A Christmas Story, part 5

Revised and completed edit of part 5. Part 6 to follow next week.

Five: What It’s Like for a Man

Later that afternoon, Mr. Connor retrieves the Christmas decorations from storage. The plastic containers are stacked high on shelves in the garage, and he grumbles as he hauls them down. Standing demurely to one side, hands clasped in front of me, I smile and offer to help. He glares, piling heavy boxes by the door into the house. I stay out of the way, watching in a vague, absent sort of way—half-focused on him, half-distracted by the garage itself.

            Tools hang neatly on the wall: a power drill, handsaw, hammer, and socket set, all in pristine condition. A hunting rifle rests on a rack above the side door lintel. A pale rectangle on the concrete floor delineates the absence of a parked car. Gardening tools are heaped in a corner, next to a stack of freshly assembled cardboard boxes. My attention returns to him as he picks up several boxes at once, struggling beneath their weight. I hold the door open for him and admire the flex of his arms, his firm and solid legs. I follow him back into the house.

            Now it’s my turn, busily buzzing around the kitchen in a flap of skirts and clicking heels, getting Christmas dinner started. There wasn’t much left, he says, just slim picking in the shops last night. Still, I’ve got something to work with: a turkey crown wrapped in strips of bacon; a bag of sprouts; some potatoes; carrots. He opens a bottle of red as I figure out the timings. I slice the carrots, peel tatty leaves from the sprouts. Over the red dress with polka dots, I wear an apron in pale peach trimmed in red, decorated with chillies. It reads ‘Hot and Spicy… and the food’s pretty good too.’

            He comes up behind me as I’m peeling curls of orange into a roasting dish of sliced carrots. He wraps his arms around me, nuzzles my neck. I go: mmm, push my bum back into his groin and feel the hardness there. It’s hard to cook with someone mauling your tits, with his hands roaming up and down my body. Eventually, I push him away and level a hard look his way. I throw a slice of carrot at him. He grins, so do I and he pours out a glass of wine and brings it to me. I put him to work peeling the potatoes, then salt the water and put it to boil. I flavour the carrots, toss in butter, cover and slide them into the oven. Mr Connors cuts and drops the potatoes one by one in the simmering water. Once he’s done, I give him a kiss on the cheek. In return, he pinches my bum. I throw a whole carrot at him, and he laughs. Hands in pockets, he saunters away to sort the decorations, leaving me with the warm contentment of having spent twenty minutes in his company.

            Once parboiled, I drain the potatoes and give them a shake in the colander, then drizzle oil, salt and pepper, sprinkle over a little crushed garlic and add them to the oven, along with the turkey. With everything sorted for now, I join him in the room at the front of the house.

            Late afternoon sun slants in from outside, warm and bright. Motes of dust dance in the light, and tinsel and baubles, lights and decorations sparkle and spill out everywhere. Mr Connor looks a little lost. He holds a small wood carving of the holy family. He’s disappeared into a moment of nostalgic silence. His fingers curl tight around the carving. With a sigh, he puts it back in a little box. Tutting, I retrieve it, carry it to the living room and place it on the mantlepiece beneath the television screen. He watches me and smiles.

            We begin by decorating downstairs. “Madness,” he says, watching me wrap a length of red tinsel along the staircase banister. “Who puts up decorations on Christmas day?”

            “Don’t be such a grinch.”

            He rolls his eyes, untangling loops of LCD lights.

            “Sir?”

            I grin at him from my perch halfway up the stairs. From my hand dangles a sprig of mistletoe. With a snort, he leaps up the stairs and sweeps me up in his arms. Like the damsel in an old-fashioned movie, I fall into him with a happy squeak. I’ve still got the mistletoe and wave it at him. He kisses me, right there on the stairs, long and passionately. When he lets me go, I wobble slightly on legs gone weak. He laughs, heads back downstairs and puts on some music. All I Want for Christmas Is You plays. Sixty years they’ve been playing that song, but dammit if it isn’t right.

            An hour later, we’ve done a passable job of decorating the downstairs, with a few spare decorations finding their way upstairs. We’ve got a small, pre-decorated artificial tree in the living room, and plenty of tinsel everywhere, lights strung up high, Christmas balls hanging from anywhere you can place a hook. Outside, the light has started to fade into the deep blues of late afternoon. Ice drips from the eaves overhead and there are more patches of grass than snow out front. The oven beeps. Dinner is ready. Mr Connor sits at the table, expectantly. He refreshes our glasses of wine as I retrieve dishes from the oven and line the food up on the counter. I dish out the veg and potatoes and bring him the turkey crown. He takes the long, sharp knife and deftly carves off thick slices of white meat. Finally, a healthy slathering of store-bought gravy.

            “This looks—” He searches for words, looks at his plate, then up at me. His gaze takes it time travelling from heeled shoes up stockinged legs, over narrow waist and full bust, long hair and the makeup I’ve just refreshed, red lips and bright eyes. “Delicious.”

            I smile and feel happy.

