There is something beautiful about a man that has nothing to do with the beauty of a woman; it is an alien strangeness, wholly separate from the beauty of a woman. I admire his body. He is a self-proclaimed narcissist, but at times he is utterly self-conscious. He’s had a long day at work, and he is self-conscious about his attire, but I don’t care. He wears comfy flannel pants; his boxers peek out at the top, and just above that, his hips. He is lean and long of limb, and I find him beautiful and arousing.
He has near perfect teeth, and when he grins or smirks–for that is all he does, they are lovely to look at. I am enamored of his eyes, peeking out from beneath well-shaped brows that he likes to raise at me when I’ve said something intriguing or when I’m being a brat. His lips are hard but sensuous, inviting. His hair grows like a weed, and if he cut it today, it would be long tomorrow; it hangs, lazily, like soft, melted gold or bronze. I love his beard, which grows back by the end of the day; it makes him look a little rougher and it thrills me.
The trunk of a man is where he holds most of his allure. I love the strong cut of his jaw, and his defined arms, and his lovely, lovely hands, the hands I dream about the most, but his shoulders, and his back, and the long, flat plains of his stomach move me–so much canvas for me to mark upon. Just below his belly button, a dark patch of hair, his ‘happy trail’ makes me squirm, makes me want to swirl my fingers in those dusky tendrils and let the trail take me to its end. His hip bones were made for licking, for tracing the ridges with an eager tongue. His skin, perfect and imperfect, marred here and there with scars, is made to be caressed, stroked, kissed.
I study his movements. He is catlike, a lazy lion, bound by the confines of his human skin, his hands move against his collar bones and his neck and his shoulders, rubbing out the day’s aches, touching where I long to touch. I am rapt as he speaks, as I speak, as we converse. I watch. He knows I watch. He knows how I desire. He teases me with his skin and his hands and smirks at me as we chatter. It is only fair, as I’ve been laughing at him, mocking him, teasing him myself, though not quite in this way. I am frustrated and make an errant comment about having a fit and disobeying an order specific to a task. He goes quiet, so quiet, and his liquid body stills. He stares at me, eyes boring into my soul, those eyes that were so warm, only moments ago, now filled with something dark and cold. He slips into it, like a glove, this position, this persona.
“Do you remember what happened last time you disobeyed this order?”
I shrug. I am quiet.
“There will be needles and there will be clamps, and there will be razors, since you seem so fond of them, and you won’t walk right for weeks. And after that, Pooh, I think we’ll test just how long you can go without any sort of play or attention.”
I am frightened of the threat and promise in his words.
“I am nice enough to allow you ‘nos’ from time to time, because I am compassionate, and caring, and more interested in being sweet and playing with you, but imagine if that were not the case and you were truly being punished, hmmm? Perhaps best not to ‘have a fit’ then, eh?”
He smiles at me, as if we’d just finished having a lovely conversation. My insides squirm, I am disappointed in myself for my comment, and in spite of the threat of true punishment, a little excited, a little high on the adrenaline produced. I war in my mind for a time, and he asks if I am mad at him.
“I’m not, that’d be rather silly of me… especially since I choose to live in this kind of dynamic, one without a safe word, without ‘nos’ where you are in control. I choose that.”
“I thought it would be silly as well, but I wanted to make sure. I allow the ‘nos’ because I don’t want you in a place you don’t want to be in. I think it is good, do you agree?”