"He was good."
"You lucky bitch. He's hot, sweet, funny, good with animals, and can dirty talk? Oh, wait. Was his cock small? Or all sharp angled?"
"His cock was perfect," I said with a big smile.
"I hate you," she declared, sighing dramatically. "You're welcome, by the way. I had to go and sit and listen to Ronny bitch about his boyfriend for two and a half hours to give you that alone time."
"Thank you," I said, meaning it, knowing that if she hadn't pushed us together, I would have woken up pissy from tossing and turning in sexual frustration again all night.
"You owe me a carton of that wine he brought over."
"Done."
"So when are you seeing him again? Since we know you're not a one-and-done girl."
"I agreed to fucking-friends," I admitted. "And we exchanged numbers. We didn't set up a date. Whenever our schedules line up, I guess."
"I didn't get a chance to tell you where I caught him walking out of."
"Where was he walking out of?" I asked, curiosity piqued. I knew I wasn't supposed to be grasping for tidbits of information about a casual sex friend, but I couldn't help myself.
"The gallery. Apparently, and I know this because I stalked their Facebook last night while Ronny went on and on about how Iggy never uses the right lube, no matter how many times he demands he use the warming one, he is getting a wall at the next show."
"That's awesome. He's really good." I only knew this because he did the one portrait of me forever ago. If he kept improving, well, I had to imagine he was pretty amazing by now.
And good for him. I loved seeing people doing what they loved in life. It was why I was thrilled when Peyton told me she was going to become a librarian even though 'libraries are in the toilet' and 'I won't have two pennies to rub together most of the time.' She loved alone time. She adored the library. And she ate up books faster than most people I knew. So what if she wasn't rolling in dough? She was happy. That was what mattered.
An artist sounded a lot more fulfilling than a loanshark enforcer.
Plus, you know, it was legal.
When he was on parole for the next year, legal was a really good thing for him.
I wouldn't go on opening night - unless, of course, he invited me - but I was going to go and check out his work. I was too curious not to.
"So, did you need to wash in bleach?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Little Miss I-Can't-Fuck-Without-Connection just fucked without connection. Do you feel all dirty or something like that?"
"It was never that I felt dirty," I objected immediately. "You know me better than that. I don't believe in that crap. It's just... I like sex better when I give a shit about a person."
"Ah, see. Therein is the issue here. He isn't some rando. You do give a shit about him as a person. I get it now. This is good, right? Like you're happy with it? Even if it doesn't go anywhere?"
"Someone very wise once told me that most relationships wouldn't go anywhere, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy them while they last."
"I am brilliant, aren't I?" she asked, giving me a wink as she climbed off the bed. "Come on. Let's go for bagels. With egg and cheese. I think you will be needing extra protein for a while. And fluids."
I had a feeling she was right.
But I didn't realize I would be getting a second session quite so soon.
But then there he was in my store, paying my customer to get lost. To be fair, that customer had been hemming and hawing freaking cock rings for almost an hour. But still... a customer.
I knew immediately something was wrong.
Gone was the man I saw at the coffeeshop six years ago, and the man who had brought me coffee, who had made me see stars against a wall down a side street, who had shown up at my apartment with wine, and shared a meal, then shared some amazing orgasms.
This man was another beast entirely.
Beast.
Yes, that was apt.
I finally understood.
When he talked about rage, about it being uncontrollable, this was what he meant.
He meant it burned in his blood. It vibrated into the air around him.
It consumed him.
Truly, if you looked in his eyes, you barely saw the light of the man who usually lived there. They were hooded with something darker.
It was Eli, yet it wasn't at the same time.
And this Eli, he wanted to hurt me.
No, strike that.
He needed to hurt me.
I had learned enough from experience and from research into the matter, that for some, rough play was just about fun, just a good way to spice things up. For others, though, it was necessary. Like therapy. The dominants needed to exact control, needed to purge something. The subs needed to give over power, to trust, to relax and let go. It was catharsis for both involved.