You pull against it. Explain it to me’. Why don’t they listen? You speak again. The pain of being forced; compelled to articulate your needs seems at once to be beyond what I’m about to inflict upon you. The goosebumps are becoming embarrassing. Why has this cunt pushed in, in front of me? Where does he get off? And so you resent and revile your own baser instincts- your tearing, teeth-on-edge irritation at yourself that your own wants and desires pull you off the predictable, relentless beat, towards your off-beat, fallible pulse instead. Once? ‘OK. Why are the decisions always on me? How many times?’
You stop. The bar, spreading you wide, flexes slightly as your roll your shoulders forward. That way we can keep track, and see where we get to. You know who you are. Twice?’
‘No… More…’
‘Fifty?’
You’re silent. Why can’t she just calm down for five fucking minutes? 20? ‘Please…’
I’m suddenly aware that you’re there: waiting, and that my own, selfish, hypnotic enjoyment of your skin is not why we’re here. Predictable; fixed; rigid; relentless. I go back to caressing you. You don’t know. The pain of being forced; compelled to articulate your needs seems at once to be beyond what I’m about to inflict upon you. Why do they all fuck with me?
