“Make yourself come,” he says, fist around his cock, eyes glinting with bright shards of lust.
A single opalescent tear is born at the tip, trembles there, and escapes down the lip of his cock-head, over his fingers and disappears into the dark thatch of hair at the root.
I know what he wants. He wants me to spread my legs, to hike up my skirt and slide my fingers into that moist interior heat.
He wants to see my splayed thighs tremble. He wants to hear the liquid sounds I will make as my labia parts in the wake of my fingers. He wants to see me swollen and sodden and compromised.
It’s a simple thing, really: a reciprocation of exposures. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.
And yet it’s not. Not simple at all. He wants proof that I am what he has conceived me to be. He wants revelation, confirmation. He wants word made flesh.
The venal crystallization of a fantasy. Soft curves and plump ripeness, flooded canals and high tides of desire. The breathless, ravening macrophage of lust.
I am all those things and nothing. Blinking in and out of corporeality, more firefly in a night garden than woman in an afternoon hotel.
Now I know, despite the dire warnings, he imagined me as uncomplicated.
Sitting there, with his erection in his hand, a marble statue of all there is to being a man. And so immutable his masculinity. So hard that nothing can harm him, ever.
But not me. The secret of my desires, the mystery of my need is my only shield and I will hold it to me like the one true talisman that binds my parts together.
To let him see what he wants is to shatter into glass dust.