Sweetheart Boy #1
She stands in her fuschia velvet shoes and full bubblegum lace skirt, smoothing her coral curls back from her face, looking around at the velvet couch, all the dark shining wood and leather paddles and floggers hanging on the walls, this playroom she’s booked to meet a man she’s never seen before. She is waiting for the moment that the black door swings open ― for the moment that he enters, and she takes full control. Her hands are hot with nervous sweaty desire, and she leans over the air conditioner, letting the cool air flow over her skin, trying to breathe, trying not to let her mind fill with hypotheticals and spiraling what ifs and hot frenetic thoughts and the scraps of her anxiety that flutter and pile in her mind at the worst times.
She remembers the first time she noticed him and felt his energy, just over text, there was an electricity between them immediately. He caught her eye - no, he caught her azure third eye. She saw the boy behind the words right away, as she was lying on her back, her phone in the air, idly scrolling, when he sent her the first of what would become an endless stream of texts and confessions and offerings between them. She remembers the moment of Knowing that hit her, a charge of intensity from the universe that made her sit straight up in bed and immediately write back: “I would love to meet you.”
She wants to come to this encounter open and empty of jetsam, like walking up to a white stone temple knowing nothing of what might happen inside its walls, with no conception of her initiation into the rites and rituals to come. This experience is like nothing else. She is walking into the temple, knowing that soon it will be hers. She already feels like she could take over and ascend to lie on the altar, queen of everything. She pulls up her spring green stockings so they’re perfectly placed on her smooth soft thighs. For this, the first time she meets this boy who the universe has dropped into her lap, she chose an outfit that speaks to who she is at her core, her truest self - she wants to show her pink heart, her softness, her spirit that’s a valentine, freely given, handmade and girly. She’s a visual love letter. She arranges her skirt and it fluffs out around her hips like a dogwood blossom. Underneath it, the gusset of her mesh panties is already slightly damp. Her fingernails are painted the color of a swimming pool. She knows the boy is on his way. She’s told him to kneel. He has promised he will.
She started her forays into finding a man because she’s angry. The last two men shred her heart in different ways, but the same in the end: it’s over abruptly after the peak of intimacy. Romantic nights on the phone until 3am, a low voice in her ear, making love in the forest, beautiful, all of it, in the way that hurts because it’s so precious. All of it, ripped away by fear and mental illness and the way that humans can’t communicate the wound. She’s so angry. “All I want to do,” she says to a friend, “Is find a man who wants me to slap his fucking face. And I’m going to do it. I’ll do it. I’ve got to fucking slap someone.” She doesn’t think she’ll find warmth or softness in this new world of kink - it feels more like a quest for revenge for her shrapneled heart. She decides she’ll find a man who’s just a face. A face to slap, she tells herself. There isn’t anything else out there for me. No one else out there.
In their days and nights of texts, the boy tells her that all he’s ever wanted is a home. He tells her that he dreams of being collared, taken, owned by the right woman. He wants to be bared, spirit and skin, by someone who sees him, leads him, orders him and enjoys him. The boy wants to be known. He wants to be fully seen, to have his entirely submissive heart accepted by a woman who wants him for who he is. He tells her this openly. He also tells her that he wants to be bent to her will. She tells him that she wants to bend him.
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