The question I always come back to is this: what do I want from our arrangement? Is it enough just to dissolve? When I was younger I remember going to visit some friends of friends who lived in the backend of nowhere. We sat around at night, listened as we tried to impress each other, drank some local paint stripper because of course we had to try what the area had to offer. We’d built a fire out of a few broken chairs that lay discarded in the barn. I threw match after match at those damn chairs but in the end it took a gleeful slosh of petrol and a forever lost zippo to get it started. The paint turned into latex and peeled back to show the grain of the wood before it all turned black. And when no-one was looking I held my hands as close to the fire for as long as I could stand it, and then for a little longer still. I had fucked someone that night, but it had been a clumsy thing motivated by obligation, and I ended up back in my own room where I fell asleep. At some point I remember waking and when I opened my eyes there was nothing. The darkness was so complete that it started to take on a hue that I had no name for. And surrounded by that tinted absence it was as if all that was left was the fire in my hands, like the rest of my body had dissolved, and all I had to remind me that I was a person was the residual tingling heat emanating from my palms. But the more I concentrated on the feeling in my hands, the more insubstantial I felt myself becoming, until I was sure that the fire was all there was left. And the feeling was wonderful.
*
Jack read the note again. As always she’d written it on a scrap of paper using a cheap well chewed biro. He’d found it on the bedside table, half hidden under a coffee cup as if he wasn’t meant to see it. Of course it was part of her game. Hidden just enough. She would leave these little traces of herself afterwards, mostly nonsense but enough to pull him into her mood. There would always be something to hurt him too, something casual, banal but violent. ‘I had fucked someone that night, but it had been a clumsy thing motivated by obligation.’ Jack wondered how long it she had spent on that one line. He could see her, lying on her front in the bed, the biro grating between her teeth, her legs swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Her hair tied up and glasses on as if this were a professional endeavour, notwithstanding the fact that she would almost certainly be naked. Although it was a cheap pen her handwriting was pristine, every mistake crossed through with a perfectly level line, as if she’d been lying there with a set-square and spirit level.
The notes weren’t always so cryptic. Jack didn’t always have to sit there scratching his head, reading every phrase like some scholar parsing the Talmud. Sometimes they were more obvious, fantasies or recollections — Jack was never sure which but in the end it didn’t matter. Once he had found four pages of tightly written prose, blue on yellow legal pad, shoved carelessly behind the toilet. He’d smoothed it out on the kitchen table and poured himself a filter coffee before sitting down to read it. He knew the coffee wouldn’t help, but the ritualistic nature of the process — spooning the grounds into the pot, pouring in the water, waiting the requisite amount of time before applying just enough pressure to the plunger, the pleasant resistance — helped put him in the right state of mind for another one of her attempts to unravel him.
*
I am in the middle of a room, sitting on a chair. I am naked except for a black collar around my neck. My hair is shorter for some reason, I must have had it cut recently. I like it this way. A bulb above me creates a small pool of light, and I can’t see more than a couple of feet. I know that I am in a large room though, I can feel the space extending out from the chair in all directions. A big room, and cold. The fine hairs on my arms are standing up, my nipples are hard, I have goosebumps on my legs. I move my arms so as to rub some warmth into me but I realise that my hands are tied to the back legs of the chair. For some reason I am not particularly surprised by this, as if being naked and tied to a chair in a warehouse was as normal as walking to the shops to buy a pint of milk. If anything I am excited. A half formed memory floats to the surface: a chatroom, a conversation that starts spiralling downwards, boring into something I didn’t know I had been hiding. Then the atmosphere changes in the room. The emptiness is filled by an unmistakable presence. My breathing speeds up and the tingling working across my skin intensifies. I look around but still can’t see anyone. Then he walks into the light. And as he walks towards me I feel another presence, kneeling behind me, hands now on my breasts, circling my hard nipples. The fingers are delicate, the nails long, and when I look down I see they are painted a deep red. Her hands continue moving across my skin, digging in slightly so that they leave a warm trail. The man is now standing in front of me. He kneels down and places his hands on my knees, applying just enough pressure to make my legs part slowly. I resist, but only a little, its a pretence, but now more memories are bubbling to the surface and I know what is coming next. The red nailed hands have moved up my neck, have grabbed fistfuls of my short boyish hair and are pushing my head downwards so that I have to watch as, now that my legs are wide open, the man pulls me forward on the chair. The light cascades down the white skin of my belly and reflects off the short blonde hair that leads to my pussy. As if following the route dictated by my eyes the man runs the index finger of his right hand down past my belly button, down through the hair, down past my clit and into my cunt, which is now slick with anticipation. I let out a moan but almost instantly it is stifled by the woman behind me as she places her hand firmly across my mouth. My breathing becomes ragged now, my eyes wide open as the man slides another finger inside me and starts to rhythmical fuck me, each stroke pushing against the inner wall of my pussy, sending waves of pleasure up spine and down through my arms. I moan into the woman’s hand but she does’t let go. Then I hear a beep and a click, then another, then another and it dawns on me that there is a third presence, an unknown person beyond the pool of light, with a camera. And for some reasons I know that the photographs are being seen by many more people. The man’s fingers are still pulsing inside me and I can feel the dull beginnings of my orgasm start to spread out from beneath my navel. His other hand is now pushing down above my pussy, massaging my lower belly. Suddenly the woman’s free hand moves back to my breasts, taking one of my nipples and twisting it, adding another rush of pleasure that connects to the growing sensation in my abdomen. The beep click, beep click of the camera continues as I feel my body begin to tense, muscles contract, hips buck wildly into the man’s mechanical fingers. Then the feeling in my belly explodes, shattering its way through my torso and out down my limbs. I feel my cunt contract around the man’s fingers as he continues to fuck me. My eyes are still widen open, fixed on him and then I feel a wetness as I start to shake uncontrollably, my cum dripping down my naked legs, covering the man’s arm. And all the while the cameraman continues documenting the scene, capturing every convulsion. And then the man stops. He pulls his fingers out of my pussy. He stands up and disappears into the darkness. And I realise there is no longer a hand holding my hair, no fingernails scratching at my skin. It is just me gasping for breath, naked, dripping, in a room on a chair, in the cold.
*
And so it goes. The ridiculous thing being that Jack had watched her as she wrote the pages, been there in the room, sat at the end of the bed.
Jack crumpled the note into a ball and left it on the table top. This had also become part of the game. Not that the rules had been decided in advance or had been codified in any way. Nevertheless once read he would almost ritualistically crumple the notes and leave them out for her to find, a clear indicator that the note had been read, the message digested, the point made. The consistency of response had also become significant at least in Jack’s mind: no matter the content my reaction will be the same. I am in control. And he was, in a way. The arrangement wouldn’t have lasted otherwise.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/53c59m/an_arrangement_mff_bi_bd