Eden
Once a day, he finds me. And once a day, I have the best orgasm of my life.
I’ve had orgasms before, of course. What self-respecting woman hasn’t stayed awake late at night with an image of her favorite hunk in her head, her hand creeping slowly and gloriously down her underwear, a coy smile on her lips? And I’m even one of the lucky few who’ve received orgasms from men before. But nothing like this, nothing like with Maddox. He knows my body better than any other man ever has—better than I do, sometimes.
I have the power to stop him from coming to me, but I never use it. I never even think about using it. Because I know that when he gets to me, the pleasure will be explosive. It will move through me like some creature of pleasure, exploding inside my pussy, crawling through my body, and exploding in my head. When it’s over, I lay back, panting, face bright red and cheeks on fire.
The day after he makes his solemn vow, he pulls up beside me when I’m parking my car outside the apartment. I’m not sure if he’s been waiting for me or if his timing is particularly perfect. All I know is that he kicks his bike stand, dismounts, and slides into the passenger seat. And then his hand is on my leg, stroking up, up, and clamping down hard on my pussy. He makes me into his toy when he feels like it: makes me submit to him totally.
“Beg for me to finger your tight cunt,” he breathes, his hand inches from my pussy. Part of me doesn’t want to beg, and yet another part wants it more than anything. To submit, to be his, to let go of power, if only for a half an hour. I know that, afterward, I’ll be my strong self again. So I beg, moan, let him spank me, let him own me.
We fuck in the car, and then he reaches inside his jacket and takes out a small case. Inside of it is a necklace with a pendant of an angel holding a scythe. “An angel of death,” he tells me, his hand lingering on my knee. “Just like your video game.”
He makes to leave, but I reach across and grab his elbow. “Stay for a while,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“So we can talk.” It’s like I hear myself, but do not say it. So we can talk? Is there anything to talk about? I expect him to laugh his cocky laugh and smirk his cocky smirk. But he stays, and we do talk. About anything, about everything.
The day after that, he texts me: Come to the clubhouse. I shouldn’t submit. I even tell myself not to: Don’t do what he says. You don’t have to. He doesn’t own you. This should infuse me with pride, should make me feel strong. But when I think like this, I feel an emptiness in my chest. I want to be owned by him, for a while. Afterward, afterward… And he knows that I return to my strong self. He respects it. We become skilled at separating the sex and the talking. As soon as the sex is done – the wild, untamed, uncontrollable sex – I am Eden the Student, and he respects that. We don’t fuck that day. We just go down on each other behind the clubhouse, mouth-fuck each other until we are both smiling like fools. He goes into the clubhouse and returns with a bunch of roses, handing them to me with a grin.
“I love to spoil you,” he says.
Is this what they mean by ‘swept off your feet’? I wonder. Is this what they mean when they say a man has ‘wooed’ you?
I take the flowers because they are beautiful and I find that I love being spoiled as much as he loves spoiling me. It doesn’t infringe on who I am. I tell myself this over and over. I can be a feminist, a programmer of a video game based on feminism, and a grad student of gender theory. None of this stops being the case because I submit to a man like Maddox. None of the begging, the spanking, the moaning and the smiling as he gives me gifts changes who I am.
The day after the clubhouse, he’s waiting for me outside college, smirking at me as I walk across the parking lot to his bike. He hands me the helmet. “Get on,” he says. I could say no, I think, but even as I think this, I’m climbing onto the back of the bike. He rides us to a swanky hotel, the kind of hotel I’d never be able to afford, and takes me to a penthouse suite. We fuck in the hot tub, warm water splashing onto the tiles, bubbles tickling us as he slides in and out of me.
All of this – the gifts, the pleasure – burn into my chest. I feel hot the second I see him, and the only thing that can cool me is the press of his body, the writhing, the thrusting. The explosions of pleasure. The absolute loss of ourselves in each other. It’s never been like this with any other man.
I’ve never known anyone like him.
Despite all this, I’m slightly scared of him. When his hands roam over me, I know they’ve done other, grittier things. I know he’s not an angel.
But the party on Friday. That’ll be a chance to be seen as his woman. That’ll be a chance to make it official.
Think what the professor would say! Eden Chase, devout feminist, going to a swanky, fancy-pants party at a rich person’s house on the arm of an outlaw!
I smile into my pillow that night. I can’t wait.