“You’re like, a natural” I tell you once I’ve regained my bearings. I know you get as nervous as I do and I want to take on all of that nervousness and let you flourish. Even here, in this sensual world I’m trying to craft, I’m a control freak. “You’re doing everything right.” No matter what you did, it would be right. What I want to say, what I think I mean, is As long as you get off on it, it’s perfect. But you wouldn’t believe my sincerity, at least not yet.

We don’t discuss our session further as the week continues on, but I think about it nonstop. I’m always thinking, and worrying, and fantasizing. Obsessing only keeps me constantly needy, more-so mentally than physically. It’s hard to explain. It’s hard to focus.

On Thursday night, I am so exhausted from the thoughts swirling around my head, and from trying to dodge them to focus on work, that I pass out about 2 hours earlier than usual. In turn, I wake up a little earlier the next morning.

You’re always horny in the morning. You’re most horny in the morning even. As a night owl and deep sleeper I’m ashamed to not be able to be awake for you earlier. But today I’m awake and you aren’t. Anymore. At some point you pulled me into a spooning position, and I can feel you, hard, pressing between my legs just grazing my vulva. Even if it’s just morning wood, I know you’ll be ready to go when I wake you up. I just want to lay here with you for a little longer and feel you against me, almost in me.

Fuck. Your phone alarm goes off. I watch as you begrudgingly get out of bed and get dressed, totally oblivious to what I wanted to do an hour ago. I’m going to be beating myself up about this all day, rightfully so.

—————————

“Ah! Thank you!” I exclaim when I open the fridge and see that you grabbed my favorite lemon wine on your way home. I immediately open the cabinet to find a glass as you answer “Of course,” from the next room. I bring my glass and the bottle into the living room and set them on the coffee table. You already have your drink of choice in hand.

We start a thriller movie, where I make you pause every 10 minutes to tell me if I missed something or if the filmmakers haven’t told us yet. It only gets worse as my wine inhibits my ability to pay attention to anything other than the blue light hitting your face. You’re so pretty. I’m so blessed. Sometimes the universe really does reward me.

You eventually get tired of me not paying attention and jokingly ask me what’s going on. In a snap decision, I tell you about this morning and how I wanted to wake you up with your cock in my mouth.

“Oh, so beauty sleep is more important than me?” you say facetiously. You are obviously not actually irritated but it resonates with me. That truly would be the most challenging thing to overcome, I think. Waking up early for you. I can’t even wake up on time for work some days. “I’m sorry,” I reply.

“Babe, I’m kidding - It’s no big deal.”

“To me, it kind of is…I’m trying”

“Trying what?”

I don’t have an answer prepared for you. Trying what? Trying to become your obedient sex doll because I’m too fucked up for a normal sex life? Something you never asked me to do? I just look at you.

“Tell me,” You say with a slight smirk. You think I’m doing a coy, “draw the truth out of me” act. I’m not. I’m really not.

“I mean, I’m not really sure.” I politely try to defuse the situation.

“I think you might be.” You say, not meeting my eyes, but retaining an upbeat cadence. You grab my arm and lay me down onto your lap, your feet still on the coffee table. You start playing with my hair. You say nothing further.

Whether I have the most eloquent, carefully-selected words or not, the wine in me has some for me to use.

“I just love you,” I say. “I feel like I want to worship the ground you walk on sometimes.”

Not quite, but a good effort, I tell my drunk self. You just keep playing with my hair.

“You know how I feel already, though,” I try to pass the conversation back to you. It doesn’t work. I lean up, take a big sip of my wine, and sigh. “I want to feel like I was made for you to play with.” That…wasn’t so hard. Drunk me has arrived. I get very talkative when I drink. Are you trying to take advantage of that?

“I want you to do things to me that I’ve read about, things we’ve done a little bit of. I want to try a more rigid structure with it. I want to…”

I trail off as the word “serve” gets stuck in my throat. Even intoxicated I’m still scared to embarrass myself in this vulnerable space. Unless you’re in on it. I lay back down in your lap.

It becomes a little easier when I’m not looking at you. “I want to serve you, in a way. Maybe with specific rules we agree on. I want to feel like you own my mind and body and can do whatever to it and I’ll do whatever to please you and…” My rambling trails off. I’m really lacking grace with this. You run your fingers through my hair starting at my scalp and effortlessly untangle little clumps that have formed over the day. “And the rules would be like, like what positions you want me to be in - we can come up with them together - and like if you want me to call you…Sir or anything like that, you know?” My nervous interjections seek your validation so blatantly, but you haven’t given me anything.

