I was drowning, suffocating in the words in front of me, the tiny pixels that formed the images were making the permanent imprint in this picture box I referred to as my mind. I was too dazed to remember how I had stumbled into this world I wanted to be so desperately engulfed in, a world where domination and submission were clear but do become extremely blurred at the same time. Lines. Crossing lines. Safe word. I wonder what is the most common safe word? Stop it. Just stop thinking about it for one minute, you are about to go to an interview. Don’t fuck this up, you don’t even have to say that much. Not saying much, like you are being gagged, better yet, you could gag someone else. Fuck, stop turning red. Oh, what a exciting color, red. The color of apples..or when whipping someone’s back. You cannot seriously do this right now, Pete is looking at you. He will know something is up, he always has a way of getting it out of you.
The interviewer just asked you a question, you should have listened, dumb ass. That’s why Pete was locking eyes with you, thank God Joe came up with an answer to save you. Actually, Joe is probably just high and the stoner wanted to have a part in the conversation. This couch is nice, leather, I would bet my bottom dollar. Bottom…leather underwear. Pete just sinks so comfortably in the couch, I wonder what he would look like in leather underwear.
"What’s up?" says the small smile next to me, his caramel color hand sliding over the leather, and reaches my shoulder, his fingertips light compared to my teetering heavy thoughts. I shrug, and give a cornered smile back, and he gives me the look I receive when I am forced to confess whatever is on my mind.
Finally, back to the hotel. Pete’s walking beside me, our step is in sync with one another. Step. I’m looking down while I feel his eyes scanning the parking lot. Step. He says something about his back hurting, but all I can think about is hurting his back myself. The lobby exposes the two groups that divide the four of us, Joe and Andy to some room on the second floor and our room, sixty-five.
This is a terrible idea, for all I can picture in my head is him on the bed, his bare ass skin colliding with my hand. His muffled moans coming from the pillow at the end of the bed, until he lifts his head searching for air in the room. I could get on top of him, his hands facing upward, and connect him to the bed posts with rope. His wrists turning a crimson color as I take….stop. He is your best friend, not where your mind can dump this fetish. But, my mind won’t stop, the thought of Pete’s legs covered with the bruises and lash marks made by a flogger overwhelm my imagination. Arousal is not a word of description at this point; I have to hide it. Okay, okay, he is coming back to the room now, he got you a soda, for the sake of all humankind stop thinking of him like that?
He says it should be a law for everywhere to serve Shirley Temples. I nod, looking at my hands, my mind replaying the scene of him bent over in my mind, causing me to quickly put them in my front pockets of my jeans.Then he pulls out the vodka. Man, this was an extremely terrible time to quit drinking. I cannot drink, I tell myself, over and over again, because if I even allowed myself one drink, that would be it. I couldn’t control myself, what I say, what I would try to do. Pete is my best friend, nothing is worth that. So, when I am offered a drink, I refuse, even though he persists he will watch how much I drink. We watch tv, as he makes himself a second, third, and fourth drink. He is talking so excessively that is he is even talking to himself, but all I can do is watch his lips move, imagining what all he could do with them. Better yet, what I could make them do. “Shower,” he mumbles and quickly stumbles to the shower, a sigh escapes my lips.
My fingers search for my Mac, and I begin to search videos, articles, anything to do with my obsession. I bite my lip, when I press play to video I should have never started. My mind replaces the man with the collar with the man in the shower, just across the room. Close the window. Okay, an article, that’s better. A list, the longest I have seen in my short life fills the page with descriptions of tools of the trade. There is no air in the room. I shut the Mac and look up. Fuck. My eyes meet soft brown ones as light from the bathroom fills the room. Room. This room is like the one in that video, that fucking work of art. My face is hot and my eyes shoot down automatically. I can’t recognize what he is asking, but at the moment I don’t care. I get up, walking toward the bathroom. The next thing I remember is forcing him against the wall, his hands pinned to the cream colored paint, his eyes searching me, pleading. My hand seems smooth almost as my hand reaches his cheek,and he whispers in my ear for more as our hips clash as if it is a car crash. “Sir,” he pants, “please.”
“Trick, please,” he says, trying to walking past me, not pinned to the wall, not demanding for any kind of physical contact that was playing in my mind. I move out of his way, from standing in the middle of the room and practically sprint to the washroom. The ice cold water runs through my fingers, I cup some, proceeding to wet my face. Cold, like…ice. It’s a race to where ice could go and what you could do with it, the reactions, pleads. Would it be a punishment or a reward? You are a sick bastard, Stump. I look in the mirror, a reflection of mixed European ancestry with bad eyesight peer back at me. What can I do? Lie to myself. That is all I can do, for I have to face him tonight. Actually, he is probably asleep. Even if he isn’t, I will just tell him I am tired and want to sleep. Calm down. There is a saying if you count backwards from ten, it somehow calms you down. Just count to ten, and it will all be over.
Ten. Head down, Stump. Straight to bed. Point A to Point B. One foot after another. Nine. My bed is closest to the wall, but Pete’s is first in view. Eight. He isn’t in it. Where is he? Fuck. Seven. My eyes travel up to my bed to see a pair of gray skinny jeans hold a sliver computer, the apple shining the virgin white. Six. I open my mouth, but no sound is coming out. Five. His eyes scan over the screen, his forehead wrinkled, and his face solemn. Four. There is no time for an escape plan, for he instantly looks up. Three. I feel frozen. Two. Frozen, not like the ice I was just thinking about, but a state and a feeling in a category all of its own.
“Patrick, What is this?”
One.
