still, how that sleek leather taunts me—as if it’s reaching out for my hand. Inching closer, I’m finally standing right over the menacing implement, so near, all I have to do is reach out and pick it up.
This belongs to the stranger, I conclude. Not new, but used. I can that see by the wear on the woven handle and how it’s been molded by the warmth of his fingers, conforming to the palm of his large hand. I can’t stop what’s happening in my body, the way sensations of desire are bursting loose, the way our conversation in the restaurant comes back to me—about his binding me. I imagine him using this leather nightmare against my back, or perhaps it is my pussy that he wants to flail with the cut ends of this piece.
I pick it up and it feels hot to touch. My pussy’s frantic, hoping I’ll use my hand to get off, or even the butt end of this inside my cunt. I can’t. I can’t let it lure me into that kind of world. I won’t. I won’t relent to him. I won’t let him have me again. I won’t let him bind me, abuse me or bend me to his will. I think that with my whole being, sure that I’ll throw off his next overture. He’s making me immune to him with these dangerous intrusions, and I believe that I’m free of him—all except the part that’s wedded to the power of his voice and anxiously awaits his next words.
Afraid of what the riding crop is doing to me, I let it fall from my fingers and watch it bounce lightly on the bed and finally settle. I’ll sleep in Isaac’s room tonight, there’s sure to be less of the stranger inside those walls.
g
I fall asleep quickly in Isaac’s bed, and am too exhausted to let my fears into my dreams. In the morning, I decide it was foolish to fear of the riding crop, or even be unnerved by the stranger’s access to my life. I’ll simply take control and kick him out. I’ll let the bastard have a piece of mind for having presumed so much about me. I have the power to choose and I’ll decide if I’ll submit. With that kind of resolve, I toss the riding crop into the back of my closet and take up residence in my room where I belong. When I sleep easily another night, I figure I’ve won a great battle.
After three days with my resolve firm I think I’ve cast the man out of my life for good. I’m so busy at the university with classes and conferences that I have many hours when I’m not directly thinking of his next appearance in my life. I know he’ll surface again, he wouldn’t have left these signs of himself otherwise. But I’ll have a different answer for him the next time he finds me. Woe to him who stalks me, or even thinks of shattering my peace with intimate invasions. He can have me on the street, but not where I live. This place will be safe, I vow. And to implement my determination, I change the locks on the apartment doors.
It’s dark when I move through the village outside the campus, but there are, as always, dozens of students milling about, going from coffee house, to tavern, to hole-in-the-wall theatre. I stop and talk to two students I recognize from my classes and their cheerful tone infects me, so I’m smiling happily.
Thinking I’ll go home and answer e-mail, even call Robby at ten as I promised, I’m looking forward to the evening with little to do. By nine o’clock when the phone rings, I’m at the computer expounding to a friend through my keyboard.
“Hello,” I answer. Holding the receiver between my cheek and my shoulders, my fingers continue to fly across the keys with my last thought.
“You have my crop?” I hear his voice, the low timbre of its earthy quality vibrates through me. For an instant my body reacts to the sound, then I stop the feelings cold.
This belongs to the stranger, I conclude. Not new, but used. I can that see by the wear on the woven handle and how it’s been molded by the warmth of his fingers, conforming to the palm of his large hand. I can’t stop what’s happening in my body, the way sensations of desire are bursting loose, the way our conversation in the restaurant comes back to me—about his binding me. I imagine him using this leather nightmare against my back, or perhaps it is my pussy that he wants to flail with the cut ends of this piece.
I pick it up and it feels hot to touch. My pussy’s frantic, hoping I’ll use my hand to get off, or even the butt end of this inside my cunt. I can’t. I can’t let it lure me into that kind of world. I won’t. I won’t relent to him. I won’t let him have me again. I won’t let him bind me, abuse me or bend me to his will. I think that with my whole being, sure that I’ll throw off his next overture. He’s making me immune to him with these dangerous intrusions, and I believe that I’m free of him—all except the part that’s wedded to the power of his voice and anxiously awaits his next words.
Afraid of what the riding crop is doing to me, I let it fall from my fingers and watch it bounce lightly on the bed and finally settle. I’ll sleep in Isaac’s room tonight, there’s sure to be less of the stranger inside those walls.
g
I fall asleep quickly in Isaac’s bed, and am too exhausted to let my fears into my dreams. In the morning, I decide it was foolish to fear of the riding crop, or even be unnerved by the stranger’s access to my life. I’ll simply take control and kick him out. I’ll let the bastard have a piece of mind for having presumed so much about me. I have the power to choose and I’ll decide if I’ll submit. With that kind of resolve, I toss the riding crop into the back of my closet and take up residence in my room where I belong. When I sleep easily another night, I figure I’ve won a great battle.
After three days with my resolve firm I think I’ve cast the man out of my life for good. I’m so busy at the university with classes and conferences that I have many hours when I’m not directly thinking of his next appearance in my life. I know he’ll surface again, he wouldn’t have left these signs of himself otherwise. But I’ll have a different answer for him the next time he finds me. Woe to him who stalks me, or even thinks of shattering my peace with intimate invasions. He can have me on the street, but not where I live. This place will be safe, I vow. And to implement my determination, I change the locks on the apartment doors.
It’s dark when I move through the village outside the campus, but there are, as always, dozens of students milling about, going from coffee house, to tavern, to hole-in-the-wall theatre. I stop and talk to two students I recognize from my classes and their cheerful tone infects me, so I’m smiling happily.
Thinking I’ll go home and answer e-mail, even call Robby at ten as I promised, I’m looking forward to the evening with little to do. By nine o’clock when the phone rings, I’m at the computer expounding to a friend through my keyboard.
“Hello,” I answer. Holding the receiver between my cheek and my shoulders, my fingers continue to fly across the keys with my last thought.
“You have my crop?” I hear his voice, the low timbre of its earthy quality vibrates through me. For an instant my body reacts to the sound, then I stop the feelings cold.
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