Craving Flight

by Tamsen Parker

  I knew this would be an adjustment and I thought I had prepared for it, but I wasn’t ready for this. Feeling like I’m under a microscope, having all my secular holdovers examined and poked at. What is he going to say when he sees all of my books left over from my university degrees and the modern art prints I have on the walls of my office? Maybe nothing because I’m certainly not the only frum person to have non-Jewish books or art in their home, but I don’t know.

  My hands have closed into fists on either side of my plate and I can’t meet his eyes. I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him, but it would be nice if there were at least one place on earth where I felt comfortable, where I didn’t feel judged for being too Jewish or not Jewish enough. It would be even better if that place were my home.

  His hand comes to rest over mine on the table and he shushes me. “I apologize, Tzipporah. I’ll try to be more…optimistic.”

  An image of Elan frolicking in a field with a crown of daisies on his head nearly makes me laugh. I don’t need him to be some Pollyanna, but a little bit of faith from the man I married wouldn’t hurt.

  “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  Despite our détente, we eat with a bare minimum of conversation, my head occupied with all the things I’ll have to do tomorrow: unpacking the rest of my things, office hours, a late seminar. When dinner’s over, Elan helps me clear and clean up the kitchen. Though some of the frum men I know act as though cooking is the women’s domain, nearly all of them help with the aftermath of a meal. And if he hadn’t cooked before, I suppose Elan lost that luxury while Rivka was ill. He told me himself he’s capable of putting together a meal.

  After scrubbing the pans, I dry off my hands on the dishtowel and turn to go to bed. I’m exhausted. Elan blocks my path though, his broad shoulders taking up nearly the entire passageway. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have to turn sideways to move about these older apartments with their narrow hallways, or duck through the low doorframes.

  “I thought…” He clears his throat, awkwardness personified. “If you weren’t too tired… We might…”

  Is he propositioning me? Part of me wants to decline. I’m tired from my long day of classes, from the pressure cooker the kitchen’s become for me, from his wariness. But another part of me stirs. Perhaps sex wouldn’t be a bad idea. An orgasm is a pretty good cure for emotional turmoil and despite discomfiture in other areas, I think we please each other in this one. And it’s good to establish these habits early on, right? Begin as you mean to go on? I have no intention of returning to a sexless marriage.

  “Um, sure.”

  He holds 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. And that’s going to be what’s making firm and repeated contact with my butt in the not-so-distant future. The anticipation is delectable and I would bet money that my eyes have gone glassy already.

  More so when his other hand winds into my hair and pins me down to the bed, keeping tension on my scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make me feel controlled, tamed. Perfect. That’s when the first strike lands.

  Hard but not too hard, his palm lands against me and I moan. I love it for everything it is but also for what it’s not. The motion’s not apologetic or half-hearted. He wants to hit me and I want to be hit. I wiggle my hips and I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You like that.”

  It sounds more like an observation than a question, but just in case, I answer. “Yes, master.”

  “Good.”

  Then he’s spanking me in earnest, one blow quickly following the other. He smacks me all over, turning me red from my hips to the tops of my thighs. When my whole bottom is heated, he focuses on one spot, striking me over and over. The force is harder and harder and I didn’t know a hand-spanking could hurt so badly. Soon my attention is zeroed in to the same spot his has been. I can’t think of anything except how much the next hit is going to sting.

  Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he diffuses his attention, spreading the slaps all over. If my color had faded, it’s back now, probably more vivid than before. When he’s set me on fire, he returns to that same wicked spot. I whimper a protest and he clucks at me.

  “Is this not fun? Is this not what you ha
d in mind?”

  It is and I can feel the wetness gathering between my legs to prove it, but it’s complicated. My enjoyment isn’t unqualified and if the mocking in his tone is any indication, he knows it.

  “It is, master.”

  “You’re going to take a dozen more then.”

  That doesn’t sound so bad. Altogether he must’ve hit me a hundred times. A dozen is paltry. At least I think so until his palm lands next and I squeal. It’s the hardest he’s hit me yet and it’s in that devilish place. Then there’s another. And another. I’m going to have an outline of his hand on my ass for a week.

