He says these things to me…they kind of pop out of the blue, you know how “they” do it. Oh, pardon my lack of capitalization there… “They”…. 🙂
I was talking to Him about a spoon I’d seen someplace, had thought about getting, and then decided not to. We were outside at Starbucks, and His eyes did that….shift-change, from vanilla “date” to wicked Dom.
He shakes His head slowly, keeping eye contact. I cannot look away, though that look makes my breath hitch in my throat. I want to drop my eyes, I want to squirm and look away…but I can not. He compels me without a word to hold this electric connection with Him.
“No, nilla,” He says, that…that thing glowing in His eyes growing sharper, more intense. There is this tiny, nasty smile blooming at the corner of His mouth. I know it well.
“Why, we’ve only explored about a third of the potential of the pink brush.”
He lets that hang there between us for a moment, and I flash back to the last time He used that fucking tool of ass destruction on me. The first second when I feel nothing—and the next when I feel like it’s melded to my flesh–and the next when the pain radiates out as if a detonation had occurred. The gasps as I desperately sought to bring air back into my lungs. There’s a shockwave kind of thing where there is the strike, the inhalation, the sound, and then the sudden bloom of “OMYFUCKINGGAWD”…
And I think, there on the deck at Starbucks, “OHMYFUCKINGGAWD”….how could He not have explored that fucking thing in all it’s fullness…how could there be more?
He’s watching me, the predator watching His prey, soaking in every hitched breath, the dilating of my eyes, the open-close-open of my lips as I try to frame a response.
In all honesty?
I have no idea what I said. Or if I said anything at all. Maybe just I sat there…you know, like a fucking carp, opening and closing my mouth, trying (and failing) for rational thought.
Eventually He continues.
“No, nilla, I don’t need a wooden spoon. I still have much to explore with that brush.”
I blink, and blood rushes to my cheeks, my heart races as if I’d been running. Leaning back in His chair, He laughs softly, wickedly, delighted at the mental mess He’s made of me, without even a touch.