            And he’s not wrong, it is delicious. I’m impressed at how well I’ve done. I’ve got a knack for this housewife thing, this cooking for your man performance. It feels good, cooking for someone. Decorating a house with someone. Sitting and sharing Christmas dinner with—him.

            We raise our glasses in cheer, and take a deep drink, but I keep my glass raised and look at him over the rim. He’s an attractive man. Any girl would be lucky to have him. It’s a crazy thought. I’m not a girl. But if I had to be—a girl—for someone, I could do far worse than him. And I can picture it, so easily, an extension of this fantasy holiday stretching out over further days—weeks—years, even. Long days yearning for his return. Evening spent in each other’s company. And dinners, just like this one, with good food and fine wine and me—wearing my best dress—makeup just perfect—seamed stockings and garter belt, because that’s what he likes; a life dedicated to what he likes and in return, the same, happy glow I feel right now, this moment right now reaching to a lifetime.

            I take this moment, this concentration of happy emotions and female potentiality, and wrap it up, a beautiful gift waiting to be opened some later day.

            “Thank you,” I say.

            He looks at me quizzically.

            “For—everything.”

            After dinner, we leave the dishes for later and retire to the living room. He pours himself a whisky, pulling a bottle from the back of the cabinet. It’s a nice one, a 15-year-old from the Highlands. David had a bottle of his own back in the condo, same distillery, same age. Mr Connor looks askance at me. I nod and he pours out two tumblers. Then we settle on the sofa, side-by-side. He turns on the tv, streams a Christmas movie. I snuggle into his arms. We only get a short way into the movie. It’s not very good, but in a good way. The very pretty but financially hopeless cupcake shop owner is telling off the wealthy and shockingly good-looking British aristocrat-in-disguise for his rudeness. Meanwhile, there’s been some gentle and luxurious petting between us, his hand at my thigh, or breast, or gently touching the soft curve of my neck. Meanwhile, I stroke his arm or rest my hand lightly against his chest, sliding slender fingers into the gap between shirt buttons and gently drawing nails across his skin.

            Without a word, I slide to the floor and with a gentle nudge part his legs. The movie continues to play behind me. I nestle in the space between his knees and reach for his zipper. He caresses my head, smooths my hair, as I slip my fingers into his trousers. Long nails gently rake over his balls, I grip his penis and feel its warmth and how it grows under my touch. I smile up at him. He doesn’t return the smile. He looks troubled. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he says. His tone is self-deprecating, a little angry, even. “I do. But I won’t—”

            “Does it feel good?” I interrupt, rubbing his head in slow circles with my palm.

            He nods.

            “Then shut up.” I lean forward and his cocks slides between my lips. It tastes a little of sweat and a little of cherry lip gloss, and a faded hint of sandalwood soap trapped in curly hairs. For the next little while, we stay like that. I lick and seal my lips around his head and bob up and down. I add appreciative little sounds, cooing softly, humming with pleasure. He grows stiff and hard in my mouth. He settles deeper into the sofa. He caresses my cheek, runs his fingers through my hair. I hear him drink his whisky, sigh with pleasure. It feels good, all of this feels good: his cock, a groan of enjoyment, an authoritative hand, the warmth in my groin, my tits, trickling up my spine. Even his growing enthusiasm, the touch that grows more confident, guiding me, as he begins to take charge. It doesn’t take long for his body to tighten. He grips my head, holds me firmly, hips thrusting, driving his cock deeper and I nearly gag. Sharp intake of breath. “Oh God,” he whispers. “Oh fuck, please” and then—

            Nothing. He slumps back in the sofa with a groan, throwing his arm across his face. His cock wilts, I let it go, and tuck it away in his boxers with a loving pat.

            “I’m sorry,” he groans. “I was—so close.”

            I return to the sofa, cuddle him. “Did it feel good?”

            He nods.

            “Good.” I kiss him. “Maybe next time.”

            He stares at me. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Something wicked gleams in his eye.

            “What?”

            Suddenly, he’s the one on the floor with me left on the sofa. “What’re you—” I ask, but with a firm grip on my knees he parts my legs. “You don’t—”

            “Shut it,” he says. “Spread your legs,” he says.

            With a single jerk he yanks my panties down and tosses them to one side. He takes a moment to slowly slide his palm up and down my stockings, sibilant whisper of silk sending a shiver up my spine. Nimble fingers dance along garters before seizing my waist. He shoves me down. He’s not being gentle. The force of the push excites me. Now he grips me by the hips. He leans in close and kisses the bare skin over the stocking welt on the left leg, then on the right. His kiss is warm and a little wet. I watch him. My dress is hiked over my waist and between heaving tits and rolled skirt, I can barely see him. I struggle to breathe a little, too. He inhales deeply. His nose is close to my pussy. Stubble scratches like fine sandpaper against my skin. He shaved this morning, but it grows quickly. The subtle sting of it excites me, reminds me it’s a man down there. This is wrong, but then he exhales and the warmth of it trembles the hairs over my mound. I bite down on my lip in anticipation. Then, he kisses me again, gently, pressing his lips against my pussy. His lips are wet and so are mine. I moan. His tongue darts out, laps at my labia. My breathing grows heavier.