You haven’t given me anything.

“Yellow.”

“What?” You ask as you recognize what I mean.

“I don’t feel okay about this. Give me something or we need to turn the movie back on. You’re messing with my emotions.”

You stop combing through my hair. I can feel your legs tense up, but I feel dignified and don’t waver.

“I’m sorry. I love hearing you talk about sex. You’re so descriptive. It’s hot to see you know what you want. It just feels weird sometimes when I try to do things in person...” you trail off.

You didn’t mean to make me upset, but it hurt a little. It is weird.

“I adore you.” I say. I’m trying to hide the crying voice that’s starting. “We do kinky stuff sometimes, and you like that, right? You find that sexy? You think I’m pretty like that?”

I give up on not crying. I take a deep breath in. “I just want to feel pretty for you. I want to worship you and beg for you. I want you to hurt and humiliate me for your satisfaction.”

“Baby, you’re gorgeous. Always. I want those things as well.”

“Then can you…” I start. “Be more aggressive with me?”

Bad word choice. You are aggressive with me. You aren’t assertive with me.

“Let’s try it.” You say after my question hangs in the air for several beats. “Go get a notebook.”

———————

Once, a few years ago before we lived together, I texted you a list of proposed rules I’d love to play by. It was forever ago, but I think you responded favorably. I think that’s how Slut became part of our vocabulary. I love that word.

I love when you say it, because you warp the degrading nature of it into something I strive to be. I need you to degrade me and humiliate me for being so sexually fucked up, but love me for the same reasons. For just you, I should be a slut. Always trying to anticipate your needs and meet them. When you call me that, it’s validating that I’m doing a good job. At what I’m most passionate about.

“Should we take turns?” I say, knowing I’d go first.

“For now,” you respond. Good.

I draw a bullet point on the lined page. I write out “I will always address you by Sir and answer respectfully when spoken to.” I hesitate to show you but swallow my worries and hand you the pen and paper. Everyone says communication solves everything, right?

“Are you writing this in first person?” you ask. It’s the easiest way for me to express myself. And I don’t know what to refer to us as. I look at you blankly, and sigh out a tipsy giggle.

You write something on the paper quite quickly and hand it back to me. Under my rule is a new sentence that reads “I will not touch myself without your permission.” What? I look up at you with a confused expression. Orgasm control was never something either of us have expressed interest in. You shrug.

After a few more silent back-and-forths, the list has grown to 5 line items.

• I will always address you by Sir and answer respectfully when spoken to
• I will not touch myself without your permission
• I will follow your instructions promptly and accurately when given
• I will not make eye contact with you unless explicitly told to
• I will not come without your permission

“Can we stop there?” I ask. “For now?”

I could list hundreds of tiny rules I’d love to abide by for you, but seeing them written out makes everything more real, and it’s intimidating. Someday, I tell myself, I will craft up a longer list with details of how you’ll own my body and what hard limits we’ll set. You grab the notebook from me and read the last rule I added. You tear the sheet out of the book and place it on the coffee table then hand me back the notebook.

“Lay on your stomach,” you instruct me, tossing a throw pillow onto the floor. I follow your orders and you pull my legs over your lap so they’re bent against the armrest. You put your hand on my ass and tell me “Rewrite them, but in third person.” I open my mouth to say something back but have nothing. I look down at the paper and draw 5 bullet points.

“How do you want me to order them?” I ask.

“However you want.” Ugh, a non-answer.

I choose to rank them by importance, thinking that would be easiest. Even though I’m hesitant, I know deep down what I’m going to use for “You” and “I”. You rub your hands across my ass as I write. My satin sleep shorts are doing fuck all.

I flip over and hand the paper back to you, now reading

• Slut will follow Sir’s instructions promptly and accurately when given
• Slut will always address Sir by Sir and answer respectfully when spoken to
• Slut will not make eye contact with Sir unless explicitly told to
• Slut will not touch herself without Sir’s permission
• Slut will not come without Sir’s permission

You look it over then meet my eyes. “Perfect.” I shift myself so I’m straddling you and look down at your face.

“I really, really adore you,” I say breathily before connecting my mouth with yours. “Please, please let me show you how much.”