unhooks one of my wrists from above the door. We must be finished if he’s releasing me. But he doesn’t undo any of my other bondage. Instead, he extends my arm away from my body, not touching the wall. Exposed.
“You took ten on your right arm and we can’t have you lopsided. Ten on this side and then we’re done. You don’t need to count but at the end, you’ll thank me.”
I have to earn my voice back. The thought makes me swallow convulsively but I’m up for a challenge so when he asks if I’m ready, I nod.
I didn’t think it was possible but it hurts more on this side. Maybe because I don’t have the comfort of the rope binding me, maybe because I don’t have the support of the wall. Or perhaps it’s just some bizarre mindfucky thing that, unlike with the other arm, which was bound and held fast for him to torture, this is very much my choice, down to my core, and I’m still offering up my body to be hurt.
I count the burning slashes in my head and make it to four before I start to cry. The tears roll hot and fast down my cheeks, but I don’t move my arm. By the time it’s over, my chest is heaving against the door and I’m pressing my face into the wood, seeking comfort, clenching and unclenching my fists, as if anything will help.
But the only thing that helps is when it stops and Elan’s big body is against mine. He circles my wrist in his hand and pulls it toward my shoulder, bending my elbow until it’s folded close against my body like a resting bird’s wing.
He holds me while I wear out my tears, crooning kind things to me in words that are foreign but comforting. I wish my understanding of Yiddish were better because it’s possible he’s speaking poetry in my ear, but all I can glean are fleeting basic words: good, beautiful, mine.
Pinning me to the door with his hard, naked body, he undoes the rest of my bonds. I’m glad he didn’t tie my ankles because I think I might collapse if he had to let me go to untie them. When he’s done, he hefts me up and presses my back to the door, insinuating his hips between my thighs and guiding himself inside.
I sigh. After feeling so much like a disappointment, so lacking on every level, I feel whole now. Wanted. Complete. It’s possible that this feels so good because I’ve felt so very bad, a crest to the emotional trough I’ve been wallowing in. I wouldn’t wish for this level of desperation every month but I hope the pure delight welling inside me as I thread my fingers through his thick hair always remains. It’s a privilege to experience this anew.
He’s not gentle as he thrusts into me. My back and behind hit the door over and over and it brings the marks he’s made alive. It doesn’t quite register as pain though, more like feeling and the intensity is overwhelming. He’s transformed me into pure sensation. I am so, so lucky.
“Thank you,” I say in between thrusts. “Thank you, Elan. Thank you, master.”
As if he’s been cradling me in his hands and is now propelling me into the sky, his words create a current of air that carries me off. “Soar for me, Tzipporah. Take flight.”
So I do.
Chapter Six
‡
A little over a week later, we’re hosting our first Shabbos. Thus far, dinner has gone really well. I’m glad I took the day off even though I might have been close to a nervous breakdown for much of it while I was cooking because I was agonizingly conscious of not screwing up. It’s one thing to eat a salad and leftovers when it’s just me and Elan, as we’ve had to do a couple of times already, and my parents would probably be delighted if I served enchiladas or something— she hasn’t gone entirely off the deep end !—but it would be a whole different matter to tell his parents I’d failed.
Elan seems to me a dutiful son. He’s taken over the family business so his brothers could continue at yeshiva and Klein Brothers wouldn’t have to close, after all. But sometimes it seems as though tensions
“You took ten on your right arm and we can’t have you lopsided. Ten on this side and then we’re done. You don’t need to count but at the end, you’ll thank me.”
I have to earn my voice back. The thought makes me swallow convulsively but I’m up for a challenge so when he asks if I’m ready, I nod.
I didn’t think it was possible but it hurts more on this side. Maybe because I don’t have the comfort of the rope binding me, maybe because I don’t have the support of the wall. Or perhaps it’s just some bizarre mindfucky thing that, unlike with the other arm, which was bound and held fast for him to torture, this is very much my choice, down to my core, and I’m still offering up my body to be hurt.
I count the burning slashes in my head and make it to four before I start to cry. The tears roll hot and fast down my cheeks, but I don’t move my arm. By the time it’s over, my chest is heaving against the door and I’m pressing my face into the wood, seeking comfort, clenching and unclenching my fists, as if anything will help.
But the only thing that helps is when it stops and Elan’s big body is against mine. He circles my wrist in his hand and pulls it toward my shoulder, bending my elbow until it’s folded close against my body like a resting bird’s wing.
He holds me while I wear out my tears, crooning kind things to me in words that are foreign but comforting. I wish my understanding of Yiddish were better because it’s possible he’s speaking poetry in my ear, but all I can glean are fleeting basic words: good, beautiful, mine.
Pinning me to the door with his hard, naked body, he undoes the rest of my bonds. I’m glad he didn’t tie my ankles because I think I might collapse if he had to let me go to untie them. When he’s done, he hefts me up and presses my back to the door, insinuating his hips between my thighs and guiding himself inside.
I sigh. After feeling so much like a disappointment, so lacking on every level, I feel whole now. Wanted. Complete. It’s possible that this feels so good because I’ve felt so very bad, a crest to the emotional trough I’ve been wallowing in. I wouldn’t wish for this level of desperation every month but I hope the pure delight welling inside me as I thread my fingers through his thick hair always remains. It’s a privilege to experience this anew.
He’s not gentle as he thrusts into me. My back and behind hit the door over and over and it brings the marks he’s made alive. It doesn’t quite register as pain though, more like feeling and the intensity is overwhelming. He’s transformed me into pure sensation. I am so, so lucky.
“Thank you,” I say in between thrusts. “Thank you, Elan. Thank you, master.”
As if he’s been cradling me in his hands and is now propelling me into the sky, his words create a current of air that carries me off. “Soar for me, Tzipporah. Take flight.”
So I do.
Chapter Six
‡
A little over a week later, we’re hosting our first Shabbos. Thus far, dinner has gone really well. I’m glad I took the day off even though I might have been close to a nervous breakdown for much of it while I was cooking because I was agonizingly conscious of not screwing up. It’s one thing to eat a salad and leftovers when it’s just me and Elan, as we’ve had to do a couple of times already, and my parents would probably be delighted if I served enchiladas or something— she hasn’t gone entirely off the deep end !—but it would be a whole different matter to tell his parents I’d failed.
Elan seems to me a dutiful son. He’s taken over the family business so his brothers could continue at yeshiva and Klein Brothers wouldn’t have to close, after all. But sometimes it seems as though tensions
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