Craving Flight by Tamsen Parker

his hands out to his sides. “We don’t have to. If you don’t—”
    “No. I think that’s a good idea.” And I appreciate him offering. Excellent chossen teacher indeed, teaching his students to make overtures.
    Some of the tension leaves Elan’s shoulders. “Come, then.”
    I’m only too glad to follow him down the hallway and into the bedroom. Once the door is closed, he turns on me and any awkwardness is gone. He looks powerful and virile and I have the urge to get on my knees for him. Perhaps someday he’ll command me to.
    For now, he steers me to the center of the room and removes my clothes, running hands over the parts of me only he gets to see: my upper arms, my collarbones, from my knees to my hips. All the places so much of the world has decided have become public property. But for us, they’re private treasures. When he picks at my tichels, I’m glad I never went back to having my hair flow free even after the divorce.
    While I was taking classes at the outreach center and attending seminary, it had elicited some whispers. Here, divorcees and widows tend to stop covering their heads, in part to signify their single status. I had already stood out because most of the women here who cover do so with sheitels instead of tichels. I’d assumed that’s what people had found odd—my colorful scarves instead of a wig—but apparently not. Bina had finally pulled me aside. “You know you don’t have to keep your head covered. Not until you’re married. It’s not like it earns you extra credit.”
    My face had burned. I hadn’t realized that’s what people thought of me—that I was trying to out-frum the frum. I hadn’t been. But… “I started covering when I was married. And once I started, to go back seemed…”
    Horrifying. It would’ve been like walking around naked and I couldn’t bear it. My hair had become something to be kept private, for only my husband—and hopefully the man who would be willing to dominate me—and the thought of going back made my stomach clench. I suppose I could’ve switched to a sheitel to make it less obvious but tying my scarves on had become as much a part of my morning routine as brushing my teeth.
    Bina’s kind face had lit with understanding. My discomfort must have been glaringly obvious. “Ah. I understand. Don’t worry. You might deter some suitors, that’s all.”
    Let them be deterred . If that had been all it took, I hadn’t been interested anyhow. I had wanted someone who could handle me, in all senses of the word. It seems my stubbornness may have paid off.
    Once my hair is free, drifting down to my waist, Elan steps away and looks at me, his gaze intent. It doesn’t shame me though, doesn’t make me want to cover myself. It makes me feel proud and alluring.
    He sits on the edge of the bed, his feet touching the floor. I wait for instructions, wondering if he means to admire me until I squirm and plead with him. I’d do it too. His attention alone is starting to turn me on.
    “Come here.”
    His voice is softly commanding and it arouses me more than if it had been a harsh order. He has so much confidence, so much control, he doesn’t need to raise his voice or be cruel to get what he wants.
    I approach him slowly, not breaking eye contact, and he pats one of his thick thighs. “Over my knee, little bird.”
    Oh. Everything about this—him clothed, me nude; his self-possessed directives; and now the invitation to be spanked—it flips switches of desire inside me, sending me into overdrive, leaving some of my stress behind. Yes, please .
    I climb onto the bed and drape myself over his lap, his legs sturdy and warm underneath my torso. He adjusts me slightly, urging me to arch my back to offer myself to him more fully, and telling me to turn my head because I’m going to be there for a while.
    Pillowing my head on folded arms, I enjoy him stroking my back and my behind. It also serves to remind me exactly how big and heavy his hand is.