Somewhere in between dreams, I heard the shower start.

Opening my eyes sometime later, I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side, trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.

There were the distant smells of soap, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.

For a few moments, sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves. Seconds or minutes or hours later, I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat.

There was something remarkable about the transformation that took place when she took off her clothes. In the street, she put so much thought into her style; her glasses, her stompy boots, her fishnets, and her leather. Buttons on her messenger bag proclaimed various affiliations; political, musical, sexual, and comic. From sarcastic t-shirts to exposed garter belts, every detail told a story.

Naked, all of those hard edges became soft, and all that black cotton and leather gave way to smooth expanses of skin somewhere around the shade of coffee with too much milk. Her nipples were Belgian chocolate. The only ties to her clothed self were the ring through her lip and the tattoos on her arms, but in the light of the morning, they looked more like flowers than angry missives.

I still saw the same woman, though, passionate, fiercely angry, fiercely loyal, fiercely beautiful.

On one of her thighs, I saw the light purple bloom of a bruise that I didn’t give her. For some reason, it made me hard. There was no hair between her legs, though there had been the night before, that made me groan and wonder what she was up to.

I remembered slapping her ass the night before and the way she liked to wrestle with me teasing me until I was hard, then she shook her head “no” with a smile.

“You have to take it,” she whispered, breathy and playful.

I let myself fall into the memory, letting it turn into a little dream, before I awoke once more to her standing over me, naked. She was holding my coffee mug, and she was holding it just a little too far for me to reach. She took a sip, sighed, and put it on the nearby dresser. Her smile was both mischievous and knowing.

“Will you be good for me?” she asked sweetly, though her tone had more than a little demand in it. “Probably,” I admitted.

She frowned for a moment, considering my answer. She then leaned down as if she were going to kiss me but instead took my right hand in hers. I let my arm go slack as she guided my hand to the corner of the mattress.

The handcuffs were still latched onto the bedposts where I’d left them the night before.  When she clicked shut the first cuff on my wrist, I raised an eyebrow. She gave me innocent eyes; I yawned. She lazily walked around the bed and pulled my other hand into the other handcuff. Then she made her way to the foot of the bed and found the rope I’d left there. I looked down, straining my neck a bit as she duplicated the knot I’d made around her ankles a few hours before.

She pulled the blanket and the sheet off of me, and I felt, suddenly, the weight of my powerlessness. She looked down at me with her hands on her hips, naked, smiling, planning.

“Are you ready to earn your coffee?” she said with a challenging glint in her eye.

“It’ll be cold by then,” I answered calmly. She rolled her eyes and knelt on the bed next to me.

The slap was, to be honest, a little too hard and a little too close to my ear. The world swam and spun for a moment.

Then she leaned down and kissed me hard and hungry. She slipped a hand into my hair and pulled me into her kiss. She sucked at my bottom lip, she slipped her tongue deep into my mouth, then she bit my chin. When she was finished, she pushed herself up and put her knee down on my arm. The pain was dull, and my body tensed with desire. She swung her other leg over me and settled down so that she was straddling my chest, just below my neck. She put her hands in my hair again and looked down at me with the look of someone inspecting a pet.

“I know you want to lick it,” she whispered.

Her fist tightened in my hair, and as much as I didn’t want to give in, my eyes moved down her body from her breasts to her little belly to the hairless, slightly tan-lined triangle between her legs.

“I know you want it more than anything,” she said and pushed her knees into my arms.

The want was huge, much bigger than the pain. The shame about the want really didn’t make sense, but so what. The shame felt good. It all swam and swirled in my head and made it, so the words got stuck in my throat.

“Beg,” she said simply, as if commanding a dog at the dinner table.

There was a beat. She watched my face as I fought with the word. Honestly, it didn’t take long for the need to win. Need always won with me.

“Please,” my body pushed the word out.

Then she pushed herself up a little. The pain where her knees were on my arms intensified a bit, but then the pain and everything else was gone, and it was just her pussy on my mouth, and everything was the taste of her.

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