            This is—new, no one’s ever gone down on me as a girl. I bite my lip, wiggle into the sofa and tilt my hips upwards. Not since—I shudder—almost a year ago—Katherine, torturing me that night in the hotel—a single kiss—then nothing—and it wasn’t Julia’s thing, either—but Mr Connor—I sigh, sink deeper—his tongue gently flicks—I sigh, moan, twist a little with pleasurable agony—run my fingers through his hair, eyes shut—his tongue does—something different now, slow languid licks up and down, down and up, working deeper into my vagina—and God, it feels—I grab a tit, fondle myself—pressure builds, pleasure builds—waves of warmth with my cunt at the epicentre—I grope my breast harder, pinch the nipple, pull on it, then reach for garter straps, stroke my own stockinged knee—tactile femininity, toss my hair, hair sticks to lipstick—and moan again, louder—I swear, he grins, I feel the bastard grin—his tongue retreats, my hips follow—he forces me back and smiles wickedly at me from between my knees, chin slick with his saliva and my juices—“should I stop?”—wide-eyed, I stare at him in horror—“well?”—“no,” I gasp—“no?” voice stern—“no, sir!”—and he dives back down, eats me out, faster now, soft tongue pressing harder, and then his lips seal in a kiss around the clitoris, he sucks, sucks hard and maintains the pressure until something inside of me splits and spills and I cry out, grab his head, hold him firm as I cum so fucking hard I cry with the joy of it.

            Afterwards, he asks, “you liked that?”

            “Stop fishing for compliments.” I punch him lightly in the shoulder. “You know I did.”

            He laughs, washing his face in the bathroom sink. Standing on shaky legs, I adjust my dress, tweak everything back into place. My garters are twisted, stockings askew and my dress a rumpled mess around the middle. Seeing myself in the mirror, I smile.

            Christ, if he keeps at it like this I don’t know if I’ll make it to the new year.

            He dabs at his chin with a towel. “You seemed—hesitant, at first.”

            First time jitters, I explain as we return to the living room. The movie’s still playing so I turn it off. When I turn back to Mr Connor, he’s standing at the entrance and seems surprised. Guys my age aren’t keen, I explain, they think it’s unmanly to go down on a girl. Or something. And besides, I add, I’m only twenty. I’m really not that experienced. This takes him by surprise, and he frowns.

            “What’s wrong?” My fingers twist in my dress and my stomach tightens.

            He gives his head a little shake “You really are, aren’t you?” By the tone of his voice, he’s not happy. “I forget, you know. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t, I’m the responsible one here. But you really are—young, only twenty, younger than….” He trails off, winces.

            Mr Connor wipes his hands dry on his trouser legs and stalks towards the kitchen, and I trail after him. “You’re just so damned… confident, Cindy, sometimes I forget you’re still just a kid. The way you talk, sometimes it feels like I’m with a much more mature woman but then—just now?” He rubs at the back of his neck and suddenly looks terribly unsure. “Was that really the first time…?”

            I nod.

            His eyes widen with realisation. “Wait—have you… before?”

            “Are you asking me if I’m a virgin?” I ask.

            He nods.

            “I’m not a virgin,” I say. “Five: that’s how many guys I’ve been with my whole life, six counting you.” The number’s never far from mind. I feel my cheek burn with the admission. “But if we’re talking penetrative sex… I’ve had sex once. Twice, if the bum counts.”

            I can’t tell if the answer pleases or upsets him further. Uncertain, I keep talking. “Both times were… unpleasant,” I continue, stepping closer. Thinking of those final two experiences leaves me feeling cold. I yearn to be held as my stomach churns and the memory of pain and revulsion echoes through me. I never had time to come to terms with what happened that night at Icarus. That first experience remains like an old wound poorly healed, a weeping scab over a hurt that festers and never quite heals. The thing that happened at Julia’s with Tom and Caleb, it happened so quickly after Icarus; the very next evening, in fact; and the trauma of both experiences remains fresh. The—disgust, the shame—yes, especially that, the humiliation—of those sexual encounters haunt me.

            “But like, obviously I’ve been with more guys than that, but it’s always been, you know, um. Like, oral?” I smooth down my hair, grab a handful, give a sharp tug. My face feels hot. “First time was about three months ago.” What the fuck am I saying? “I was at this club, and really high and there was this guy in the chillout lounge and… and…” I trail off, shrug bashfully. “It was pretty awful.”

            “Fuck,” Mr Connor says. And then again, “fuck.”

            “But what you just did?” A little shyly, I wrap my arms around him, press my forehead into his side. “It felt wonderful.”

            He nods absently, then breaks free and walks away. His casual disregard hurts. I watch his retreating back and feel tears bead in my eyes. With my pussy still tingling with the aftermath of the last orgasm, I need to feel his arms around me. I need him to understand how good he makes me feel. I’ve cum more often in the past twenty-four hours than in the past two month, and this man raises in me powerful emotions I haven’t acknowledged in far longer.

