Someplace I've never been, part 3

Part 1

Part 2

I spy
with my little eye
my own stockinged thigh


I was at work when the email arrived. The man from New York was complimentary and told me we had begun in a promising manner. I replied in turn that I too had enjoyed the experience. Our language was stilted, formal, oblique. Twelve hours earlier we had been fondling each other in public, and then we had fucked outside, hard and hungrily, and now we might as well have been sitting in opposite boxes at the theater, peering across the hall at each other through our opera glasses. I liked it, this disconnect. Everything about the scenario had kept me off-balance to this point, and I preferred it that way. It was the opposite of prosaic. I still had no idea what to expect next.

After a few more email exchanges (in the course of which I considered and then regretfully had to decline the opportunity to meet him right away), we made arrangements to meet after midnight. He asked that I shave or wax my pussy before our meeting and that I wear something that would demonstrate my eagerness to be used. He also mentioned that he still expected me to fulfill my picture obligations.

I was excited, but in truth, I was also exhausted. By the time I had arrived home, in a state of semi-shock and giddy arousal, it had been well after two in the morning. After tossing in bed for a few restless hours, I had simply showered and left for work. So there I was, looking at another late-night meeting, and wondering whether I would have time to catch a few hours of sleep beforehand. Like I would have been able to sleep. . . .

I called a waxing studio I had been meaning to try and scheduled an appointment. As soon as I left work, I made my way there. My last waxing had been about five weeks before while I was in Australia -- the day before my meeting with the delightful Mr. PK. My antipodean aesthetician had been a marvel of efficiency and had used one of those little roller wax pistols (and christ, would I like to find someone who uses the same system in Austin). Alas, the waxing I had on this occasion proved to be a miserable experience. It was slow, painful, and my aesthetician made no effort to minimize the pain or swelling. Since it was too late to do anything but grit my teeth and bear it, that's what I did. Lying on the table and thinking about why I was going through this, I felt a grim little smile creep onto my face. I was doing it because you're not supposed to do things just because a stranger tells you to. I was doing it because I wanted to prove I could do it under precisely those circumstances.

Once I got home, I tried to lie down and close my eyes, but (and you knew this already), there was no sleep in my immediate future. For one thing, my mind was engaged with this issue of pictures. He wanted pictures. I wasn't at all comfortable with that idea -- pictures can be posted, after all, or used in other unhappy ways. And yet I hadn't refused the idea of pictures when he first requested them, and now I was reluctant to. I realized, though, lying there exhausted and sleepless and my cunt smarting from its earlier mangling, that there was a way I could pull this off. I was determined to find a way to do everything he asked in a manner I could handle emotionally. (Don't laugh -- I'm new at this. I was convinced I could eat my cake and have it too. I know a little more than that now.)

Jeff was working, editing tape, and I'm not sure he even noticed when I took a shower and prepared myself to go out. I wore black. A little black dress, a black velvet bra, and sheer black, seamed stockings held up with a black garter belt. No panties. I packed a few things in a small bag to take with me, and noted as I did so that I was back in that mode of separation from myself, as I had been the night before. Do this, do that, check the mirror, find your car keys, one foot in front of the other, looking no further down the road than the next immediate task, because if you stop to think about what you are doing, if you stop to analyze, you won't understand, and nothing is more likely to stop you than your own insistence upon answers.

My instructions were to arrive at 12:30 promptly and knock on the front door. He was there, just inside the door, and motioned me in. He wore a robe. Two large, sweet-faced dogs greeted me with friendly snuffles. We spoke very little -- he showed me directly to the bedroom. I started to set my bag on the floor and he took it from me. "What have we here?"

What we had was a bottle of water (since I was still somewhat dehydrated from the night before), my lubricant of choice, and my camera. "I thought we could take care of my picture obligations while I was here. Kill two birds with one stone," I said.

Yes, it was ridiculously risky, I know. I knew it at the time, too. But wait, listen, I had a reason. If the pictures were on my camera, I could ultimately decide whether to let him have any. I had at least that much control over the issue (assuming, of course, that he wasn't going to morph into a raving psycho cokehead who would tie me up and download everything on my camera onto his computer and threaten to blackmail me, which, haha, blood from a stone, motherfucker, but I was pretty sure that wasn't the case because I have good radar and frankly, I already believed that not only could I trust this laconic stranger but that had I met him under other circumstances I would have liked him and sought his friendship). Maybe it's not the best reason in the world, but the point is that I was functioning rationally. I did have a vestigial sense of self-preservation after all.

In any case, he was clearly pleased that I had brought the camera. But that was it for the niceties. "Undress," he told me. I kicked off my heels, pulled my dress over my head, and experienced a fleeting stab of satisfaction at the obvious approval that flashed in his eyes at the sight of my lingerie. "Take off your bra," he said, but he didn't say anything about taking off the garter belt or stockings. Mmm hmm. Thought not.

He told me to lie face down on the bed, and I did, just as I had undressed, with no reaction verbal or otherwise. For some reason it was important to me to project a sense of self-possession. I wanted to be calm and graceful and contained. Some people might say that I was fighting submission. I honestly don't know . . . I was doing what I needed to do at the time to keep going. It felt right.

Once I was on the bed he pulled my arms behind my back, crossed my wrists, and began to bind them together with . . . I tried to place the material . . . oh, it was the belt to his robe! The night before he had asked me if I'd ever been restrained. When I told him I hadn't, he had cracked a rare smile and said, "This is going to be fun." I wondered vaguely if he was having fun. I wondered if I was. I don't have a word for what I was feeling, but whatever it was, it was arousing. Jesus, was it ever.

