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It sure explains the shadows.
19
DAHLIA
Sometimes,your breaking point is dramatic and explosive. Cue theJerry Maguire“who’s coming with me” scene.
But other times, your breaking point just happens in between words or breaths of air. There’s no big Hollywood movie finale that pushes you over the line. It’s just a single look, or one comment.
Or, in my case today, a blister.
This morning, I woke up with my hands and wrists aching, my knees raw, and my back killing me from the long, punishing hours I’ve spent as Deimos’ handyman putting furniture together. I even didn’t wear office attire one day, coming in instead in basically workout gear so I wouldn’t sweat through another nice blouse.
Deimos told me it looked unprofessional and that I was in violation of some sort of previously unknown-to-me office dress code. Then he bent me over the nearest half-assembled desk, yanked my yoga pants and panties down, and spanked thefuckout my bare ass before fingering me to an explosive orgasm while emptying his cum down my throat.
Yeah.
You’d think ifthatwasn’t your breaking point, nothing would be. Except…nothing about that made me break. Just shatter, beautifully, and come apart at the seams in the most sinfully delightful way.
I really,trulyneed to find a therapist.
In the back of my mind, I know what’s going on between us is extremely fucked up. The power imbalance alone of him being my boss and what he’s holding over me should be the biggest, reddest red flag in the world. Throw in thenatureof our…physicality, and it gets downright scandalous. My white male boss is, essentially, forcing me to perform sexual acts with him while using threats of me losing my future as leverage.
I mean this could be the poster for the Me Too movement.
And I know that should bother me, like, alot. Especially with what my mom and I have been through. I feel like I vaguely remember a therapist I saw years ago saying something jargon-y like “negative pattern conformity repetition”, or some such.
Loosely translated from Shrinkspeak, that’s: “you’re kinda fucked up with a bunch of baggage, and you’re probably pretty likely to repeat bad things or terrible decisions on impulse.”
Except I really don’t think that’s what this is. Because I don’t fear Deimos. I don’t resent what we do at all. I don’t feel as if I’m being coerced into anything, even when he’s literally manhandling me physically into a position and leaving his handprints on my ass for the next three days.
I’m almost waiting for someone, probably dressed like a suffragette, to knock on my door and demand I relinquish my feminist card.
Wanting what I want, especially from a man like Deimos, is…problematic. I get that. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the dark, swirling, viciously alluring fantasies and desires that rampage through the most private parts of my head. I can’thelpcraving the way he touches me so roughly, and forces me to my knees.
The way he spanks my ass or slaps my inner thighs. The way he twists my nipples until he’sjustcrossed over the line from pleasure to pain, blurring the two together as I drown in the rush of it all. The way he sinks his ridiculously large cock so deep down my throat that I’m sure I’m going to stop breathing and suffocate.
The way he’s told me on more than one occasion that he’ll tie me up and “fuck me raw whether I say no or not”, or that he’ll break into my apartment and wake me by fucking me.
I mean…these can’t benormalkinks. And it can’t be normal for me to get so absurdly wet and needy when he growls these fantasies…or possibly threats…into my ear.
So maybe that’s what brought me to my breaking point this morning. It’s not the blister on my thumb from the fucking screwdriver. It’s the fact that I’m worried I might be a little too eager to jump off a cliff and sail into pure darkness.
In any case, I decided this morning I was playing hooky today. I sent a text to Deimos that I was taking a personal day, temporarily blocked his number, left my apartment, and asked my across the hallway neighbor, Lena, to call me if he showed up.
She helpfully offered to call the police orshoot him, but I told her that wouldn’t be necessary.
Now, mid-afternoon, after bouncing around a few of my favorite haunts in the city all morning, I grin as I walk into The Mermaid Inn, in Chelsea. Raph looks up from his martini and the dozen oysters he’s been a saint to preorder for us, smiling as he stands.
“Well hello, my dear.”
He laughs, but then frowns as the hug I give him lingers and lasts a little too long.
“Hey, hey…” He pulls back, peering anxiously into my eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I smile, lying through my teeth. “I’m fine. Just happy to see you.”
“Well, I’m glad you could fit me into your busy schedule,” he grins as we both take our seats. He motions for the waiter, tapping his martini glass and then holding up a finger.
