by Vina Jackson
I couldn’t remember the last time I had invited a man home. Neither Dominik nor Darren, the man I’d dated for six months in London before Dominik and I met, had ever visited me at my flat. I’d picked up the odd one-night stand during my single months, but even then I always insisted on going back to theirs.
There was no real reason for my reticence; I’m just cagey about my personal space. I’m also messy, and I hate commuting, so I tend to end up living in cheaper, small rooms in more expensive parts of town, rather than taking somewhere larger in a less expensive suburb and needing to take the subway every day. My room in the East Village apartment was tiny; if I wanted anything larger, I’d have to move to Brooklyn. Marija and Baldo occupied most of the space and consequently paid two-thirds of the rent between them. I had a small room with just a single bed, a hanging rail with all of my clothes and shoes on display, a couple of photographs from home and a few books scattered here and there. I didn’t have a desk, not a single piece of furniture other than the bed and the rail. Ever since I left New Zealand, I’d made a point of travelling light, so wherever I ended up I could pack up and ship off again with the minimum of fuss. I begin to feel edgy when I own more than I can fit into a single suitcase.
I pushed open the front door to the apartment and felt around on the wall for the light switch, sliding my purse onto the kitchen counter.
‘Hello?’ I called out, taking Dominik by the hand and leading him inside.
He stood in the kitchen and looked around, while I knocked lightly on the Croatians’ bedroom door to check if they were in. There was no response.
‘They’re out.’
‘Good,’ he said, striding over to me and picking up a handful of my hair, then tugging it gently.
He suddenly swivelled me round so I stood facing the bay window in the living room, looking out into the small communal courtyard shared by the residents in our block. It was dark outside now, and with the lights on and the blinds open, anyone who happened to be sitting in the pocket-sized garden smoking a cigarette or standing at their own window and looking over at ours would likely have been able to see if not everything, at least our silhouettes, me in my short black dress and Dominik in his collared shirt and tie. We’d both dressed for a night out, in case we ended up falling into one of New York’s classier bars. He looked good in a suit, never so formal that he might have been on his way to work, but not uncomfortable, like the sort of man who had owned the same outfit for ten years and resurrected it from the wardrobe once or twice a year for weddings and funerals. There was always something of a casual air about Dominik; he had the confidence of a person who knows they’re in the right skin, so no matter what he wore, he looked good. He had an easy style.
Underneath that unwavering polite veneer, though, lurked a very dirty mind, and it was that dark edge beneath all the social niceties that stopped me from getting bored and moving on, as I usually did with men after a few months of dating.
I wonder what Dominik is going to do next, I thought, staring into the minuscule garden, watching the fairy lights that a neighbour had erected to cheer the place up flickering like fireflies. Push me against the window? Make me lift my dress up round my waist and then stand back and stare at my arse? Fuck me in full view of the neighbours? He hadn’t snaked his hand under my dress yet, so unless he had noticed the absence of a pantyline when we had been kissing, him stroking my body through my clothes, he would be unaware that I had elected to leave my knickers at home and had spent all night enjoying the occasional flurry of cool air between my legs.
‘Take your hold-ups off,’ he said, ‘but without bending your knees. And don’t look back at me.’
I could hear the smile in his voice; he was enjoying this, coming up with a new game that he knew would turn me on. It was the change, the surprise, that filled me with a rush of arousal. So long as I didn’t know what was coming next, then it was exciting. My mind would just stop thinking and relax, all my powers intent on following his next instruction. It stopped me from thinking about the laundry that I needed to do, rehearsals next week, when my next pay cheque was coming and what bill I needed to pay first. The sound of Dominik’s voice washed every other thought from my head, and when I wasn’t thinking, I made up for it by feeling, all my physical senses now on hyper alert, so that even the lightest touch, the softest breath of air on my skin, sent me half mad with desire.
It’s more difficult than it sounds, removing a pair of hold-ups without your knees bending. I rolled up my dress, offering Dominik a glimpse of flesh, and hooked a thumb under the sticky band at the top, the lacy border that separated the stocking part from the top of my thigh, and pulled downwards, spreading my legs wide apart so that I could bend over at the waist to touch my toes while keeping my legs perfectly straight. Then I balanced all of my weight on my other foot and gently removed my stiletto, just for a second, so I could hook the stocking over my heel and toes and then slip the shoe back on again. Then the same on the other side.
‘Hand them to me.’
I held my hand out behind me, still staring straight ahead through the glass. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do next.
‘Give me your hands.’
He hadn’t specifically said that I should hold my hands behind my back, but that’s what I did, because Dominik always meant exactly what he said, and if he had wanted me to turn round, he would have either told me so or spun me to face him. So I stood with my legs spread, facing the window, my shoulders twisted back in my sockets, chest forward and arms straight and stiff, my hands clasped in the prayer position with my thumbs facing my butt.
The hold-ups made a surprisingly efficient pair of handcuffs despite the stretch in the light fabric. He used both, tying my hands with two elaborate loops, joined snugly at the wrists so my circulation wasn’t hindered, but even if I wriggled, I couldn’t engineer my way free. I suppose I could have got out of it if I really tried, but escaping didn’t appeal to me. I liked the idea of being subject to Dominik’s will, a prisoner of my own choosing, to do what he wanted with.
