We talk about sex, about his fears and my desires, I give him snippets of what I've liked, what I wish he'd do to me. He seizes control and opportunity into his hands, and then he tells me to touch myself.
I have him on the phone, all ears, pressed against my own, listening to me breath as I exhale into the receiver. I make myself race for him, in rubbing frantic circles. I whisper. "Let me come for you, tell me I can, please". He leads an effective pause and then he says that I can.
I settle up. I say to him, this is how it feels to have control over me.
This is what its like to have the skip of my pulse in your poised conscience, denial and indulgence tipped on your tongue. This is how it feels to weave my brain in your palms and knit out a begging plead. A humiliation... a moment of making, where I give myself to you and you let me go. It tastes like sweet spit and silver words. It sounds so breathless and good. This is a gift. This is power.
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