            Now, he’s pouring himself another drink, but doesn’t offer me one. He drops into a heavy chair in the corner. When I pad into the room after him, he stares at me for a long time. I stand there, fingers playing in the folds of my dress. His face remains impassive though animated beneath the surface by powerful feelings he doesn’t know how to articulate. Michael’s easy enough to read, once you get to know him. There’s guilt, there and frustration, too. A healthy dose of fear, and most of all: concern. He’s worried for me, because he thinks I’m young, he thinks I’m innocent. So, I warm myself up to the task of laying into him, I’m about to strip the hide off this son-of-a-bitch but then he looks up at me, lips stretching in a thin smile, I hesitate and then it’s too late.

            “I enjoyed that, you know,” he says. “I did, I really did. Rose, she didn’t like me going down on her. No idea why, she just didn’t, I think she thought it was disgusting, maybe, or… naughty? Improper. Or maybe—like you said—me going down on her made me less of a man in her eyes. Even asking if I could go down on her meant she respected me less, disliked me more. And so, twenty years we’re married and I’m this man who wants to eat his wife out, and she’s this woman disgusted by the idea, and I bet there’s all kinds of women out there just dreaming of having a partner happy to lap at their pussy, stuck with boyfriends and husbands who won’t.”

            He takes a heavy swig of his drink, swirls it, bares his teeth, takes another. “And meanwhile—you have no idea, Cindy—what it’s like for a man, the appeal of a blow job, especially when you can’t get one and, let me tell you, I haven’t had a girl go down on me in fifteen years. Same story: Rose did it for me a few times when we were dating, a couple more times on ‘special occasions’—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“and then eventually, not all at. She hated it, thought it was disgusting, said it made her feel like a prostitute. She stopped offering, I stopped asking.” He raises his glass to the light and sees that it’s almost empty. “I guess I could’ve cheated on her. There were opportunities. But that’s not—me. And besides, I get it. It’s probably not much fun, having some guy stick his dick in your mouth.”

            “It’s not so bad,” I interrupt with a little smile.

            He finishes his drink, grimaces. For a long time, he looks at me. He puts his glass to one side and massages the palm of his right hand with the fingers of the left. Eventually, he arrives at some kind of decision.

            “You certainly don’t seem to mind.”

            I shrug, a little uncertainly.

            “You enjoy a cock in your mouth, do you Cindy?”

            The way he says it, I know we’re not playing some game. My stomach twists, a hot flush spreads across my chest and neck. “I don’t mind yours, sir.”

            “I noticed. You’re quite the accomplished cocksucker.”

            The words hit hard. He’s never spoken to me like this. Often stern, yes, but never mean and hearing him call me that stings. Shadows of humiliation dance at the edge of my vision. “Don’t call me that,” I say.

            But he leans forward, eyes burning into me like twin embers. “But you are, aren’t you? A—” he bares his teeth in a grimace, then spits it out—"cocksucker, I mean. Tell me, is it a special reserved just for the boss? Or something for all the boys in the office? That Halloween night, was I your first call? Or the last?” His face flushes an angry red. “I’ve heard—rumours,” he says. “Fucking—” his throat works for a moment, then he forces it out, “office bike, everyone’s had a ride. So thank you, Cindy, what a fucking gift, I finally get my turn at Christmas, huh?”

            He's working himself into an angry drunkenness. His eyes water. And he’s hurting. It doesn’t excuse his words, but I see it now, as clear as day: everything he’s kept bottled up for—not just days, but months—years, possibly—it’s bubbling up now. I see it because I’ve often felt the same. A whole year—fuck it, a lifetime—I’ve bottled up far worse than this man can possibly understand, clamped down on fear and self-loathing and guilt and all the shitty stuff from my youth, my life, this life, and its only because Cindy’s pure, she’s a light to dispels the shadows of my past that I haven’t gone fucking insane. And it’s because she’s everything that I’m not that I’m able to stand there and passively take this guy’s fucking abuse, because behind it I see the same fear and self-loathing and guilt that I feel, every day.

            Still, I can’t stop tears from stinging my eyes as he continues.

            “It’s a lie, isn’t it? Everything about you.” He stands now, grabs his glass from the table. He stalks past me like I’m not even there, straight to the drinks cabinet. “I’m not fucking blind. This whole innocent girl act. You’re not innocent. Who the fuck are you, Cindy? Really?”

            “You know who I am.” I ball my hands into little fists and press them into my belly. “Who do you want me to be?”

            He grabs another bottle, yanks it open, pours until the glass is nearly full. He jabs a finger at me, and his mouth moves without words. Frustration rumbles in his throat. Finally, he spits out, “Why are you here?”

            “I told you,” I say. “I was lonely,” I say.

            He laughs, a cruel bark of disbelief. “Lonely? Lonely! What the fuck do you know about loneliness?” he says. “Girls like you don’t get lonely, you—”

            “Spread your legs?” I draw my sleeve across my eyes, hold it there. “Bees to the honey pot?” I breathe in deeply, let it out as sigh. “Or is it flies to shit?”

            He grinds his teeth. “In the shower, you didn’t even hesitate,” he says. “Like you’ve been doing it your whole life.”

