I almost let her go, I thought as I watched her tremble through the climax. I almost let this one go.
I’d been rough with a lot of women through the years. I sought out self-identified masochists so as not to waste anyone’s time, and when I slapped them during sex, I got two responses. They either liked it too much, which I hated, or they pretended to like it, which I also hated. But Chere neither liked it nor pretended to like it. She hated it, and came anyway like a fucking madwoman.
I’d gazed down at her on the bed, watched her squirm, blindfolded, shivering, so overcome by my sexual demands that she couldn’t speak. Her nipples had been red and sore, and her hands had been bound behind her, and I thought, this is the most fulfilling intimate encounter I’ve ever had. I’d grabbed her face and kissed her, overwhelmed in my own way. I felt angry that it had taken so long to find this amazing partner, and crazed that I’d almost rejected her, and anxious that she wouldn’t see me again.
The first thing she said to me after she came was Please let me look at you. And I knew I would let her look at me eventually, which was really unsettling. I knew if she kept giving herself to me with so much spirit and so much fight, and so much goddamned intensity, things would get out of hand. It didn’t take long for things to get batshit crazy, although I suppose it was worth it.
Every time I saw her, I thought, I want to hurt you. I have to hurt you. Please let me hurt you.
And she let me. Every single time.
Chere
Fall semester wound down, dreary winter days in the dreary metals lab. Andrew was right, the labs were awful, but metals were my thing. I loved the shine, I loved the solidity. This lab was my second home, and I was probably one of the more obsessive students. I maintained a prickly, love-hate relationship with my metals professor, a hawk-nosed hardass named Martin Cantor.
From first year onward, Cantor picked on me more than anyone else. It was irritating, but it also meant he paid more attention to me, so I put up with his constant criticisms. I figured maybe it was because I was older, or because he wasn’t able to ruffle me the way he ruffled some of the other female students. When Andrew dropped by the labs once, he decided Professor Cantor was in love with me, and renamed him Professor Predator.
“This is your last semester before your internships,” Cantor said as he dispersed us to our various stations. “You may think your vision is everything, that you know enough, that you’re prepared to get out there and do spectacular things, but I have news for you. You’re not.”
Some of my classmates shifted uncomfortably. His gaze landed on each of us in turn, judging, measuring. When his eyes fell on me, I stared back.
His gaze lingered, betraying a hint of irritation before moving on. It reminded me a little of W, that gaze. I wondered if the man was secretly into rough, perverted sex, if he choked his wife every night after he finished preparing his lesson plans. I knew he was married—he wore an obtrusively large, ornate gold wedding ring that he’d doubtless designed himself.
Once the threatening lecture was over, we moved to our sections around the room. I knew everyone in the class, even if we weren’t close friends. They were my metal peeps, drawn to the same tools, the blowtorches and solders, hammers, punches, bits, and picks. Most of us were in our final year, and would soon be paired with some successful Norton graduate in the field.
The professor moved around the room as we worked, asking students what they hoped to accomplish during their upcoming internships. When he arrived at my workspace, I kept my eyes on my project, a miniature silver-plated spoon with filigree of my own design.
“Tableware,” he scoffed. “How original.”
“Everyone uses it. There’s a market for it.” I straightened and met his eyes. Depending on the light—and his mood—they were either dark brown or satanic black.
“Is that important to you?” he asked. “Creating for a market?”
“I don’t usually make silverware, Dr. Cantor. It was just something to try.”
“Trying things is good. Catering to the market is bad. That’s not artistry, Chere. It smacks of cowardice.”
“I’m not a coward.” It came out too loud, too defensive.
He studied me. “Have I touched on a nerve?”
I turned my electric engraver over in my hand. I didn’t like the low, taunting way he said it, like he knew me or something. No one knew me. I worked hard to keep it that way.
“What did you do before?” he asked.
“Before?”
“Before you came to Norton. Did you have another career?”