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Ms. Lin’s mistaken.
“Are you sure?” I ask. Kamila has implemented a new rape policy, and every man or woman on this island must follow the guidelines. Oral consent is of uttermost importance.
“Yes, please. I want more of what we did earlier.”
I adjust the sleeves of my dress shirt. Her eyes fall on the diamond cuff links that my son got me for my last birthday. “Are you being a needy little doe?”
She squirms at what I said, but there’s terror in her eyes. Instantly, I ask, “What’s on your mind?”
“Smolyakov was right, you know. My condoms have expired. I… Smolyakov has some in storage. I should—”
I interrupt her mumbling by silencing her with my finger on her lips. I trace her bottom lip, and she parts for me. I let her suck on me some more. I say, “We’re both clean.” She nods cautiously. “And you’re on birth control because you get heavy periods.”
Her eyes widen, and she attempts to speak, but I don’t let her. “Every secret you have, little doe, I have uncovered it. I know every aspect of your life. I wouldn’t let my family near you if I didn’t.”
The questions in her eyes are endless, but she doesn’t ask for me to stop. I go on, “Take off my suit jacket and your sweatshirt.”
“But I’m cold,” she says, muffled by my finger in her mouth. She’s sucking on it like a good little doe, neat and proper. For newbie Katantians, we have adapted to the lifestyle quite fast.
“I’ll keep you warm. And hand me your panties, too. I want to see how wet you are for me.”
Reluctantly, I remove my glistening finger from her mouth.
Ivy hangs my suit jacket near the door. When her sweatshirt’s gone, I see her lacy pink bra covering her pert tits. She blushes a rosy red while she slides out of her panties.
She hands them to me like the goody two shoes that she is.
I inspect them, and she studies me intently.
“Drenched. These are drenched….” Momentarily, I’m at a loss for words. The lonely old grumpy man from the bar is lightyears away. It’s fun to embarrass her, to make her blush. She’s squeezing her thighs together like she can’t get enough of me inhaling her scent.
I haven’t felt this lighthearted in years. When Penelope Jade said my name as her third word, pronouncing it as Joh-dah… Perhaps when my grandson was born, and I had an hour or two ofrelaxation. Or when my son won his first championship. Nobody knows, but I cried that night. They were happy tears.
I’m done pretending like I haven’t studied the blueprint of her home. I let myself into her bedroom, and she follows me around. I’m comfortable here like nothing can wound me. That’s a rare sentiment for me, considering that I’m outside of the palace’s walls of protection.
The walls in her home are covered in paintings, her own, I presume. She’s tracking her progress. I know the painter type; my niece is just like that, always sketching and complaining about lines and curves.
Her bed is small for my size, but it’ll do. If I break it, I don’t have to make up an excuse to buy her a new one that doesn’t have me twist like a pretzel.
Without my instructions, she takes a seat on the side of her bed. She waits for me to come to her, not making a sound. Her eyes are on me the entire time, and I feel her notetaking in her brain.
“You’ve got a nice home,” I tell her. I mean it. It’s the aura that has me captivated. I don’t feel any foreign forces here, evil or devious. In every neat detail, her touch is everywhere, and her home welcomes me like I was meant to be here. There’s a chaos of emotions in her tidy room. I see it in the paintings on the wall.
I should’ve come here earlier. It would’ve saved me the fifty sessions of therapy.
“Thank you,” she responds. “It’s my safe space.”
“I can see that.” She’s let me into hersafe space. It’s a mistake before it even happens. I can smell it in the air that there’s more than I’m willing to acknowledge, but I ignore it. For one night, for my fucking birthday, I can be irresponsible.
She dressed up. I put on my fancy clothes. We went to a party. And now, we’re about to fuck. There’s nothing more to it.
“Are you trying to fix me still?” I ask. She nods. “You think you’ve got magic in your pussy, huh?”
More eager nodding on Ivy’s part. I don’t want to say that I have a type, but I do. My type is my wife. Ex-wife. A beautiful black woman, she didn’t take any shit from me when we were married. That’s why our marriage lasted for so little. I don’t frequent women like my therapist, young and needy. I try not to overthink it and what it means. She’s my therapist. She’s got a degree and all. That’s the only problem I see.
I’m about to fuck up the one thing that tried to improve me as a person.
That’s all I do, isn’t it? Fuck up.