            Now I do laugh, a sharp, unpleasant sound. “Oh, fuck, Michael, you have no idea, no fucking clue.”

            He storms back to his seat, throws himself into it, glares at me.

            “Is that what you really think of me?” I ask, voice trembling. “That I’m a slut, is that it?”

            “Yes,” he says.

            “I’m a whore, is that right?”

            He stares at me. I stare back. My face is wet with tears, but I do not flinch.

            Michael’s eyes slide away, latching onto the ornament on the mantlepiece.

            “Then say it.”

            “You’re—” He eyes squeeze shut. He grasps his knees so tightly the knuckles go white. “You’re a—dirty, fucking—”

            “Say it!”

            But he can’t say it. His jaw clamps shut. His grip relaxes. He takes a deep breath. He looks tired, bleary-eyed with drink. “You’re leaving,” he says. “I’m calling you a taxi.”

            “You tried this shit two months ago.” Sad smile, quiet voice. “I’m not leaving, boss. Tomorrow, if you still want me gone, fine. But not tonight. It’s very noble of you, sir, it really is, but if you think you’re going to drive me away by—insulting me.” I shake my head. “You really are a very stupid man, sometimes. I get it, though. I understand. I see you, sir. Those long hours. The way you’re always at work, first one in, last to leave. And then that thing with the hacker, and you take the blame, all that extra stress on top of—the divorce, everything else. And you’ve got to deal with it on your own, because—you’re a man. A man’s responsibility, a man’s duty. But you don’t feel like much like a man, do you? All that guilt, and frustration, self-loathing, and you’re not man enough to cope, a real man rises above all that. And I get it. I do. Feeling like you’re – not enough, feeling like a failure as a—man.

            “Then you look at me and see—this girl, and just maybe I represent all those unmanly feelings you’ve suppressed, right, your sense of failure, of weakness. Because I’m just a girl, right and girls are weak, and so you come after me, hurt me, try to get rid of me because what you’re really attacking is that part of yourself your ashamed of.

            “And alongside all that bullshit, there’s this suppressed fantasy you’ve carried with you for so long. Your secret perverted kink. This hidden shame you’ve defined yourself by for years—the very thing that cost you your marriage, your daughter—suddenly—it comes true, me and I gift you the very thing you’ve always wanted, and how is that even possible? It’s too easy. You think you don’t deserve it. Guilt eats away at you. Even worse, the fear, the self-loathing because here I am, this thing you’ve waited twenty years for—and you can spank me, tie me up, take charge, even fuck my face and through it all I’ll smile at you adoringly, and—you can’t do it, you can’t even fuck me properly! You can’t cum and what kind of man can’t shoot his load in some willing slut’s mouth and what if—just, what if—you’ve been wrong all this time and the whole perverse fantasy you’ve built your life around, the denial and secret thrills—what if it was all a lie?

            “Like, how fucking pathetic would that be?”

            He retreats into himself. Stony-faced, dead-eyed, Michael stares at me, or past me.

            I walk over to the cabinet, grab the bottle of good stuff. I pour myself a drink. Then, raise it in mock cheer. He does not react. I take a sip. It warms on the way down, settles my stomach.

            I take another drink and then sit back on my haunches directly in front of him and make myself eye-level with him. The dress settles around my feet. Still, he says nothing. And I can see that he could go either way, right now, come through this better than before, or he could shatter.

            I feel powerful. The temptation is there, tantalising and terrifying, to reach out and destroy him, or at least hurt him as he hurt me. A few words are all it would take to widen the cracks in the crumbling sense of his self and break him. These words rest on my tongue, and they come to me so easily.

            But I don’t want to hurt him. “Sir.” I don’t try to touch him. He would lash out. And if he hurt me—if I allowed him to—he might never forgive himself; or worse, mistake the momentary respite from his hurt as reason to lash out against others.

            “Sir,” I repeat. “Do you know why I go away every couple of months? The so-called ‘medical leave’ you authorise. One week, or two—a real inconvenience, right? But you’ve never asked about it.”

            His eyes flicker. “It wouldn’t be—appropriate.”

            “I’m not well,” I say. “I haven’t been for a long time. I tried to kill myself, not long before meeting you. Yes, that’s right. You see, my childhood wasn’t normal. Maybe there’s no such thing as a normal childhood, I don’t know. Mine was difficult. Those who—cared—for me, they needed me to be—a kind of person—that I wasn’t ever meant to be. But because I loved them and wanted—needed—their love—I tried, I really did, to be that person. It was hard, God, so hard. And then it wasn’t. It got easier. Or so I thought. I let go of the person I’d once been, forgot all about that person. This new me, I came to believe was something I wanted, had always wanted, instead of being something forced on me. Then one day, these people whose loved I craved more than anything were gone. They were the foundation on which I’d built this thing I’d become. And they were gone. Without them, the illusion collapsed, everything fell apart. I—died. Or at least, some part of me did. The pain of that—I couldn’t bear it and—”

            I trail off and the room is very silent. Using both hands, I raise the tumbler to my lips and drink deeply. Now the glass is empty, its rim tainted red with lipstick. After staring at it a time, I put it to one side. The booze burns right through me.

