Hanging from the starsI am searching by touch. Blackout blinds cover the windows. The music is too loud. Not uncomfortably so, just enough that I can't make out sound, I don't know where he is. He likes these sensory limitations, testing me to see if I can find him first with my mind or with my hands.
Living by default
Catch me like a dog
Slipping through your arms
But he is impatient tonight*, not willing to wait. Not willing to settle or fight. Not now. Now he has seven hours of darkness left, unwilling to waste a minute. Precious seconds have already been spent in the time it took to change his mind and he takes my hands and pulls them up around his neck, pulling me against him, his arms sliding around me. It's so abrupt I cry out loud and he pulls one arm back and puts his hand over my mouth. I am bent backwards slightly now as his other hand slides up my back and into my hair. He forces my mouth against his. I can't breathe through the brutal kiss and so I wait, throwing myself into it. I will come back to life later, with the sunrise. What he wants is my response, and I will never ever disappoint him again.
The music changes and he drags his fingers gently down my face, dancing over my eyelashes, pulling my lower lip down, running his index finger across my tongue and chasing it with his lips. I have learned how to breathe through this shallowly and he smiles in the dark. I can't see him, I feel it.
He begins to walk, me pressed against him, until we reach the smooth wall. He presses me against it and then lets go. I know this part. I am going to kiss another favorite dress goodbye. He kisses my shoulder, hooks both fingers under the straps and pulls hard. The delicate satin rips easily and he takes up a handful of fabric and peels me out of it roughly. My eyes are adjusting to the wonder on his face, the barest glint from his eyes, flashing dark, teeth, skin, his white shirt reflecting my anticipation. I reach out with my fingers to unbutton his shirt but he takes my hands, forcing them up over my head and my feet leave the ground. Helpless. The point of no return.
The smile drops off his face again and he moves in against me. So strong. His determination slides over my features and I turn my face away from the burn of his beard. He mistakes my pain for acceptance and tightens his brace against the door. I force my legs together and he forces them apart. It's a game to him and I play it better than anyone.
And then he lets go.
This is the best part, perfectly timed and I grab for his shoulders while he wraps his arms around my legs and drives me against the wall until whatever breath I thought I gained back disappears forever. I bite my lip and taste blood. He kisses me, tasting the iron. It drives him into a frenzy. I squeeze my eyes closed. I'm not supposed to be here, I wasn't caught leaving and the penalty will be harsh but the music is so loud I can feel it in my bones and there's a thrill in the danger of knowing how close to death I am right now I don't think I could ever turn down the invitation if I wanted to. He's a drug and the high is too much for me to bear but I want it anyway. I want it so bad I begin to fight him for control but he locks me down. That's exactly what I was hoping for.
He slows to a grind and reaches out for the remote for the music and he turns it so loud I fear for my skull exploding from total overload now. His lips are against my eyes, his breath steaming up my brain, his fingers digging deep grooves into my skin, his onslaught endless, tireless and violent, on through the night, the dark horseman of my nightmares rides.
In the morning, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting for marks I will have to invent excuses for. There is a set of three deep scratches and a bruise shaped like his thumb on my left hip bone (that one is going to hurt when it is touched later) and my eyes don't look the same. The color is a little more faded, the dark circles underneath a little deeper, the deceit is a little richer and I still haven't managed to find a face that looks good in an innocent expression.
He appears behind me in my reflection, his chin coming down to rest on my head. He smiles and reaches around to smudge off the bruise and heal the scratches with his fingers. It fades and disappears. He puts his hands up over my eyes and kisses the back of my head hard, holding his lips against my hair for a long count, and when he releases me, dropping his hands and walking away toward the bathroom, I look at my eyes again and the color is restored, the rich bottle-green, with no dark circles. As a bonus the excuse of an early meeting is planted securely in my head to explain away my morning absence from home and the beginnings of the thought of the next meeting are beginning to seep into my brain from somewhere I can't access to shut it down.
Not that I would want to, he tells me to think. Only he hasn't said anything out loud. He doesn't need to, I guess that's one of the perks of being who he is.
(*The night in reference was fifteen years ago. Get a life. Now write about it. Harder than it looks, isn't it?)