Saran

I breathe air like ink, silently drawing time. His petrol blue eyes stare out from under the shade of his rocky outcrop of a brow. It’s as much raptor as concierge, strategizing my pleasure and his; I feel hunted and heightens my lust.

On the flight to see him, I order a beer and run my finger through the ring of condensation it leaves behind on the tray, thickening its line and circumference. Our relationship is still pretty new, and visiting him on a work trip is a bold step forward. I’ve packed nine tubes of lipstick—all red—and every sex toy I own. Rope, nipple clamps, clothes pins, a stainless steel butt plug, a roll of plastic wrap, paraffin candles, chopsticks and rubber bands, a Wartenberg wheel, dildos, cuffs, a flogger, a crop, and a paddle. I packed four sets of lingerie and my three tallest pairs of heels. I only packed one outfit to wear around the city. 

He greets me with a very quick kiss before putting my suitcase in the back seat. My nerves are ripe, they feel visible. I start a tight chatter to hide them, telling him about my flight and whatever comes to mind as he tensely navigates the tangle of arrivals traffic. When we get into the looser flow on the highway he relaxes and places his hand on mine. 

Smiling, his voice like a clarinet, he asks me to tell him again about my trip now that he’s able to focus, and, calmly, I do. 

We talk easily all along the highway, to the exit, across the overpass, and into downtown Chicago. The lowering sun casts long shadows and is reflected in windows like pennies. I marvel aloud at the skyline and the river and all that brick. At a stop light, I turn to see him watching me. Staring straight into my eyes, he reaches into my shirt (I’ve buttoned it low just to entice him) and pulls my breast out of my bra just enough to expose my nipple, then rolls it between his fingers until the light turns green. I cover myself back up and we drive breathlessly to the hotel.

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