            “There’s this clinic, and they saved me. Physically. But also, therapy. And so, I go back every couple of months to keep my head screwed on properly. Because—I’m still not okay. I’m better, but not okay. I still don’t know who I am, really. I’m still working that out.”

            I pause, feeling light-headed. The tips of my fingers tingle, and I waver a little where I stand. He doesn’t seem to notice.

            “And what I’m getting at here, sir, is that when I say that I see you, see the way you’ve bundled up all that guilt and pain and self-hatred and doubt and frustration and pushed it down, it’s only because it’s something that I feel, too. And when I say I understand, it’s because I do. More than you know. Yes, I’m young. But that doesn’t make my experiences and my pain any less authentic than yours.”

            The silence that settles over us endures for some time. Having spoken, I find it difficult to look at him. My attention turns in the direction of the kitchen. The slow creep of the final light of day slants through the windows there, an angry burn against chrome appliances. We stay like that for some time, in a house growing ever darker. Eventually, he moves, a rustle of clothing as Mr Connor reaches for my hand. His touch is gentle, conciliatory. My slim fingers with their long, oval nails rest in his palm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He traces my fingers with his, feels the outline of my nail, their glossy red shine. “I don’t think you’re weak.”

            “I still need a gentle touch, sometimes.”

            “I didn’t mean those things I said.”

            My thighs burn from crouching so long. I sit my bum on the floor and look up at him. “But you said them,” I say. “Those words, they came from somewhere.”

            “I wanted to hurt you.”

            “Why?”

            “To make you leave.” He takes a deep breath. “Before I hurt you—some other way. You’re—young.”

            “I’m twenty-one is a few weeks, you know.”

            He groans.

            “Listen, if you still want me gone tomorrow, I’ll be gone and if you want me to stay longer, I’ll stay longer, happily,” I say. “But whatever happens between us while I’m here, it’s happening with my consent, do you understand? If I don’t want to do something, I’ll damn well let you know, believe me.” He stares at me for a long time. Now, tears dot his eyes. He takes a shuddering breath, then nods.

            “But if you talk that way to me again—I mean, without my permission, obviously—I will kick your ass, got it?”

            The faintest hint of a smile flitters across his lips. “I don’t think you’re a… slut,” he says.

            “Yeah, but it’s the word you reached for to hurt me. Frankly, sir if you’re going to insult a girl, you should pick one line and stick with it. Because it’s funny, don’t you think? First, I’m too young and innocent, and the dad in you gets all freaked out and guilty. But then I’m a slut, like I’ve slept with half the office: so, which is it? Not enough, or too experienced? Like, is there a perfect number for a girl?”

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            “You should be.” I pet his hand, gently. “And I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

            His mouth twists in a sardonic scowl. “But I am,” he says, the voice of a sullen child.

            I slap him, hard.

            He holds a hand to his cheek. Beneath stubble, the skin is red. His eyes are wide with shock.

            “No,” I say, in a voice that brooks no argument.

            “But—”

            I slap him again, harder. He tries to catch my hand this time but he’s far too slow. His head snaps back with the impact. Before he can react, I stand and jab a finger into his chest. “Now you listen to me, sir. I won’t have it, this feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not pathetic. You’re a good man. And it’s because you’re a good man that you’re confused. This—guilt, fear—it’s because you care, it comes from the very best place. You’re a good boss and a good man—and I bet you were also a good father and a good husband—because you genuinely care for the people in your life. You’re a better man—” than I ever was, I almost say, but catch myself— “than any other I’ve been with. And if this—” and here, I grab his crotch, none too gently and he flinches—“is a little confused by all this, what of it? Because the only disappointment on my end is that I haven’t been able to make you feel as good as you’ve made me.

            “So, please, sir, I’d rather not have to slap you again. No more self-pity. You’ll be good?”

            “I’ll be good,” he says, in a hoarse voice barely above a whisper.

            That’s when we both notice the hard bulge in his crotch. “I think it like it when I yell.”

            Again, he nods. “I think it does.”

            I raise my hand. He flinches, and I chuckle. “This too?”

            Wide-eyed, he nods.

            Through his trousers, I give his erect cock a squeeze.

            “Good. Then you know how I feel.”

            I let him go. He stares up at me in wonder. I don’t think he’s accepted what I’ve said, yet. It’ll take him some time to process, and right now, he’s still filled with guilt and worry. Also, his arousal confused him. Almost instantly, he begins to withdraw into himself. He’ll got back to some dark, doubtful place if I let him.

            “Come,” I say. With a gently tug I urge him to his feet. He stumbles after me. I let go of his hand, and dutifully he follows into the front room. The last of the sun has faded, and it is dark outside. The moon sits a little above the horizon. We can see it over the houses across the road. Full and bright tonight, the moon shines brightly off what snow remains on rooftops and the top of trees. Shadows are stark and the spaces between flat and grey. Christmas lights shine in a few houses opposite and their windows glow with warmth.

            I say, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

            We stand side by side, not touching.

            “I don’t know what to do next,” he says.