He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. The ache in my feet following the endless high-heeled walk to downtown was becoming pleasant now, a sharp, exhilarating reminder that I had given my body to Dominik to use and therefore any sensation that I had was because he wanted it.
It had occurred to me before that if I could apply this mindset to other parts of my life, there’d be nothing I couldn’t achieve. Once started, I was like a train on its tracks, headed straight for whatever outcome awaited me with total disregard to any discomfort of the journey. Submission wasn’t something that I could apply wherever and whenever I willed it, however. I needed a trigger. When I was growing up, I had my violin teacher, Mr van der Vliet, who had never laid a finger on me in any way other than as a teacher to a student, but for some inexplicable reason I had felt so bound to please him that I practised far beyond the norm. Now it was Dominik who commanded the same power over me, albeit because I had granted that power to him.
He bent down, his eyes locked on mine, ran his hand up the now bare skin of first one leg and then the other, from my ankle to my thigh, stopping just before where my pantyline would have been if I had been wearing any. His eyes were like granite; he had that look that he got when he was drifting into the path of his own desires, a place beyond conscious thought, where the body is the driver, if you just allow it to take over.
My breathing was beginning to grow ragged. I loved it when he did this, I really did, but God, every time his touch got close I just wished that he would slide his finger inside me. Patience has never been a strong point of mine.
He straightened and walked round behind me, grabbing me by my wrist restraint as if the stockings were a convenient handle. I struggled to keep up with him, walking backwards, my heels clattering on the polished wooden floor.
He pushed me face first onto the bed, my arms still tied tightly behind my back. I turned my face to the side so I could b
reathe and watched him, out of the corner of one eye, as he kneeled down by the foot of my pillow and fumbled under the bed, his expression turning into a satisfied grin as he found the bottle of lubricant and box of condoms that I kept there. Not such a secret hiding place after all, I mused. Perhaps I wasn’t so different from other women. Or perhaps he always dated the same type.
Dominik pulled my dress further up so the fabric bunched round my waist, my bare arse now on clear display. He drew a breath, now realising for sure that I had spent the evening with him in my short black dress without any knickers on.
I flinched as I heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, uncertain whether he meant to slap my arse with the leather strap or merely undo his trousers so he could fuck me. Either outcome I would have enjoyed, providing I got the latter eventually. I held my body perfectly still, waiting for his next move, hoping that it would come soon, otherwise I feared that I might explode.
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg for it, but I wanted him inside me so badly that it felt as though time had slowed down. Every second that he stood near me but didn’t touch me filled an hour.
It was like being on a knife’s edge, perpetually trapped in that narrow place between desire and fulfilment. I enjoyed it and hated it at once. Every time he stepped away from me my desire for him multiplied, but each time he touched me he brought me closer to satisfaction and closer to it all being over.
He knew it too. As much as I tried to temper my responses out of pride, he had obviously paid attention during the course of our encounters and he knew how to play me as if I were an instrument. He didn’t own all of me, and he never would, but for as long as we were in bed together, he owned my body, whether I wanted it that way or not.
I was entirely at Dominik’s mercy.
I jumped as I heard the sound of a wrapper tearing, and the snapping sound of the bottle of lube flipping open.
Then I felt his finger inside me at last, probing, exploring, just one at first, then another, and another, and another, until I was sure that he wouldn’t be able to fit any more inside. I tried to shuffle back against him, to bend my knees and gain some purchase on the bedding so that I could drive myself backwards into his hand, but with my wrists tied and my body flat on the bed, all I could do was wriggle helplessly like a caterpillar on an entomologist’s table, or a butterfly pinned to a dissection board.
He was surprisingly still behind me, likely taking pleasure in watching me try to worm out of my plight. I felt more exposed being half, rather than completely, naked. Somehow there was something more pornographic about having my top half covered and my bottom half nude, as though my naked arse and genitals were more shocking without my bare breasts to offset them. Half-nakedness was the pose of perverts, of old men at bus-stops with their shirts on, trousers down and coats open. At the wish of another, half-nakedness had an edge of humiliation, a feeling of ownership to it.
‘Spread your legs apart,’ he said.
I did.
‘Further.’
My thigh muscles were beginning to ache, as he had me almost doing the splits. I was still on my knees with my chest pressed into the bed and my hands behind my back, only barely able to keep my balance. He dropped down into a crouch and then ran his tongue lightly all the way from my knee to the top of my inner thigh, on one side, then the other. He stopped just short of licking my pussy, but he held his mouth right against me so that I could feel his hot breath against my lips.
I pushed back slightly, hoping to feel the touch of his tongue.
‘Oh, no, you don’t. Stay still.’
Despite my best efforts to play it cool, I began to moan, and rock back and forth slightly.
‘Want me, do you?’ he teased.
His tone was mocking. At any other moment, I might have wanted to slap him, but right now I felt as though my body was on fire and I would have done anything to get him to touch me, even if that meant I had to crawl across the floor on my hands and knees, begging for it.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes? You don’t sound very sure. Perhaps I’ll leave the room until you are certain.’ He stood up and stepped away.
