Training the Young Sadist

“I’m learning,” he said.
“I know. That’s okay, but… slower.” I try to be calm, try to be a good partner, a patient partner.
His hand, encased in latex, nuzzles my vulva with all four fingers and thumb, slower now. He’s never done this before. Neither have I, from the receiving end.
I picture what our silhouette will be. Up to the wrist in me he raises my body from the ground, cradling me from beneath, sitting on his knees for leverage. At least, that is what I imagine. I am not sure why I asked for this aside from the poetry in that image.

He pushes again, this time with less force. I expand to allow him up to the second knuckle.

“How do you feel?”

“Like you’re about to spread me on a hot dog. Just keep going.”

His united phalanges worm up to the third knuckle. The sensation is like an alien proboscis rooting around in there. I contract around this cudgel in my abdomen, and he fumbles to respond with what limited mobility he has. I am used to that practiced come-hither motion with fingers, but this is something else.

Holding the edge of the mattress with his left hand, he summons me forth with the right. I lift a little off the bed each time, surprised by the pressure and the insane rush that accompanies it.

He stops.

“What is it, baby?”

“You said you’ve done this before, right?”

“Well, yes, but from the other…” I sit up. “The other position. Why?”

“It’s just that– I guess this is silly to be asking now, but I just wondered– how did this not make you feel claustrophobic?”

“Do you feel claustrophobic? We can stop if you like.”

“No, no– I like it.” He pushes me back again, and I make some involuntary noise. “I like that. But I just mean that you sometimes have a hard time with things being fastened to you, or like, tight around you, right? Didn’t this bother you?”

My claustrophobia pops up in all kinds of places. Once I wrapped a rosary too tightly around my hand and was worried it would never come off. Despite the fact that my grandmother had given it to me and it was a rather nice rosary, I immediately broke it so as to free myself from the beaded jail. When I watch movies where someone crawls into a tunnel I start hyperventilating. I cannot ride rollercoasters because the big metal shoulders that descend from above terrify me.

I remember sitting over my girlfriend, watching her face urge me on, feeling her quake and writhe the way that you do. The tension as she clung to me inside and out. It was easy.

She couldn’t look at me; something about how hot I was, how she was really quite bashful when it came down to it. This squirming, melting–this being her instrument– was exhilarating for me in that frightful way which fantasies are, which bring you so close to the edge of murder or death. Such a frightening thing to think of that precipice. So near to dare.

All the time I kept looking at her, hand searching in what was likely an inexpert way, but a determined way nonetheless. All five inches of my hand spreading fivefold shocks to her body. It was like puppetry.

“No,” I reply. “It didn’t bother me. And you’re sure it doesn’t bother you?”

“No, I really like it.”

I can see that he does. He resumes, this time removing his thumb to hold me from without. I am too small for his whole hand anyway. Heat washes from the backs of my ears to my stomach and back. I don’t want him to see me like this. I turn my head aside as if somehow this will muffle my breath and hide the flush on my face, but with a gentle left hand, he touches my chin with thumb, middle, and forefingers to set me back.

I meet his gaze because I think I owe him that. He met the possibility of getting lost in me not with fear for himself, but worry for my hypothetical past self. I make animal sounds and my eyelids flutter, but I do not look away. This movement is for him only.

The room becomes a humming resonance chamber, my breath transmuting into mounting overtones. He increases the amplitude notch by notch by notch until all the crystal glasses break at once. The shattering itself is mute, but the hissing of shards hitting the floor fills my ears.

I stop him with my eyes. With only my wild breath for a soundtrack, he negotiates a dismount and wraps his arms around me.

“How’d I do?” he smiles.

“Good,” I reply. “How did it feel?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I like being inside you.”

We share a brief silence, touching foreheads and breathing aloud. I push him back and kiss him, expecting that he expects something in return, but in his mouth I find no secrets, only his tongue, eager as ever to meet mine. He is inscrutable.

We continue kissing, touching. My mouth wets his neck, teeth meet his clavicle. He considers my breast. It seems as if we are never near enough, inside or outside. Our lips fuse with diamond pressure, his grip on me is like a metal harness. We shudder at the precipice. So near to dare.