  He pauses when he’s halfway through, rubbing at me. Even the gentle touch makes me feel sore and abused. “Halfway done. Are you going to relax for me, little bird? Let yourself go?”

  Is that what he’s been waiting for? Is that what he wants? For me to fall apart? I want to, have been choking back tears and cries, partly because I want to be strong for him, prove that I can take everything he can possibly dish out. It’s not all stubborn pride, though. There’s a component of fear. If I let on exactly how much he’s hurting me, will he stop?

  That’s what would happen with Brooks. Just when I was enjoying it the most, just when I would think he could push me higher, he’d get uncomfortable with my reactions, my noises, and he’d stop. Leave me stranded all alone, deserted in this incredibly uncomfortable purgatory of being inches from relief and not being able to get it.

  Perhaps Elan senses my overwrought hesitation because he pinches me on the fuzzy border of where I’m now certain there’ll be a bruise. “How about this? How about I just spank you ’til you cry?”

  A dream come true. “Please, master.”

  He starts in on me again and this time I don’t try to protect myself. I just let it come. All the pain, all the sounds, all the tension of my life lately, everything pours out of me and the tears follow close behind. When I’ve broken down, he turns me over and cradles me in his lap, pulling my head to his shoulder and stroking my hair.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  “Y-yes, m-m-master.” I cling to him while I sob and he pets me.

  After a few minutes, he urges me to spread my legs and I hide my face against his chest because I know how wet he’s going to find me. It’s embarrassing. Or at least I think it will be, but the approving noise he makes when his fingers come in contact with my very core makes me flush with pleasure.

  He strokes me between my legs, makes leisurely circles around my clit before pressing inside of me. “You’re so ready. But I wonder…what do you taste like?”

  Continuing to toy with me, making me squirm against him and the very obvious erection pressed between my hip and his belly, he goes on. “Are you sweet? Earthy? I’d bet anything there’s a little tang to you. I’m going to find out.”

  He shifts me onto the bed, the soft sheets rough against my tender behind as he scoots me back and forces my thighs apart, spreading me out with his thumbs before dipping his head and, oh, yes, tasting me.

  That’s what it feels like at first, too. Like he’s sampling, analyzing. Trying to figure out exactly what my flavor is, the exact composition of my palate.

  “I was right,” he announces, looking up at me from between my legs. “A definite tang.”

  I laugh and cover my face because I just can’t help it. All of my emotions have been brought to the surface and any scratch will let them through.

  “Don’t cover your face. I want to watch you.”

  I’ve got no energy to protest so instead I lie back, close my eyes and let my hands drift into my hair. I feel like a goddess as he worships me, testing with his tongue and lips and teeth exactly what kind of combination of licks, kisses and bites make me squirm. He’s surprisingly precise in his movements; even in this he exhibits control. It’s so good I might die.

  He’s had me riding the edge for minutes when he takes my clit into his mouth and sucks before biting. My whole body shudders because it’s exquisite and an equally trembling sound is forced from my throat.

  “That’s right,” he murmurs while his beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “Spread your wings, little bird. I’m going to make you fly.”

  And he does, driving me back to the edge before shoving me over. He’s holding me down as well as he can but I wish he’d tied me because it doesn’t feel safe out here. It feels like I might fall to the earth from a great height.

  But just when I open my eyes and start to sit up in a panic, he climbs over me, trapping me against the mattress, his hips pressing between my legs, his desire glaringly obvious as he rocks against me.

  “I’ll give you a minute, but I have to have you.”

  “I don’t need a minute. But I’d like to…” I reach between us, palming his length through his pants and giving him a gentle squeeze. “…return the favor.”

  He closes his eyes and groans. “No.”

  “But…” Surely with all the liberal ideas he has about sex he can’t hold to a strict interpretation on the prohibition of spilling of seed? I’ve been told oral and even anal were okay if it wasn’t to the exclusion of having sex in a way that could get you pregnant. So what’s his problem?

