When you have finished, you step away. Button and zip. Presentable within seconds, unruffled. Not a hair out of place.
You lean over me. I am still bent forward over the back of the couch, thighs quaking with the effort of holding myself upright while you take your pleasure in me. I felt it too, oh yes. I must give you your due: You do not take without giving as well. But now, finished, with your essence still inside me, still warm, you lean over me, chin brushing the top of my left shoulder, stubble scratching.
Your voice is distant thunder in my ear. “Mine, X. Don’t forget it.”
Ah. That’s what this was about. Reminding me.
Don’t worry, Caleb. I am reminded.
I think of Rachel then. Of the things you do to her. The things that should be degrading, but somehow aren’t.
And yet, I do not have the courage to ask you to do any of them to me.
And then you’re gone. Just like that.
I shower, again. Scrub your touch and your essence away.
I still feel as if I am outside myself, and I do not like it.
I watch as I dress again, this time in the plainest lingerie I own—you own, really—and the least sexy, least revealing dress. Flat shoes, no jewelry. Hair in simple twist, pinned up.
Once again, take the elevator down. I think I am going to the lobby, but for reasons I do not understand, I am on the third floor.
Knocking on the door marked 3.
THREE
Madame X,” Rachel says. “Come on in.”
“I didn’t bring wine this time,” I say.
A shrug. “No problem. I shouldn’t drink right now anyway. Caleb’s been on me about my figure.” Eyes flit to mine, assessing. “You’re upset.”
I sweep through the doorway, cross the living room, rest my forehead against the glass of the window, stare down. “I feel lost, Rachel.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
A silence, as Rachel hunts for something to say to this. “He has that effect, sometimes.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. He’s different with me than he is with you.” I glance at Rachel. “Has he ever had sex with you while he was still clothed?”
A shrug. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He does with me. More often than he’s naked.”
A frown. “That’s kind of weird.”
“That’s what I was wondering.” A pause. I glance at Rachel: reddish-blond hair, lovely, heart-shaped face, expressive brown eyes full of conflicting emotion, hope, fear, despair, anger, defiance. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“I will apologize now if what I ask offends you, but . . . the things you’ve told me, that Caleb does to you, to the other girls on this floor . . . do you ever feel . . . ashamed of them? Or degraded by them? Do you do those things because you want to, or because he expects it?”
“I ain’t—I’m not offended. It’s a reasonable question, I guess. No, I’m not ashamed of any of it. Degraded? I don’t know. Not really. I don’t mind it. Do I want it, like, do I like it? Does it make me feel good? No, not really. It’s not for me. It’s for him. He likes it. He says it’s to teach me. But I know better. He’s different with each of us. He ain’t the same with me as he is with Five next door. He’s rough with her. Not the way he is with me, though, because I like to feel a little pain. I told you this before. With Five it’s . . . just rough. He shoves her around, pushes her where he wants her, jerks on her hair. Things like that. Never actually hurts her, though, just . . . acts rough.” A glance at me. “You curious, X?”
“No,” I immediately protest. Then think better of the lie. “Yes. I don’t know.”
A knowing grin. “You are. But you’re afraid of it. Ain’tcha?”
I shrug. “A little, yes.” A breath. “That’s a lie. I’m very afraid. Today, just now, actually, I went outside. I met someone I used to know, and Caleb was jealous.” I find myself telling the story, and feeling lighter as each word leaves my lips. “He stripped me naked, and he performed cunnilingus on me—”
Rachel laughs. “Jesus, you’re so fucking uptight and formal. Just say he went down on you. Ate you out.”
I try it. “He . . . he went down on me. And then he put me on my knees on a couch and knelt behind me and—and fucked me. And he never even took his pants off. Just left them partway down. And then he just left.”
Rachel blinks. “That’s harsh. He just . . . left? Like, he didn’t say anything?”
“He reminded me that I was his.”
“Marking his territory, I guess.” Rachel glances at the ceiling. “I think it’d be hot to have him fuck me like that, still clothed. Like it’s . . . illicit. Is that the right word? Like we ain’t supposed to be doing it?”
“Like he’s ashamed of me.” That’s how it feels.
A shake of the head. “Nah, I don’t think that’s it. He ain’t the type to be ashamed. Not of himself or anything he does, or of anyone he’s with.”