Valentine's Day

I swear to God I'm gonna do it.

Soon, I swear. I don't care what she wants; I'm gonna do it.

For so long now, I've wanted to strip her naked and display her to a roomful of people like the fuck toy she never thought she could be. I'll invite everyone over for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. She'll be nude except for the leather body harness that accentuates the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. Stiletto heels. No, bare feet. I don't want her thinking about her walk, or her feet. I want her watching the others watching her. She'll serve, while men and women leer at her swaying tits and ripe ass. There'll be nothing she can do about it but smile, because she knows I expect her to be the perfect hostess. She'll discount the attention of the men—we're born horny, and not always picky about it—but the women will bring a reckoning. She knows these women, and she'll know that when they look at her like they want to fuck her, it's because they really do. It'll scare her because she knows that one of these days I'm going to let one of these women, maybe more than one, have at her, and she won't know whether she'll like it until it happens.

No one will touch her, at first. It's enough to look. God, if you could look. If you could see the roller coaster contours, the swells and troughs of her lunar depths, the ecstatic hyperbolic cosines of her curves that defy differential equation. Maybe I'll let you see. That's how fucking generous I am, and how much the sight of her generates in me electrical storms of power and mastery.

She'll get used to the attention and start to relax. The minute she does, I'm bored. That's when I'll invite everyone to bring their drinks and plates into the den. They'll gather around while I secure her to the apparatus I've brought in from the garage. The harness comes off. She's on full display now, completely exposed.

I'll position her so she's facing her audience with her arms outstretched—not like on a St. Andrew's cross, but like on a real cross, the one fucking true cross, because when she's naked she is the daughter of heaven, the source of all mystery and wonder and all that is good and beautiful, and she is everything that is worth living and dying and fighting and aching and striving for. Her nudity is the salvation of the world, or at least of me.

She'll turn to me, wide-eyed, and ask hoarsely, "Why are you doing this?" And I'll give a little smirk, like a movie bad guy, or a movie good guy who's just bad enough in the way she wants him to be, and say, "You know why."

I'll invite our friends to come forward, one or two at a time. They'll touch, and stroke, and caress her body. Under my watch, they'll squeeze her tits and pinch her nipples and cup her ass. They'll pet and fondle and smooth her skin all over. Not her mouth, or crotch, or anus—those are mine—but all the rest. They'll kneel to skim her thighs and palm her calves; they'll reach up to press their fingertips to her nape and crown and gently massage her scalp.

She'll deny her wanton enjoyment by justifying it to herself as submission. The dampness between her legs isn't her idea; she's tied to a cross; she has no choice. It's all my doing.

I'll give a little more leeway to the women. If they want to strip and press their bodies against hers—breasts against breasts, bellies touching bellies—I'll let them. If they want to lean in and nuzzle and nip at her neck, I'll let them. Her wetness at the touch of a woman, and at the softness of women's kisses, will confuse her. That's what I want. I want her to know that I know what arouses her even when she does not. I want her to know that her arousal pleases me, and that it is mine to give or withhold. I want. That's it, really: I want—and when I want, she gives. I swear to God she'll know that before we're done.

When our friends are almost done taking turns—when there are only a few left waiting to explore her with their hands and embrace her with their smiles—I'll step in, and even as they continue coming forward, I'll whisper in her ear, "They want to fuck you, you know. Every one of them. Look how they hunger for you." When the last one finishes tracing her silhouette, and I am still whispering in her ear, and she is straining to bring her legs together—to bring anything at all into contact with her swollen, soaking clit—that's when I'll cover her pussy with my hand and, with quick, gentle circles, push her over the edge into weightlessness and relief. As she spins and tumbles and convulses against her restraints, I will ask her softly the question she asked me before: "Why am I doing this?" In that moment she'll know, and through her tears and moans, she will shout, and gasp, and sob, "Because you think I'm beautiful! And you want me to know!"

That'll show her.