is one thing. But there’s also the control that comes with submission when it’s freely given, and I’m finding that’s quite different.”
“Why is it different?” Maybe I can learn something about him and me, like why it feels so natural to yield to him and give into his bossy nature, but most importantly, why I like it so much.
“The first is just perception. We can control very little, even when we pretend we can. The second” —he licks his bottom lip— “is reality. You’re being trusted to make decisions, even little ones, for someone else, to take care of them.”
“It seems one-sided,” I tell him. “What doyouget out of that?”
Memphis’ eyes go wide, and he clears his throat. “Me?” He seems surprised. Were we pretending this was a general conversation? “I thought you were asking what was in it for…the other person.”
“No, I think I understand that. They get to let go, and they don’t have to worry if what they are doing is right or wrong or if they are making the other person happy, because you show them and tell them what makes you happy. I mean, the person…would show them…how to make…them happy,” I amend for sake of not personalizing this strangely personal conversation.
“Here we go. Ginger beer, virgin Mai Tai, and pineapple juice.” The waitress sets the drinks down. “Do you want to run a tab? I would need a credit card or driver’s license.”
“No.” Memphis hands over a credit card.
“Be right back.” She slips away just as Oswald returns to the table.
“I got you a pineapple juice,” Memphis tells him, and I watch his throat move as he tips his head back for a drink.
“What do you have there?” Oswald asks.
“A Mai Tai, it has pineapple juice.” I offer him a drink, not worried about using the same straw anymore. He kissed me, so I think we’re past that.
“There isn’t any alcohol in that,” he says after taking a sip.
“I’m not old enough to order alcohol, but I don’t really drink anyway,” I tell Oswald.
“I want one of those next time, it’s good.” He points.
“Not too girly for you?” The guys from my high school would never drink something like this.
“Only guys with little… I’m not worried about it.” He purses his lips.
“I’ll share.” I push the glass so it’s between us.
“Offer accepted,” Oswald replies with a grin that spells trouble.
I feel a tug as Memphis pulls me back and places his lips over my ear to mumble, “He’s not talking about the drink, he wants us to share you.”
SHARING
Waylynn
I’m not goingto pretend this isn’t where my imagination took me with them, but thinking about it and the possibility of it being real are two vastly different things. I feel warm all over, the club is suddenly too loud, and there’s a pressure in my head that would make a migraine seem tame.
“Breathe.” Memphis exhales against my ear, and I release the air trapped in my lungs. The pressure in my head lessens, but the roaring in my ears takes longer to fade. Memphis makes an approving hum, and my eyes fall slowly closed.
“I get that, right there—acceptance of my instruction without question, your trust that I know what you need.”
“I just need a signature on the top copy, you can keep the other.” The waitress puts the small receipt and a pen on the end of the table. I look down, wondering how the mundane normalcy of everyday life is still happening at this very moment.
“You freaked her out,” Oswald says as soon as the waitress walks away.
“Could she tell?” I ask, peering up at him.
“Tell what? I was talking about you being freaked out.” He seems confused. So am I.
