A Delicate Torture

I am usually very amendable to a certain kind of torture, especially from him. He is rarely cruel, unless it's intentional. It's that deliberateness that will always strip me of my careful defenses, quick as his blade to my throat.

I'd like to say that most of the time, my response is equally clever and equally sharp but that would be untrue. He has become very good at getting the drop on me because I lower my shields more than would be ever be sensible around him, his willing sacrifice. He is usually focused on making the world a kinder place through many small actions, making this a delicate savagery.

He takes immense pleasure in waiting for me, his prey, to become secure, sheltered and snug in his affections so that I am caught too quickly in his traps to resist. I have been chosen as his beloved to receive these studied tiny atrocities that he has created so eloquently for me alone, for I am the one who will appreciate his cunning and care.

My brain, my limbs, my vigilance have softened with constant exposure to his honeyed words, his delicious scent, his small courtly kindnesses. I have laid my weapons down, my armor in a careless heap. I should and do know better. I should run, I should lay my own traps, I should-

I don't.

That morning, I had been lulled with coffee and compliments into complacency. His body is pummeled by old injuries and scars that particular day and I am all gentleness and warmth as our wits intertwine with each other, performing small rituals for each other's amusement. I coax him into the shower with the promise of washing his back as we shed our clothing unselfconsciously in the warm bathroom, the rain shower heads deluging sultry water over us. I am laughing, pulling his metaphorical tail gently over some small exploit, rinsing the soap from his snowy pelted chest. I snap the shower head back to its holder smartly and I turn to face him, still smiling.

I am about to ask if he wants his back washed when he pins me to the wall. His mouth is wolfishly devouring mine, a quiet snarl in his throat as he parts my legs with his own legs, pressing me hard against the cool tile. A rush of desperate want washes over my brain so quickly and fiercely that I'm overcome with it. For a long moment, for the first time possibly ever, I consider sincerely shoving him away from me.

I am sick with desperate longing, something I haven't experienced in so long that I almost can't manage it. Working so hard on my daily routine has made much of it appear effortless to the eyes of most others observing. Not his.

In that moment, my thoughts feel stripped bare. I am unable to be clever and challenging to catch him out that way, my brain is unable to provide me with such luxurious velvet camouflage that will allow me to proudly parade out of the shower with a careless word and a burlesque shimmy. Almost always, I know how to handle excessive desire, there are so many things I want and cannot have. I can fold it up neatly into my train case and march forward into my day, refusing to be bothered by the games of others, even his. I will put on a death queen's pomegranate ladened perfume and apply Dior lip oil in the train case's mirror, unbothered.

I can't.

I vaguely wonder if I will start sobbing, if this is meant to be the smallest bite of something I want (him, always) and then torn away. That would certainly unsettle him completely and there would be a sort of dour satisfaction there, at least. It would not put me in the position of merrily sledding through Narnia, eating as many Turkish delights as I can fit into my maw, forcing him to stalk a trail of rose petals, pistachios and spun sugar in my wake, but it would indeed be something. I try to decide if this makes me want to stab him in the hand with a letter opener or if I can summon up the will to appreciate his cleverness, the way he carelessly winds my leash around his fist and pulls, hard.

But he's kissing me and whispering to me and I know what he wants. He wants to see the white moths to take flight, possibly only to run headlong into a shimmering light that will momentarily murder them. He wants my full concentration, perhaps only to snatch his away from me. I can only resist this full court assault on my senses for so long, especially with his hands running along my body.

What do you want? I ask crossly as his silvered stubble rubs my collarbone, his hot mouth not far behind. I am always a most sour thing in defeat, prone to kicking and biting. Lesser beings would back off hastily. Never him.

I want you, he says so simply and sweetly that I want to claw his face off for his sheer maddening audacity.

Do you? I say indignantly. What I want to say is, do you really? Want me, like this? When so many others would drown in you instead of pushing you away or attempting to drown you with me? It would be easier, wouldn't it? Do you want me when I am not sparkling, when I am not at all a creature of glamour, when I feel worn and tired? When I am nothing but sharp edges and sobs?

