The room is large for a bedroom and dimly lit in general, warm shadows cushioning the corners and making play of the patterns of light on the larger surfaces. Only one spotlight throws a more focused beam onto the bed placed in the middle of the shorter wall, opposite the small sash window set in the thick wall. Wooden floor with a large Persian rug. A fire in the grate.
We spent the previous hour or so elsewhere in the house, chilling out, maybe drinking, comfortable, but with an underlying tension building, some little touches and not-quite-spelled-out suggestions of violent intimacy scattered with matter-of-fact discussion of technicalities of perversion.
Your head in my lap, I held your head in place - gently, no yanking - fingers of my left hand in your hair, and run my right hand's fingers along the lines of your face, down the middle of your neck, rested the index and middle fingertip in the small, soft hollow between the clavicles, my thumb on the collarbone, the palm and other fingers on your sternum, your body free and calm. This might be one of my favourite places to touch you, this might be one of my favourite ways to hold you, your breath and your heartbeat steady under my skin. The stillness of the now was braced against its opposite, against a ghostly image of touch more than gentle, of breath not freely flowing, of fingers pressing hard, and harder, of limbs struggling against restraints, of heartbeat racing to the verge of panic and beyond.
I wasn't sure if you saw what I saw in my head, and I wasn't sure if I wanted you to, though maybe you could tell from the way my own breathing deepened and from the way my fingers on your throat started to shake just a little bit, enough to make me press just a little bit harder. I could feel you inhale deeply, exhale with a hiss, my hand moved, forced your chin up and backwards, pushed a long moan out of your throat.
''C'mon, boy. We have things to try.''