The Woman Who Forgot the Time

It started with a single line from her, the first thing she ever sent me:

I'd opened with what I always say: that I'm a pleasure Dom, that what excites me most is watching a woman enjoy herself, mind and body, and that communication comes first. She took the bait, but carefully.

When I explained what a pleasure Dom does, creating a safe enough space that she could trust my lead for her own pleasure, she went quiet for a moment. Then:

I told her not to mistake it for selflessness: her pleasure is where I get mine. She liked that. But she was clear about her pace:

I respected that. I asked her what she was really looking for, and her answer stayed with me all day:

Somewhere between those messages the mood shifted. When I told her I'd kiss my way slowly across her body before I got anywhere near where she wanted me, she answered:

By late afternoon the slow start had become something else. She was still careful:

Then, a few minutes later:

The first message of the evening wasn't flirtation. It was panic.

She'd gone to the wrong hotel. I sent her the right address, then went down to wait in the car park. When her car finally pulled in, I watched her sit there a moment, hands on the wheel, gathering herself. That told me more about her than her profile ever had. Elena was nervous, and brave enough to come anyway.

She stepped out with a bottle of tequila in her bag and a half-apologetic smile. "Liquid courage," she said.

"Bring it," I said. "But you won't need it."

Upstairs she poured two small glasses and drank hers faster than she meant to. I put on music, something slow with a heavy bass line, and held out my hand. She laughed at me for wanting to dance in a hotel room, then let me pull her in. By the second song she had stopped laughing. Her forehead rested against my jaw, and I could feel her breathing change.

When I kissed her, she kissed back as if she'd been waiting years to be kissed like that, without hurry, with full attention.

I walked her backwards to the bed.

She tried to take charge almost immediately. Her hands went to my belt and my shirt, the way someone used to giving does. Each time, I caught her wrists gently and pressed them back onto the sheets.

"No," I murmured. "Tonight you don't do anything. You just receive."

She looked up at me, surprised and a little defiant. Then something in her shoulders let go. Seen, felt and appreciated, I thought.

I took my time. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, the inside of her wrists. I held her face and made her look at me while my hand travelled lower. When I finally settled between her thighs, she was trembling before I'd even touched her.

I used my mouth slowly at first, learning her: what made her breath catch, what made her hips rise. When I slid my fingers inside her and curled them, she grabbed the sheets with both hands.

It took two minutes. Maybe less.

She came hard and suddenly, a rush that soaked the bed and left her gasping and wide-eyed. "That's never happened," she whispered. "Not like that. Not that fast."

I kissed her stomach and smiled against her skin. "We've only started."

The evening lost its edges after that.

She offered me more of herself than I'd expected, with a kind of fierce trust, and wanted me to finish. Afterwards she lay against my chest while I stroked her hair and she caught her breath.

Then coconut oil, slow and warm, over her shoulders, down her spine, along her legs. The massage was meant to relax her. It didn't. By the time my hands reached her hips she had turned over, pulling me down, and I spent a long time with my mouth on her until she came again, and again, losing count.

When I finally took her, slowly and deeply, looking into her eyes, she wrapped her legs around me and held on as if she were afraid the night might end.

Every so often she'd glance at the clock and say, "I really have to go home." Then she'd pull me back. Neither of us realised the clock was wrong. When we finally checked a phone, five hours had disappeared.

She was fully dressed, shoes on and keys in hand, when I remembered the vibrator still in its box on the desk.

She saw me looking at it and raised an eyebrow. "You bought that for me?"

"I forgot to use it."

She held my gaze for a long moment. Then she took it, switched it on, and slipped it beneath her skirt with a slow, wicked smile.

I didn't let her reach the door. I knelt, pushed her skirt up, and put my mouth on her again while the toy hummed inside her. Her knees buckled. I guided her back to the bed, still dressed, and took her there, with the vibrator, my fingers and my body all at once. Her face flushed deep red and her whole body shook. She came again, and kept coming, holding onto me and asking for more.

At the door, she wrapped her arms around me and didn't let go for a long time.

"Thank you," she said into my shoulder. "I haven't been able to switch my brain off in months. Work, everyone needing something from me, all of it. For five hours, I didn't think about any of it."

That's the part I remember most. Not the number of times she came, but the way her face looked when she finally stopped carrying everything.

Earlier that day she had asked me, half joking:

The answer was simple. She'd said yes to being taken care of.

That's what I do. Pour votre plaisir.