            I give him time, wait for him. When his fingertips brush mine, I slide my hand into his palm. And when he pulls me closer, I step into him. Then he holds me like that, for a long time, though it doesn’t feel long. We could have remained that way for longer and I would have been happy.

            He releases a deep sigh. I feel some of the tension flow out of him. “It is,” he says. “It really is beautiful.”

            “Especially the moonlight,” I say. “A full moon on Christmas… I wonder how often that happens?”

            He shrugs, and to fill the silence I say, “it’s a funny thing the moon, don’t you think? I had this girlfriend once, she went off to university, really clever girl and she taught me about the moon, how it’s this feminine symbol in literature and art and stuff. I mean, sure, now we want to mine the damn thing, build a hotel on it. But you can imagine primitive man staring up at this thing in awe and worship. It’s this brilliant object in the sky, but only with reflected light from the sun—or the son—you know, masculinity. My friend used to laugh at the outrageous sexism of it all, but I kind of get it now? Because I do feel different when I’m around—a man, or at least, a man like you, sir and the better the man, the greater I feel. And I don’t really understand it, if I’m honest. But it makes sense. We get words like ‘lunacy’ from—luna, the moon—and I get it, there really is something a bit crazy about being a woman.” I smile, though he can’t see it, and I think, even if just acting as one.

            “Like, once upon a time, people thought the moon tugged on a woman’s womb, just like it does the tides, made it tumble through their body and that’s why it hurts, why girls go crazy during their period.”

            And while that’s all outside my lived experience of femininity, I can’t deny that standing there in the light of the full moon at Christmas, I feel a powerful and irresistible tug towards this man. And there has to be some kind of crazy in that moonlit night, because how else to explain the decision I make, just then?

            “You know,” I say, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. “I never gave you my Christmas gift.”

            “No, please,” he says. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

            “But I want to,” I say. “I grabbed it from my apartment before coming over. I just haven’t had time to wrap it yet.”

            He’s not ready to let go of the guilt, or the doubt. Facing me, he touches my shoulder, the side of my head. His touch is hesitant, weak and I miss his firm hand. The earlier confidence that led him to bend me over his knee last night is missing. Lacking conviction, he forces a smile. “Okay,” he says.

            I tell him to go off and do ‘man stuff’ for a bit, while I head upstairs and wrap his gift. Give me twenty minutes, I say. Time to freshen up and recover from what’s just happened. Also, I’m slow at wrapping. But keep out of the living room, I insist, don’t ruin the surprise. Set a timer, come back in twenty. Your gift will be waiting under the tree.

            He does as I ask, and I head to my room.

            And it’s just under twenty minutes later that I’m nearly ready for him, jittery and kneeling on the floor by the small Christmas tree we assembled earlier that day. Lipstick fresh and heavy, very bright and very red. Otherwise, I’m naked except for a pair of cherry red stilettos and matching stay-up stockings, decorated with a little white bow. Also, a red choker with white lace—and a great big red ribbon and flouncy bow, wrapped around my body and tied off over my big, bouncy tits.

            The ribbon and bow were a joke Christmas gift from Mel. It’s all very precarious. With a sharp tug, it’ll come slithering off. The ribbon scratches a little against the inside of my thighs, where it barely covers my snatch. I shiver a little with cold—or fear.

            I’m the gift, but having set myself up like this, nervousness gnaws at me. Especially as I attach the finishing touches. First the gag, the same worn for Darius that first visit to The Empyrean. The silicone red ball parts my plump, glossy lips and I pull the leather straps tight behind my head. Then, the blindfold—also red, trimmed in white fur—over my eyes. Finally, a pair of velvet-lined boudoir cuffs. Both blindfold and cuffs were also gifts from Mel. I wonder, sometimes, what kind of girl she thinks I am.

            With a gentle click, the first cuff locks around my left wrist. I do this behind my back. Then, I hold the second cuff against the other wrist. Only then do I hesitate. I’d be gnawing on my bottom lip if I hadn’t shoved an unyielding ball between my teeth. He’ll be along any moment, and I want to get this right. The cuff yields to my wrist, circles round and closes over it. My stomach tightens. With a click, the second cuff locks. The key is attached to the choker at my neck, and my hands are now locked behind my back.

            And suddenly, just like that, I’ve made myself this sexy little feminine bundle all wrapped up festive under the Christmas tree.

            Anxiety surges and my heart pounds in my chest. What the hell have I done? An involuntary moan escapes my lips. I try breathing deeply to ease the fear, but this forcefully reminds me of the obstruction in my mouth. Spittle bubbles, fear spikes. My arms tense, I pull at the restraints behind my back—feel the chain give—and exhale loudly.

            This is an illusion, all of it. A performance for Mr Connor’s sake. This gag, these cuffs: I could snap them in a second, tear away this blindfold and remove the gag. These little boudoir cuffs are barely enough to restrain a normal girl. And I’m hardly a normal girl. This is a performance of submissiveness, not submission in reality. I haven’t surrendered any power here, not really; this is just pretending. This is a choice, and I remain in control.

