His eyes move from my lashes to my collarbone and downwards, ever downwards, and I wish I could tell him to look at my eyes but I can't. If I could have, I would have already.
In all my life, I've never seen such violent lust.
"I like your eyes wide," he says. "They haven't seen danger enough to close, to squint, not yet."
He touches my cheek. Softly.
"I like your skin smooth," he says. "It hasn't seen needles or bruises or hands like mine.
"Not yet."
---
I was freshly 23. Like every other 23 year old girl I knew, my mouth was dry for a drink and the youthful electricity running through my bones had a single remedy: Movement. Touch. Men.
I'd recently moved to a new city. I was filled with the promise of newness and overnight, I changed. I had never been quiet, but now, I was energized, alert, and present. I was easygoing. Friendly. Would talk with anyone, flirt with anyone, and surprise them later with my intelligence and wit.
When I talked at the bar, people listened. When I walked down the street, people looked - and looked again. I wielded a subtle, soft power that I hadn't realized before.
I was beautiful, but not exceptionally so. Trim frame, wide hips, big breasts, bright green eyes and easy curls. I wore sundresses in the summer, big sweaters and tight pants in the winter. I loved easily - people, fun, the outdoors - and made every attempt to show it. Run-and-jump hugs for greetings; easy, light-hearted dancing at the bar; happy, deep laughter at my friends' jokes. To me, there was very little worth being upset about, and so much to be thankful for.
I was told I had a certain innocence about me. A good girl essence that men assumed to be true.
They didn't know that, behind the understanding eyes and the unassuming body, I was restless and eager to shed my innocence. To get as in touch with my desires as I was with the world around me. Since I was young, I'd been fascinated by sex - by passionate, rough, lose-control sex. I'd had dreams of nameless, strong men grabbing me roughly by the shoulders and having their way with me. Tender kisses and sweeping romantic gestures touched my heart, but with every encounter, my primal desire grew deeper.
I wanted - needed - to be fucked. To be owned. It terrified me - the idea of relinquishing my power, of putting myself at the whims of someone else's pleasure - but only because I'd never done it before. In public, I was an easy leader; a decider; a focal point. The moment I entered a bedroom, I wanted nothing more than to shed my skin, drop to my knees, and embrace the part of my body that wanted to give - give touch, give pleasure, give myself away.
The same way a person knows they like their favorite food - the same way a person knows their middle name - I knew I was meant to be a submissive.
I had told my partners of my preferences before, but none seemed to understand. Some simply weren't interested and preferred mild, tender sex. Some assumed the dominant role, but it was clear that their hearts weren't in it; their words were too staged and their touches too uncertain. They tried to want to control me and own me, but in doing so, they gave their control away.
I've been told that, if you are a dominant or a submissive, the moment your opposite enters the room, you know it. Beneath the pleasantries, there is a lingering, pulsing, unavoidable energy. I've been told that a true dominant can spot a true submissive from across a room, with a single glance.
I never believed it till him.
--
I was at a bar with my friends Jessie and Mara. We were laughing, heads close together over our beers, music playing loudly in the background. I wore a flowing white sun dress that hugged my chest and flowed easily down my thighs with tall, black boots. My cheeks were red with the glow of the music and the beer.
"Come on," Jessie said, putting on her jacket. "Let's go have a smoke." We topped our beers with cardboard coasters and hopped down from our barstools. I reached under my seat for my purse, and when I looked up toward the door, I saw him.
The first thing I noticed was his eyes. He stood near the door, his face half-masked with dim barlight shadow, but even still I saw his eyes. Deep, threatening gold, wildly alive, and staring straight at me. He was tall, but not too tall. Dark, short, brown hair and a firm body. Five foot eleven. He must have been about 30. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans. If it weren't for his eyes, he could have faded easily into the crowd, but something about his stare captured me.
"Let's go," said Jessie, tugging me gently by the arm. Dazed, I followed her, squeezing between barstools and bodies.
I looked up again. He was still looking at me. By the time I reached the door, I was close enough to sense his height, almost close enough to brush against him as Jessie reached for the handle. A swift chill blew into the bar. I felt a hand on my back.
I turned. Lifted my face to meet his eyes, certain, golden. Their intensity spoke volumes. I could hear it in the noisy bar.
"It's cold out, now," he said, and held out a jacket. His voice was gravel, liquid, depth. My friends turned, seeing the exchange and smiling at one another, as they continued outside and shut the door behind them.
I smiled nervously. "It's not really not so bad," I said, surprised by how quiet and uncertain my voice sounded, as I reached up to pull a curl behind my ear - a nervous habit. He watched my hand as it traversed across the air. The movement seemed to take hours.