Pleasure Unbound

UNRAVELED

I wish that I’d never looked up.

I wish that I’d kept my head down and focused on the ice cubes floating aimlessly in my glass, a mirror reflection of how I felt. Living one day to the next, slowly fading into the surroundings around me, always there, but not necessary. Only acknowledged when I do something wrong rather than the other hundred things I do right.

I wish I had kept to myself, phoned my husband, and pretended to care that he had been called away for a last-minute work emergency on our tenth wedding anniversary getaway when all I felt was indifference. Then I could have wandered down the cobblestone streets slightly buzzed but completely content. I would have gone up to our hotel room, snuggled with a blanket on the balcony under a Tuscan sky with my e-reader. I’d have devoured those books I’ve come to love-the ones that have helped me reawaken my sexuality. The books have made me realize it’s okay to want more out of my sex life and to want my husband to push the envelope with me. Experiment with me. Demand more of me.

But I didn’t.

I looked up and into eyes the color of dark chocolate, sinful and delicious. Irresistible. Instant attraction sparked with a subtle nod of his head and a bite of my lower lip. I met him stare for stare, a smirk ghosting his mouth as his eyes scraped across my features lips, cleavage wedding ring on my finger before coming back to meet mine. We continued to stare at each other, his eyes darkening with desire and tongue darting out to wet his lips. I suddenly became uncomfortable with the blatant proposition his eyes offered and averted my gaze. And even then, I could still feel his eyes on me, the hair on my arms standing on end from the feeling of being watched, studied, and scrutinized.

From being desired.

I should have refused the drink the bartender slid in front of me with a murmured, “Compliments of il signore.” I should have let it sit there untouched instead of drinking most of it, only to stare at remnants and the melting ice cubes.

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I wish I had.

But I didn’t.

My body shivers from a potent cocktail of fear mixed with traitorous pleasure. The heightened sensation shocks my mind back to the present. To the here and now. To the gloved hand sliding a fingertip between my breasts, to the ragged breathing of the man I can’t see, to the unknown rifling through me.

And the deep-seated ache to be owned.

I should have never looked up.

His fingers slide between my spread legs and push apart my lips, wet and swollen, a result of everything he’s done to me thus far.

Resistance is long gone.

Shame has been obliterated.

Fear remains a cold and callous presence. But so does the unexpected desire that barrels through my body like a freight train.

I cry out at the feeling of two leather-gloved fingers as they push their way into me, the texture of the material an oddly pleasurable feeling. I’m so raw, so over-sensitized, so used, that I don’t think I can take much more. I try to close my legs and my mind is so consumed and overwhelmed that I forget, I can’t. Forget about the unforgiving restraints holding my ankles apart.

My body begins to writhe, its need to sate the burning ache a sharp contrast to the warring emotions in my psyche. My only focus is on the slow slide-in of his fingers and the pressure and friction against nerves unexpectedly reawakened. The tortuous withdrawal of leather was not wet enough tugging softly on the most tender of flesh, causing a different but equally arousing sensation.

I try to fight it.

At least I tell myself I do.

I try to understand how this is possible. How an orgasm can rip me apart right now-again-when fear still holds my breath captive.

I should have never accepted the drink, never looked up to acknowledge him with a subtle nod of my head.

My body vibrates as the swell of white-hot heat sears through me, taking nerve endings hostage and overwhelming all thoughts.

I shouldn’t have looked up.

No.

I should’ve let his silent proposition fall by the wayside.

The question is, why am I glad that I did?

Last night

The wedge of my sandal falls in the cracks of the cobblestones causing me to stumble. I laugh aloud at how ridiculous I must look to the patrons of the little bistro bar I’ve just left. Lonely, pathetic woman getting drunk while on vacation by herself. Using a few drinks to ease the sting of being chosen second best to work once again. I shrug away the true but unwelcome thoughts as a sharp pang of anger hits me because … they’re right.

And the sad thing is that if Anderson were here, I’d probably feel even more alone than I do now. We’d have sat at the bar and gotten buzzed without saying much to one another, both of our minds on the numerous things we needed to do when we got back home. We’d have thought about things that could wait a few more days instead of focusing on the whole reason we took this trip: to reconnect, to reprioritize, to recommit. So I’d have sulked in the silence we’ve grown accustomed to while thinking of what-could-have-beens and when exactly we stopped communicating. Eventually, he’d have asked me what was wrong, to which I’d have replied the over-generalized, and my term of choice as of late, fine. He’d have looked toward my wrist to see if I was fiddling with the bracelet I wear and never take off-the surefire way for him to know I was bluffing. Then depending on if I was or wasn’t, either an argument would’ve ensued where I’d be told to lighten up some or we’d go back to the hotel room where we would have some underwhelming sex.

The same-sex we’ve been having for the last ten of our fifteen years together.

Uncreative.

Routine.

Predictable.

And because we would’ve been drinking, my body wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the task at hand-an orgasm. The miraculous aligning of stars that must occur to reach my release would’ve been unattainable. I’d just have lain there and moaned at all the right times with his alcohol-laced breath panting in my face. I’d have taken his drunken, less than pleasurable love-making, and recall times when we couldn’t wait to ravish each other. The times we used to push limits that were considered taboo to this preacher’s daughter, and how he’d drawn this sexually modest girl from her bubble and dared her to try new things.