            And so, I stay there, kneeling under the Christmas tree. I don’t like the gag. It’s a little too snug this time, but I can breathe fine, and the drool wetting my chin is almost bearable. But still, I don’t like it. Yet instinct tells me that he will, he’ll appreciate the effort. I’m doing this for him. But my jaw aches and I begin to regret the decision. I want this thing off. It damn well better be the first thing he takes off. Where is he, anyway? It’s been at least twenty minutes by now.

            But it’s no surprise he’s late. He’s taking his time. I’d do the same. Twenty minutes: those were my instructions. But I’m not supposed to be the one in charge here. He is. By being late, he’s reminding me of this fact. It’s his first step in reasserting control, taking back some of the power I stole earlier. I get it. I just hope he doesn’t keep me waiting too long. I’m getting uncomfortable. And I want this fucking gag out.

            The subtle sounds of a house at rest flows over me. Now I hear noise from somewhere towards the back of the house—a door opens, then closes—amplified by the lack of sight. Steps approach, then move away. Then silence. The air is a little cool against my naked skin, but I feel very warm. Hair falling over my left shoulder tickles my cheek, my left breast, reminds me of the heavy earrings I wear, his gift from last night. Meanwhile, I am painfully aware of the ribbons barely restraining my generous tits. Even braless, my breasts sit high and proud on my chest. I feel their weight, and how tight and hot my nipples are. My ankle aches, twisted to one side in heels. I breathe in slowly through my nose, exhale, again. Relax.

            There’s a fucking itch in my bum and I can’t reach it.

            I hear him in the kitchen, heavy steps on tiled flooring. Water runs. I hear dishes being moved, cutlery. The fridge, opening and closing. The click of storage containers. Meanwhile, the cuffs jingle as I try to scratch the irritation on my bum. I can’t quite reach, shift a little, scrape a nail along my skin. This triggers a quiet, unexpected moan. I pull at the cuffs, feel the restraint. This doesn’t feel like an illusion. This helplessness—this waiting. The decision to voluntarily submit like this; it feels terrifyingly liberating.

            Now, the sound of his steps, approaching. He is standing at the doorway. Somehow, I feel him there. He sees me. A sharp intake of breath. Then, silence. A flutter of anxiety, and I smile around the gag, inclining my head toward him. But he remains quiet.

            He walks past me. My jaw hurts. A clink of ice, splash of liquid. A moment later, he sits in the corner chair. I smell whiskey. He sits and, I assume, watches me. I stiffen a little under the weight of his gaze, back straight, chest out. A sip, ice cubes swirl, a satisfied sigh. I wish he’d hurry. I want the gag out. And I’m getting cold. But also, I feel too hot. I realise I want to feel his touch against my skin.

            Instead, a faint jangle that takes a second to identity: a belt, unbuckled. The hiss of trousers, dropping. Then, the slick sound of oil or cream warmed between palms. Finally, the unmistakable sound of a man masturbating, the wet rhythm of skin on skin. My breath catches in my throat. He’s jerking off right there in front of me. To the sight of—me, my naked body, bound, blindfolded, gagged. Heat spreads across my body and it feels as though my entire body flushes red—with shame or excitement, I can’t tell. I squirm and want to somehow shield my nakedness from his sight. But I can’t, and it’s ridiculous, he’s already seen me naked. I’ve had his cock in my mouth. He’s fingered my pussy, eaten me out. We’ve been intimate, but this feels different. I don’t know if he’s the first man to think of me and jerk off, but he’s the first to let me know it, force me to experience his desire and I don’t know how to feel: disgusted, flattered, exploited, vulnerable… powerful or powerless, even.

            His breathing quickens. The rhythm quickens. My own body betrays me—thrill coiling with shame, need tangled in humiliation. The heat between my legs is undeniable. I’m wet. I’m aching. A soft sound escapes me, a helpless, trembling moan. My shoulders curl forward, every nerve tight and alive. I want—need—to touch. Hands to breast. Thighs pressing together.

            My need pushes him over the edge. He releases a kind of strangled groan. Gradually, his breathing returns to normal. I hear him whisper, fuck, fuck, to himself. A sound of tissues, pulled from a box, and a hand wiped clean. Then, silence. He just sits there, breathing heavily. After a time, he stands, walks over to me. I didn’t hear him pull up his trouser. Maybe he’s still naked with his penis in his hand, slick and sticky with semen. I purse my lips around the gag. I feel a little queasy but also excited; I shiver and want him to touch me.

            Instead, he walks away.

            He ignores my muffled cry of protest. A door opens, the bathroom down the hall. The unmistakable sound of a man, pissing. He flushes, runs water in the sink. Sounds of splashing. His heavy tread, returning.

            A creak of knees. The back of his hand brushes the side of my head, over the heavy straps securing the gag. I sigh. For a moment, I think he’s about to release me. Please, I moan around the ball. Gratitude washes over me and I incline my cheek into his palm. But no, his palm pulls back and instead he traces my ear, my chin, a single finger slides across my collarbone and down my bare shoulder. I tremble under his touch. Mr Connor lifts the dangling ribbon from the bow over my breasts.

            “I'm going to open my gift now,” he says.