I do, he says, pulling me to him, wrapping me in a towel and his body.

His familiar scent wraps around me and I am soothed, my body yielding against my will. I shake off the water and the towel disagreeably and attempt to regain my composure as he dries himself.

I sit delicately on the edge of my bed, watching him. He snuggles into bed, heedless of all of my careful calculations as he arranges me comfortably next to him. I put my hand on his chest. He covers my hand with his. I refrain from kicking him, though I desperately want to. My heart is pounding and it's hard to think clearly, even after all these years together. Maybe because of all of these years together. Every part of me wants to uncoil, to be without burdensome tasks, lists, responsibilities. I want to lay my head and my heart into his hands and let everything be for him to handle so that I can breathe, unfettered for a few short moments.

Is this how it works? I say in aggravated tones.

Hmm? He asked, blissfully undisturbed.

You are the tormenter, I am the tormented? And there is no recourse for me whatsoever?

Of course not, why would you say that? You have always had equal torture rights in our relationship.

Because your hand is covering my hands, preventing them from touching you, I said pointedly.

I like holding your hands, he said unrepentantly, though he released my hands and looked at me expectantly.

He has not allowed many moments lately where I can devour him simply for the pleasure of doing so. Selfish, really, if you think about it. If you were to be still capable of thought, I thought fuzzily.

I run my hands over his chest, down his sides, doing my best to ignore my body's horny Pavlovian response. When we lived further apart, my body was cautious and suspicious of him. It would take time and effort to coax my body into letting my guard down. It still does if he's been away or if our vibe has been busy and practical on Real Life Mode. This is sensible. This is the correct reaction.

If it's an afternoon and we're both naked together in my bed, it's an instant physiological response. Namely, a body of water being created between my thighs because surely now that I smell him all the time, the danger must be gone. He can obviously no longer break my heart or my brain because we watch Bee and Puppycat together with my feet in his lap, the obvious indicator that there's nothing to worry about ever again. This is not sensible. This is the incorrect reaction.

It's happening regularly anyway, without my consent. This obviously (obviously) makes this a problem for my future self to handle, who will no doubt be calm and competent about it. Meanwhile, my current self can focus on the matter at hand.

I kiss his neck, I touch the scruff on his face, I admire the tiny bit of softness on his sides that he's acquired since moving here, running my hands over his flanks, feeling the velvet of his skin. I take his cock in my hands, delicately shuddering when he strains against my touch, his tip becoming glossy as I stroke him languidly. I can feel my answering pulse in my pussy as my nipples tighten, but I refuse to be distracted. I focus on filling both my hands with his erection, teasing him slowly as I move my hands over him, dipping my fingers down to caress his balls as I brush my lower hand back up against his hardness before gliding back down again. His breath hitches as I fondle the head of his cock between my fingers, rubbing my thumb carefully against his sensitive head.

Leisurely, I climb on top of him to better straddle him, rubbing my flooded pussy against his full cock, finding that perfect junction between my piercing and his perfect ridge. He's not inside me, but my breathing becomes ragged as we lock eyes. There's something about feeling each other this way where it's almost what we want but not quite. A favorite of our many battles of wills. I am resolute and plan on torturing him for what I find to be a reasonable amount of time, though the Geneva convention may disagree with me. He must have disagreed as well because he clamped his big hands onto my hips, squishing my flesh as he moved his hips to thrust deeply inside me, making white lights explode in my brain. I clutch the top of the headboard as we find our rhythm together until I am pulsing around him, arching up as I pull him all the way inside me until I feel him pulling me to him roughly, coming hard inside me, painting me. I sigh, reveling in him.

For one tiny moment, there is no anxiety, there is no to-do list, there is no mountain of problems for me to solve, there is just us. Together.

I say, you make me happy.

He says, you make me happy too.