pressed tightly together. Pressed together to control
the build that started in her two weeks ago, the build that rose to fever when she closed the door of the limo and that rises
even now as we ride. She looks out her window, but I doubt it’s the water she sees. It is the sweet, hard moment of release.
How does she picture it? A rough first kiss, and then the slam along the walls?
If only she knew.
We glide off the Brooklyn Bridge and soon are onto Flatbush and into the guts of Brooklyn. We ride past the dark avenues,
all concrete and shadow — another country. At a stoplight, over the hum of the motor, we can just hear the muted call of a
siren, all its urgency dissolved by the distance.
“Give me your keys,” I say.
She pauses, then takes them from her purse and gives them over. “Put your wrists together.” She looks at me, her eyes wet
with tension, and presses her small wrists together, watching as I loosen my tie and pull it through my collar. I wrap the
tie around them twice, secure it with a tight square knot, then take a Swiss Army knife from my pocket and cut off the extra
fabric. Our faces are close now, almost touching. I can smell the sweet Kahlua on her breath and the rose again of her neck,
and it takes all I have not to start in on her, not to kiss the full lips that part, already, in excitement. I place her hands
gently in her lap, lay her jacket on top of them, and turn to the window.
Minutes later we pull up to 715 Clermont.
Her place is a gated brownstone in a row of gated brownstones. I guide her up the walk, my hand on the small of her back.
The crushed glass in the concrete sparkles like tinsel, and the night air smells of power. We take the steps quickly. On the
landing, as I work the key in the lock, she looks back, at the block she grew up on, her eyes deepening, then catching fire
as some tug of memory connects the girl who played on these very steps with the young woman who stands on them now, her hands
bound, aching for the release that waits just on the other side of the trusted wooden door of her childhood.
We step into the hallway. In front of us are the stairs that lead up to her apartment. She is stepping onto the first one
when I see it.
“Wait,” I say, taking her elbow, my other hand still on her back. I guide her not up the stairs but to the right, down the
narrow hallway that ends, twenty feet down, at a door with a centered nameplate reading SILIO .
“My parents,” she whispers, trying to stop.
“It’s okay.”
Three feet from their door I stop and back her against the wall. She waits, trembling, for a hard kiss, but I take her bound
hands, raise them above her, and press them to the cool plaster. Then I lift her by her small wrists, easing the tie that
binds them over the curved edge of a stout brass plant hook, then letting it slide down to the lower base of the hook so that
her feet just touch the floor again.
She is stretched taut, and she is ravishing.
Some women owe their looks to fashion or lighting, but hers are true, and each hot curve responds to the strict test of the
binds. Her breasts, straining at her cotton blouse now, are so full and close that I look away to steady myself. I look back,
at the pretty blue veins in her lean arms, at her knees tight together. Through her parents’ door we can hear the low drone
of the television. She wets her lips, desperate to believe I don’t have this in me but burning at the thought that I might.
“We can’t,” she whispers.
But we can. I lift her chin and taste, finally, the soft neck that has killed me since her first day. She gasps. “Upstairs,”
she whispers. “We’ll do anything.”
Against the wall is a small folding chair her parents must use to put on the boots they store beneath it. I unfold it quietly,
just in front of her, and sit down. “Please,” she whispers, but I start in on her black pumps, each sensual
pop
of an ankle strap drawing
the build that started in her two weeks ago, the build that rose to fever when she closed the door of the limo and that rises
even now as we ride. She looks out her window, but I doubt it’s the water she sees. It is the sweet, hard moment of release.
How does she picture it? A rough first kiss, and then the slam along the walls?
If only she knew.
We glide off the Brooklyn Bridge and soon are onto Flatbush and into the guts of Brooklyn. We ride past the dark avenues,
all concrete and shadow — another country. At a stoplight, over the hum of the motor, we can just hear the muted call of a
siren, all its urgency dissolved by the distance.
“Give me your keys,” I say.
She pauses, then takes them from her purse and gives them over. “Put your wrists together.” She looks at me, her eyes wet
with tension, and presses her small wrists together, watching as I loosen my tie and pull it through my collar. I wrap the
tie around them twice, secure it with a tight square knot, then take a Swiss Army knife from my pocket and cut off the extra
fabric. Our faces are close now, almost touching. I can smell the sweet Kahlua on her breath and the rose again of her neck,
and it takes all I have not to start in on her, not to kiss the full lips that part, already, in excitement. I place her hands
gently in her lap, lay her jacket on top of them, and turn to the window.
Minutes later we pull up to 715 Clermont.
Her place is a gated brownstone in a row of gated brownstones. I guide her up the walk, my hand on the small of her back.
The crushed glass in the concrete sparkles like tinsel, and the night air smells of power. We take the steps quickly. On the
landing, as I work the key in the lock, she looks back, at the block she grew up on, her eyes deepening, then catching fire
as some tug of memory connects the girl who played on these very steps with the young woman who stands on them now, her hands
bound, aching for the release that waits just on the other side of the trusted wooden door of her childhood.
We step into the hallway. In front of us are the stairs that lead up to her apartment. She is stepping onto the first one
when I see it.
“Wait,” I say, taking her elbow, my other hand still on her back. I guide her not up the stairs but to the right, down the
narrow hallway that ends, twenty feet down, at a door with a centered nameplate reading SILIO .
“My parents,” she whispers, trying to stop.
“It’s okay.”
Three feet from their door I stop and back her against the wall. She waits, trembling, for a hard kiss, but I take her bound
hands, raise them above her, and press them to the cool plaster. Then I lift her by her small wrists, easing the tie that
binds them over the curved edge of a stout brass plant hook, then letting it slide down to the lower base of the hook so that
her feet just touch the floor again.
She is stretched taut, and she is ravishing.
Some women owe their looks to fashion or lighting, but hers are true, and each hot curve responds to the strict test of the
binds. Her breasts, straining at her cotton blouse now, are so full and close that I look away to steady myself. I look back,
at the pretty blue veins in her lean arms, at her knees tight together. Through her parents’ door we can hear the low drone
of the television. She wets her lips, desperate to believe I don’t have this in me but burning at the thought that I might.
“We can’t,” she whispers.
But we can. I lift her chin and taste, finally, the soft neck that has killed me since her first day. She gasps. “Upstairs,”
she whispers. “We’ll do anything.”
Against the wall is a small folding chair her parents must use to put on the boots they store beneath it. I unfold it quietly,
just in front of her, and sit down. “Please,” she whispers, but I start in on her black pumps, each sensual
pop
of an ankle strap drawing
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