‘No, please, please don’t go. I want you more than anything.’
‘More than anything – that’s better. And if I give you what you want, what will you do for me?’
‘Anything you want. I’ll do anything you want. Just please, please fuck me. I can’t stand it any longer.’
‘Anything I want, huh? You should be careful what you promise. I might hold you to that.’
‘I don’t care. Please touch me,’ I whimpered, my pride forgotten under the strength of my lust.
He stepped closer and pushed the head of his cock inside me, but only a few inches. Then he waited.
I clawed the bedspread in frustration.
‘Beg,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘Fuck me, please. For God’s sake, fuck me.’
Finally, he pushed all the way, filling me to the brim. The heat of his cock inside me just about sent me through the roof at the first thrust.
He gripped my wrists tightly and drew in and out as I pushed back against him.
He filled me until I began to ache, and he was spent.
We both paused, panting. He bent down and gently untied my hands. I stretched my arms out cautiously, the blood rushing back to my wrists.
‘Stay there,’ he said, as if I could go anywhere with him still inside me.
He pushed himself off and lay down beside me, stroking my hair with one hand as he ran the other between my legs until he found my sweet spot and I began to moan again. I thought it was unlikely that I would come in this position, on my front, but I was willing to let him try.
‘Turn over,’ he whispered, maybe seeing the look of uncertainty on my face. I flipped over onto my back.
He continued with his one-handed rhythm, raising himself up so he could see what he was doing. I watched him watching me, his gaze intent on the path of his fingertip. He looked down at me looking at him and smiled. One voyeur recognising another. Then he ran his free hand up my torso and between my breasts, tracing a line round each nipple on the way. He placed his hand very lightly over my throat.
‘Close your eyes.’
He was a quick learner, Dominik, and with my eyes shut, blocking out any remaining distractions, and his other hand busily pleasuring me, I was caught in the throes of my own orgasm before long, an almost painful wave of pleasure that started at my groin and travelled all the way up to my brain before it floated away into nothing a few seconds later.
I opened my eyes to see Dominik looking down at me, his self-satisfaction evident. I don’t orgasm easily and, besides Dominik, have had only one or two lovers who’ve managed it without my assistance.
‘Good girl,’ he said. Corny though it might be, it was a phrase that never failed to give me another hot flush.
We decided to relocate to Dominik’s hotel room for what was left of the night. The hotel’s double bed was infinitely more comfortable than my single one, and he had a view over Washington Square Park.
We made love again in the morning, both still half asleep and spooning. I nestled back against him to find his erection pressed into the cleft in my arse and, soon after that, inside me. We lay side by side, his arm round me protectively and a hand resting on one of my breasts as I pushed gently into him. There was something tender and nostalgic in our lovemaking. The bitter reality of our parting had quelled the fire of the previous night and left only desire and longing in its wake.
I stood by the window, nude, and played for him one last time, ‘Message to My Girl’, my favourite of the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra and Split Enz collaboration, though of course not the same without the rest of the orchestra, the flute and the piano, and the voice of Neil Finn. It was the first time that I had played anything for him outside of the classical canon.
He didn’t know the lyrics, didn’t have the same sense
of home that I did when I played that song, couldn’t see the vision I had of Aotearoa stretching out in my mind’s eye. Nevertheless, I hoped that at least a bit of the magic and my longing for it came out through the strings.
I put the Bailly away and sat down on the bed beside him.
‘Shall we get breakfast?’ I asked.
It was brunch by the time we arrived. I took him to Caffe Vivaldi on Jones Street, just a few blocks west of the hotel. It was one of the reasons I moved to the Village. I’ve always been a little sentimental, and the name of the café felt like a good sign, especially once I heard they had an open-mic night and were receptive to musicians of all sorts. I hadn’t spoken to the owners about playing there, but I liked to sit and soak up the atmosphere. The area wasn’t what it used to be by all accounts – the bohemians had moved to cheaper parts and been replaced by the wealthier middle-classes, who liked the community feel, boutique coffee shops and nearby parks, which explained why my rent was expensive despite the small room – but some of the magic lingered, and I couldn’t help but think I might soak up a little of the energy left behind by all the musicians who had sat in those seats before me.
They also had great food and served Bloody Marys with just the right amount of spice. I ordered one, becoming more accustomed to having an alcoholic celebration for one, while Dominik always sipped an espresso or a Pepsi.
Maybe it was the booze that made me bold. I’m not usually one to disclose my feelings, especially to lovers, but each minute that passed drew us closer to the time that Dominik would have to leave, and the speed of the hands flying round the clock on the nearby wall made me throw caution to the wind.
‘I’ll miss you, Dominik.’
He put down his fork and looked at me. ‘I’ll miss you too.’
I paused, gathered my thoughts. ‘Thank you for coming. It really meant a lot for me having you here, even for a short time. Things will pick up for me, I’m sure, but I can’t leave New York. My music . . . I’ve had some trouble settling in, but it’s going well now, with the orchestra.’
