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He slowly brings it to my lips, watching my eyes as he inserts it into my mouth—just the tip of it at first, then more, and more until it hits my tongue and I bite down. As I swallow it, he inserts the rest and I chomp down on it as he watches me eat, unable to take his gaze off my face.
The entire exercise would feel utterly ridiculous if it weren’t for the serious undercurrent of growly, borderline menacing energy he’s exhibiting and how serious his expression is, as if he’s doing research for some top-secret governmental project that will decide whether humankind survives till the end of the year.
As I swallow once again, his eyes fall fast to my throat which he contemplates for a moment before reaching for another fry to feed me. This time I thank the heavens that my brain has made a reappearance as I wonder if I want to indulge him again. Handing over unearned submission like this is hardly something I want to do with someone I don’t even like that much, hot tamale or not.
“Is this another weird kink of yours?” I ask as he lifts it to my mouth.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, his expression earnest. He regards me most sternly, as if a teacher telling off a disobedient student. “If it is, as I told you, it will be one of many,” he adds, and I know he must have heard that sharp inhale of air I couldn’t help but take at his words.
There’s not a bit of me surprised that he’s a kinky bastard. I mean, let’s face it, he’s a dominant, uptight alphahole with no boundaries and a stick lodged so high up his clenched ass that it’s probably massaging his diaphragm.
I already know based on his objectionable and emotionally stunted personality that he’s gonna be a walking sex shop of weird kinks, but to have him insinuate it out loud with an unashamed hiss falling from his stupidly enticing lips is another matter… not least because I suddenly wish I knew what every single one of these kinks were.
God, Indie, hold it together, for Pete’s sake…
I stare at him boldly as I eat the fry in some vague attempt to pretend I haven’t lost power in this exchange, while trying to ignore the body-consuming buzz that radiates through me the moment that I swallow, a movement of the throat supervised by his keen eyes.
Only this time, as I finish, his thumb dares to wander to my lips which he studies most intently, as it grazes from side to side, wiping the salt from them.
I feel my nipples harden into swollen bee stings under my flimsy top as his thumb catches a slip of saliva inside my mouth and strains against my lip, as if wanting to push inside.
The sudden vision of all the wooden and stone statues of female deities our yoga teacher had dotted around the Shala this week while talking about the sacred feminine make me want to hang my head in shame because I’ve never felt such a desperate need to suck before. I keep expecting the thumb to push inside and imagining my lips curving around it and my tongue running up and down as I begin to suck. I mean I suspect I’d suck as strongly as if I’d been unceremoniously kicked out of a spaceship onto the moon and his thumb is the only oxygen delivery device on the big old rock.
His thumb… or another body part, of course.
God,don’t even think about that, I warn myself, wondering how hard it is, how big, whether it’s cut, whether it’s as deviant in its tastes as that stare of his is.
But at the sight of his bicep tensing, a sudden intrusive wave of rational thought whacks me square in the face and wakes me up, as if God has decided to spare what’s left of my inner goddess’s self-respect and allowed a split-second hit of blood to rush back up to my brain.
And I recall the excitement I felt this time last week as Fran, Rami and I prepared to set off for the divine female-worshipping retreat, and the vow of chastity which a few days ago I uttered with utmost conviction, declaring my body a no-dick zone until the very last Savasana of the retreat… and if I’m not mistaken, with three classes a day, I have three more of those to go.
But, who’s counting?
The vow isn’t the only problem. Unless God decides to beat him about the face with the enlightenment stick in the next week, I’m still dealing with an ex for whom my pain is oxygen. Still dealing with text messages from hidden numbers with no metadata attached. Silent voicemails. Heinous words uttered which crawl under my skin and fester there, leaving me plagued with anxiety attacks that I have to hide from everyone in order not to spare them more shit.
Plus, Grey and I aren’t friends. We’re not lovers. We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. We’re notanything. I don’t even know if we like each other. For all I know, this sense of safety I have around him is nothing more than an illusion and I'm some deer skipping along in the woods, not realizing she’s being stalked from the shadows.
In a moment of clarity which cranks down the heat on my loins that this man seems to ignite, I clamp my lips shut, stopping his thumb from entering my mouth as I return the same unflinching eye contact that he’s shooting at me like a flaming arrow.
He withdraws his thumb quickly, leaving a tingling spark of electricity and a hit of longing in its wake, and watches me, his expression frankly unreadable amidst the blazing kinetic heat pulsing between us. I swear to God, this may be the most indecipherable man I’ve ever encountered.
He finally drops his eyes and turns, handing me my own paper bag as we walk down the path. Only I don’t eat anymore, and neither does he. My appetite has been curtailed by what just happened, and how quickly I felt willing to obey his rather ungentlemanly orders.
A full-body cringe seizes my little self as I stumble along the path, my flip-flops catching a rock and almost leaving me face-planting into the dirt just to add insult to injury.
Only he catches me, his grip firm, his strength unmistakable as he pivots back to standing.
I lift my chin, groaning at myself internally.
God, he probably thinks I’m some loose-limbed flake with no self-control. Another primitive weakling whose clothes magically fall off whenever he looks at her like every other woman.
I don’t want him thinking that…
I’m not like that.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m… starting to blame him at this point.
And God.
