beautiful on you. It makes you display your feelings on your face without anything to guard them. Some people call it sub-space.”
I nodded, smiled again and stared into the empty glass. When I looked back up at him, he was squatting in front of the fridge and produced something in a bowl.
“I marinated some prawns. I thought we’d go simple and a little rustic.”
He talked to me while he prepared dinner, again managing to make me feel comfortable despite the fact that I contributed very little to the conversation. He simply talked about food, that he liked cooking and intricate preparations. It was nice to watch, too, the way he carefully diced some onions and threw them into the cast iron pan with the prawns. They started to smell like coriander and curry when the oil started to sizzle around them.
He spoke about his dreams of self-sufficiency and of trying to go as far as he could, making his own jams, fishing sometimes, buying as little prepared items as possible. He set the table with fragrant home baked bread, butter, some cheeses and grapes. I wanted to help but he forbade me and for the first time since I’d lain down across his lap, we laughed together.
I was beginning to feel like myself again, just a calmer version as though something about our time together had effected a cathartic experience upon my mind and body. Already, I only remembered it somewhat vaguely as though it had happened in a different time or space and I was almost surprised when I rose from the sofa and winced as my sore bottom peeled itself off the leather.
“Let me see,” he demanded and gently bent me over the chair. My hands braced themselves against the warm leather while his brushed over my arse. I could hear myself sigh; wanted to sink into his arms again—it was so easy. But there was seafood in the pan and Paul smiled at the expression on my face.
“Let me get some lotion for you before we eat.” It didn’t take him long to fetch it.
“Good girl,” he whispered more teasingly than before when he saw that I had remained in the position he’d put me in. The effect was the same, need and lust and a pulsing sensation between my legs. It didn’t matter that in this moment I was more his guest than the submissive girl in his lap.
I wasn’t quite as tired anymore and part of me was praying he’d forget all about the beautiful meal he’d prepared and would pull down his zipper again but those flashes of skin on skin, of his cock deep inside of me stayed in my head and nowhere else. And it was there, bent over the chair, inhaling that typical leather smell, that I realized how vast the chasm was between my mindset before we entered the kitchen and the one then. Before, I didn’t think of anything past his touch, past the present. I didn’t worry or hope nor did I try to conceive of any expectations. I just existed in the moment, just like he’d told me to. I hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but now I could feel the difference, the heat and the longing, the half-subconscious flashes of how I could get him to fuck me right here, right now. I looked at him in a new way when he pulled his shirt back down over my ass and drew a chair out for me. I don’t know if he noticed, but he smiled and kissed the top of my head before he washed his hands and joined me.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, not for the first time as he held a bowl of bright greens out to me—I recognized baby spinach, arugula and romaine hearts. He’d sprinkled diced onions and freshly cut basil over the mixture and served it with a simple olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. I ladled some on my plate and chose two prawns and a piece of bread. Not consciously buying time, it did take me a few seconds to turn my contemplative state of mind into a sharing one.
“Good,” I said, quietly against the raw quality of my throat and voice. “Really good. Like I have a new body.” And not just a new body, a new mind as well: a reboot that
I nodded, smiled again and stared into the empty glass. When I looked back up at him, he was squatting in front of the fridge and produced something in a bowl.
“I marinated some prawns. I thought we’d go simple and a little rustic.”
He talked to me while he prepared dinner, again managing to make me feel comfortable despite the fact that I contributed very little to the conversation. He simply talked about food, that he liked cooking and intricate preparations. It was nice to watch, too, the way he carefully diced some onions and threw them into the cast iron pan with the prawns. They started to smell like coriander and curry when the oil started to sizzle around them.
He spoke about his dreams of self-sufficiency and of trying to go as far as he could, making his own jams, fishing sometimes, buying as little prepared items as possible. He set the table with fragrant home baked bread, butter, some cheeses and grapes. I wanted to help but he forbade me and for the first time since I’d lain down across his lap, we laughed together.
I was beginning to feel like myself again, just a calmer version as though something about our time together had effected a cathartic experience upon my mind and body. Already, I only remembered it somewhat vaguely as though it had happened in a different time or space and I was almost surprised when I rose from the sofa and winced as my sore bottom peeled itself off the leather.
“Let me see,” he demanded and gently bent me over the chair. My hands braced themselves against the warm leather while his brushed over my arse. I could hear myself sigh; wanted to sink into his arms again—it was so easy. But there was seafood in the pan and Paul smiled at the expression on my face.
“Let me get some lotion for you before we eat.” It didn’t take him long to fetch it.
“Good girl,” he whispered more teasingly than before when he saw that I had remained in the position he’d put me in. The effect was the same, need and lust and a pulsing sensation between my legs. It didn’t matter that in this moment I was more his guest than the submissive girl in his lap.
I wasn’t quite as tired anymore and part of me was praying he’d forget all about the beautiful meal he’d prepared and would pull down his zipper again but those flashes of skin on skin, of his cock deep inside of me stayed in my head and nowhere else. And it was there, bent over the chair, inhaling that typical leather smell, that I realized how vast the chasm was between my mindset before we entered the kitchen and the one then. Before, I didn’t think of anything past his touch, past the present. I didn’t worry or hope nor did I try to conceive of any expectations. I just existed in the moment, just like he’d told me to. I hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but now I could feel the difference, the heat and the longing, the half-subconscious flashes of how I could get him to fuck me right here, right now. I looked at him in a new way when he pulled his shirt back down over my ass and drew a chair out for me. I don’t know if he noticed, but he smiled and kissed the top of my head before he washed his hands and joined me.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, not for the first time as he held a bowl of bright greens out to me—I recognized baby spinach, arugula and romaine hearts. He’d sprinkled diced onions and freshly cut basil over the mixture and served it with a simple olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. I ladled some on my plate and chose two prawns and a piece of bread. Not consciously buying time, it did take me a few seconds to turn my contemplative state of mind into a sharing one.
“Good,” I said, quietly against the raw quality of my throat and voice. “Really good. Like I have a new body.” And not just a new body, a new mind as well: a reboot that
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