Thursday, May 1, 2014


DaSade and I get coffee on Sundays. It is our tradition; it's our time out together, to chat and process and just be in each others presence. Sometimes we have a lot to say, sometimes there are many quiet moments while we sit and look across the table at one another. Reading expressions, talking without saying anything. Hearing so much in just our breaths.

This was one of those times. We would have our bursts of conversation, but fall back into that appreciative silence.

There is a back corner of the coffeeshop we're in; usually we're sitting there at one of the tables a little further from the ears of others, but today, the room is being cleaned, so we are out front. My back is to that room, currently closed off by a sliding door.

“Look at the door behind you.” I give him an inquisitive eyebrow, not wanting to ogle something I shouldn't, but he's waiting for me to complete the instruction. I turn, and look for anything out of place, but it's just as it was before.

My eyes return to his. I don't speak.

His voice is low, words meant just for me, and he doesn't break eye contact:

“In your mind's eye...”

Magic words. Words that engage a special part of me; not by post-hypnotic suggestion, but purely by association, expectation, practice.

“...imagine what it would be like if I got up and took you by the hair, caveman style, dragged you past all these people, slid that door open...”

Magic words of a different sort, ones that make me press my thighs together and focus on keeping even breaths. There are people around us... I can't be obvious here...

“-- threw you into that room, over one of those little tables, in front of everyone, in plain sight and you know what I'm about to do --”

The sight is so clear in my head and while my eyes are still locked on his my vision fades in favor of focusing on looking at him over my shoulder after he's slammed me down and I try to recover, the wind knocked out of me.

The employees have a clear view of us back there, seeing straight from the kitchen, and

“they peer their heads over, wondering if everything is OK... watching...”

I don't dare try to run because I know what happens if I do; his face is predatory and I squeeze my eyes shut to it, even as he pulls my pants down to my ankles, nearly tearing them. Then there is the sound of his belt and zipper, too familiar, and I cringe to hear it here, of all places.

“And you're already sore, aren't you? But that's too bad; I don't give a fuck how worn that cunt is, I'm going to use it regardless...”

My thighs squeeze for a different reason, as though it would somehow keep him out, but I feel it pressing, pushing roughly and painfully inside as I grip the table and wince as his hips come to rest against mine...

“Maybe you hear people talking to each other, asking if that girl is alright, if they should do anything, but nobody does.”

No one is coming to help you. You just have to hold on.

This one I know... this one is very much what he does to me. This one is my life.

He starts fucking and I am sore, trying for some disillusioned reason to stay quiet because everyone is already whispering and watching him take me --

“Slamming the table into the wall --” And it's clear as day, the sound and the feel and the sight of that edge banging into the paint and the DaSade in the chair front of my eyes has shoved our table into the wall and I know that but it disagrees with the one who's pushing my thighs into the edge and making it scuff on the opposite side --

Surely bruising my legs. Over and over and over. There's nothing in this one for me; it only hurts.

And those windows in the back room look right out to the road, praying that cars aren't stopping at the light, that heads aren't turning, but people can watch from there, too, and they're gawking at the sight of him fucking this poor girl but no one -- no one -- is doing any goddamn thing about it.

“They're watching your defilement, and I know you hate it, but I don't care. I'm not finished yet.”

A punctuated thrust that hits my cervix too hard, and I wince and hide my face.

And I wait, and hope that my head doesn't hit the wall as I feel him speed up to the end.

Finally, unceremoniously, he pulls out and I hear the belt and zipper once more; this time, reversed.


And he walks away, back to the table, leaving me there alone, knowing that the customers and employees are craning their necks to look at me as he strides off. Feeling filthy, covered in sweat, dripping; humiliated. I can only take a moment before I know I have to pull my panties and jeans back up and try to catch my breath and compose myself enough to walk back as well.

A different kind of walk of shame, knowing I have to rejoin him at the table; trapped.

I refuse to look at anyone. I don't peer into the kitchen. I don't meet the eyes of the other patrons. I wonder if the traffic has gone.

DaSade is waiting for me, and I sit across from him like a good little girl. Obedient even after he's forced himself on me. Is that pride, or shame?

Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

“And coming back on the count of three...”




“One... Two... Three.”

It's like the room snaps suddenly into view, like it had been gently swaying before but finally stopped and in focus. I'm still sitting across from him. He's smiling at me, with that face, that expression that I so love to see.

Pride. For me, for himself, for us.

I look down and try to reorient myself. My hands haven't moved. The knuckles are white from being clenched so hard. In fact, as I go to stretch, everything feels stiff and I'm sure I haven't even moved a muscle since he started.

With my eyes, I scream joy at him. Hear me, I say. Hear me.

Of course, he does. I bring my hand up to hold one of his across the table, surreptitiously. My head is reeling and taking its sweet time crawling back to reality.

“Which table was it for you?” he asks after a few moments. “I had one in mind.”

“Did you come with me?” I ask, which is my way of wondering if he went into a hypnotist's trance and came on the journey as well. He nods. I go back to the room in my head. It's still crystal-clear.

“Do you remember the table we sat in last time?” I say, “The one you made me sit at when you wouldn't let me wear panties under the dress.”

He smiles. That was the one he threw me onto, in both of our heads.

I squeeze his hand, and for a few more moments before I start to babble, we lapse into silence.

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