  “No.” His eyes snap open and I don’t dare argue though I feel a bit chastised. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. It’s just when I was growing up, that particular rule was practically beaten into us and it’s stuck with me. I have a hard time.”

  “You don’t have to come in my mouth.”

  He makes a strangled sound and then shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curling up. “That’s the thing, Tzipporah. At this very second? I can’t be sure I have that kind of self-control.”

  A meek “okay” is all I can muster because I’m floored by his confession. I make him that crazy. Granted, if what he’s said is true, he probably didn’t do much, if any, masturbating in the past few years and was perhaps so deprived he started finding melons and baked goods tempting in an inappropriate way. Who cares? It still makes me happy.

  It doesn’t take him long to strip his clothes and then he’s pressing inside of me. I take him, all of him, laying my hands on his shoulder blades and holding onto him as he rocks his hips. Soon, he’s thrusting into me, making the fire on my butt come alive again as he drives me into the mattress over and over again. As if I couldn’t tell, his teeth sinking viciously into my shoulder tell me he’s there. He shudders against me, releasing a groan that reverberates through his ribcage as he pulses inside me. Perhaps this is how we’ll find our way to each other.

  Chapter Four

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  Elan has volunteered to cook on Thursdays when I teach an evening class. It’s very generous of him. He even rescheduled his weekly learning with his brother Moyshe to a different night, and though he didn’t say so I know he’ll leave the shop early to do it too. Not that his nephew and Reuven aren’t perfectly capable of minding Klein Brothers for a couple of hours, but Elan likes to be there.

  Emerging from the hot oven of the subway station with a flock of other frum around me, my shoulders drop. Home. I’m back in a neighborhood where more people look like me than don’t, and the ones who don’t are accustomed to Orthodox, many even stricter than I am. I love my job and while I’m teaching, it’s easy to forget that my students and colleagues think I’m odd. They’ve become acclimated to the way I dress and I’ve gotten pretty good at speaking two different Englishes depending on where I am, but when the lecture stops and I have to walk through campus where people stare as I pass, it’s impossible to ignore. I can’t wait for colder weather when it won’t be quite so obvious.

  Once inside the apartment building, the sounds particular to each family—already familiar to me after just over a week—fill the halls as I climb the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Friedman shouting at each other because they’re both nearly deaf, the Cohens’ eight children making the kind of ruckus only a herd of young ones can make, and the strains of violin music leaking from under t
he Rosenthals’ door. I’m not sure how someone who can’t play on Friday evenings or Saturdays makes a living as a musician but apparently it can be done.

  When I open the door to our apartment, I’m hit by an olfactory wave. Curry.

  Elan had asked me on one of our dates about the foods I missed since starting to keep kosher. Curry was on the list. Lamb, beef, chicken, I don’t care. I never made it myself but it had been one of my go-to takeout options. No longer because though we have Middle Eastern food, an excellent Chinese restaurant, and there are rumors a sushi counter will be opening its doors, Indian cuisine hasn’t quite made its way to Forest Park. But here it is, the unmistakable smell of curry wafting into the hallway.

  I divest myself of my things and head to the kitchen where Elan is standing over a couple of pots on the meat side of the stove.

  “I’m home, Elan.” He probably heard my shuffling and dropping things in the hallway, but just in case I wanted to announce myself. I don’t need to startle him over hot burners.

  “Mmm.” His distracted grunt doesn’t bother me. Indeed, when I see his face, it’s in a rictus of concentration so fierce I’d be surprised if he noticed if he set himself on fire.

  “You made curry?”

  “I have tried to make curry,” he corrects me.

  I smother the laugh rising because last week’s attempt at lamb chops did not go well. He puts down the spoon he’s been using to stir and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and holding it between us.

  “Would you mind putting this in the bedroom? I meant to put it away earlier, but I forgot.”

  I carry it to the bedroom, knowing precisely where on his dresser it belongs. He’s quite orderly and I try to keep my things the same way, lest he develop another complaint about me. My natural state is somewhat more…cluttered. But just as I’m about to return the worn leather billfold to its place, I stop in my tracks. There are several things laid out on my side of the bed.