I couldn't see what he was doing, so when the camera flash went off I jerked in alarm. I fought down a sense of panic and reminded myself that the pictures wouldn't go anywhere unless I decided they would. Still, I was starting to feel overwhelmed. I'd never had someone take suggestive pictures of me, not to mention pictures of me bound and mostly nude. Hell, I'd never been bound before, not even lightly. It was happening so quickly. In retrospect, I wish I had been able to slow things down and take in the experience. That's not to say I have any regrets -- I don't. For all I know, this rapid plunge into the experience may have been for the best, given my tendency to over-analyze.

He decided to retie my wrists together over my head, and after doing this, told me to roll over. I did, and he was standing at my feet, by the side of the bed (I was crosswise on it) with the camera. "Look at me," he said, and the camera flashed. He took several pictures, moving the lens slightly for different angles, different frames, each flash accompanied by the click of the shutter, each click like an audible mile marker ticking off the distance from who I had been before yesterday; the road that I had taken.

He knelt over me and began to tease my nipples, flicking and twisting them. Suddenly he pinched one, and I arched in pain. The camera flashed. He went on like this for a while, alternately teasing and pinching, then set the camera aside and touched my cunt with a questioning finger. I was slick. His finger slid inside with shocking ease. He smirked at this, and favored me with a little sweet talk about what a slut I was. He twisted another finger inside me and my hips undulated, my hands fluttering against each other in their bonds. Yes, he said, you like that.

His two fingers spreading and opening inside me, he began to insert a third. "Have you ever been fisted?" he wanted to know. I don't know whether my eyes widened, but my heart certainly jumped in my chest. I told him I hadn't, and after finger-fucking me a while he withdrew his hand. I was relieved; I was disappointed. I would have tried it, I think, but again, I felt a small flicker of comfort that he was being careful--that he was looking out for me. I didn't dwell on this feeling, because I found myself on my stomach, and then he was behind me, fucking me, and I swear, oral sex is great, but there is nothing in this world that feels better to me than a man sliding into my cunt when I've been aching and wet for what feels like an eternity. That fulfillment. That elemental, base, animal satisfaction. That sweet feeling--it makes me say "yes," it makes me say "there, oh there," it makes me sigh "unh." Every. single. time.

It feels so good that I want to protest when he pulls away, but he wants my ass, and he is pressing against it, the head of his cock pushing, pushing, and I'm eager, but it's hard for him to gain entry. He makes a little progress and pauses, allowing me to adjust and relax, and he asks me when was the last time I was fucked in the ass. I tell him a few weeks ago, and he resumes, and it hurts, and I don't mind, but I can't help crying out, and he pauses again, and I tell him to go on, and holy fuck, why can't I relax enough and why does it hurt so much this time, but he keeps pressing, and when he asks whether he should stop I hear myself saying no, I can do this, I can do this, and as I say it I realize that I'm daring myself to cross some line, and I feel like laughing even though I hear my own cries of pain at the same time, and I'm shocked that I can't keep myself from whimpering, and something about this is flipping that switch, like bam, I know I could get addicted to this feeling, I love this rush, and with a thrust he's inside now and fucking my ass, and what do I feel? Triumph. Triumph. I win. When he pauses, still buried in my ass, and the camera flashes, I don't jerk or shy away.

When he withdraws I catch my breath. I feel turned inside out. He moves to the side of the bed, the condom off now, his cock jutting toward my face, and I am surprised by my own eagerness. He hovers over me and I suck his balls into my mouth, lick anything I can reach, frustrated at not having my hands available and, sensing this, he unties the belt. I reach immediately for his cock, and settle into a rhythm with my mouth and hands. Once or twice the camera flashes. I don't care. When he comes, he comes on my face -- another first. I close my eyes and feel the warmth spatter my cheek. Through my eyelids I see the camera flash.

I don't know how I got from lying there with my eyes closed and his come on my face to a standing position, gathering my dress and shoes. It was almost like a movie skipping forward a few frames. One minute I was there -- the next I was there. I felt dreamy, out-of-it, divided into two women, one who was getting dressed in a daze and another observing from the corner of the room. The man from New York carefully replaced the lens cover on my camera and then handed it to me, suggesting I put it safely away, since it was a nice camera. "Yes, it's a nice camera," I heard myself say in a sing-songy voice. Get a grip, I told myself. I took a long drink of water from my bottle.

He showed me to the bathroom. "Would you like to join me for a cigarette on the patio when you're ready?" he asked. I nodded, and closed the door. I cleaned up a bit and got dressed. Once I got outside and took a seat, I was starting to feel like one person again. He offered me a cigarette (my second in two nights!) and sipped a glass of wine while I drank my water. We talked about the DNC (this was while it was being held) and politics in general. It was probably close to three in the morning. I stood up, we said good night, and I went to my car.

When I got home, I didn't want to look at the pictures. I made myself look anyway. The curse of having a good camera is that it shows everything -- every freckle, every flaw. It's a merciless eye. It was strange, beyond strange to see myself like that, too. It's one thing to picture a scene in your mind, to fantasize. It's quite another to witness the reality of it. Looking at those pictures was by far the hardest part of my entire experience with the man from New York.

I thought about simply deleting them, every single one. I thought about what that would mean. Then I chose four pictures and sent them to him with my regards.

I've looked at those pictures often since. They're still hard for me to look at. I'm very glad to have them.