Beat

I made dinner. As we ate, her face was lit by a faint light on her right, a candle on her left.

“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked.

“I look like my web cam right now, don’t I?”

“In this light, exactly right.” I was accustomed to seeing her via web cam, in the light of a lamp on her desk. This lighting mimicked that.

“Hey darling, it’s me.”

“And here we are.”

We had spent the day nude or in pajamas, acclimating ourselves to the three-dimensional versions of the lovers we had become via computer screens. We measured this novel reality—tactile and present—against all those words and all that longing.

I suggested that we do something mundane, like watch a movie in bed. She liked the idea, and so we made popcorn, lit candles, poured bourbon and cozied up to Secretary. It is a favorite of Madeline’s. This was my first viewing.

The film is the story of a mousy young woman (Maggie Gyllenhaal, who is, Madeline tells me, the real-life love interest of Peter Sarsgaard—Madeline suggests we add double “a”s to our last names if we hope to lure the actor) who takes her first job as secretary to an eccentric lawyer (James Spader).

The lawyer must have things done in particular ways, and she strives to perform as perfectly as possible. His corrections of her mistakes lead to spankings delivered as she bends over his desk. His spankings lead to her falling in love with him.

How apropos to our moment, I thought.

As we talked after the movie, I said, “You will have to let me know when you want me to beat you.”

“I want you to beat me now,” she said, eyes on mine.

“Fair enough,” I replied.

I instructed Madeline to lay face down on the bed. I bound her wrists and secured them to the bed frame. I left her legs free, not sure how long I would want her on her belly.

My hands caressed her back, her legs, her buttocks. Her body moved and turned to my touch.

My hands gravitated to her ass, those finally shaped orbs, those hips offset by her waist. I opened her ass to study the dewlap of flesh at her anus. I had to feel that tag of skin on my tongue, just for a moment . . .

I slapped her ass, hard. She squirmed. I gave her two more, hard, on the opposite cheek. She giggled into the mattress.

She had warned me that she laughs aloud when aroused.

Awakening my capacity to strike takes an act of transference. When I am this aroused, my mouth is on fire. In those moments, I fight a cannibalistic urge to consume the flesh I want, to digest its power over my desires.

To strike her as she wants, I have to fight the urge to taste, to bite, to devour.

I spank her with that hunger. She writhes in pleasure.

She bears the imprint of my hands, many times over.

I must have a taste. I can’t stop it any longer. I bite, slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear flesh, just to taste . . . I make a buffet of her buttocks, the backs of her thighs and, when I see that this is a very tender place, her strong calves.

The next day, she would mention in passing that when she dies, she will leave her body to science.

“Lucky science,” I replied. “Leave it to me instead. I will eat course after course, then make stock from your bones.”

My hunger is sated. But she needs more. I take a length of rope. It whirls around my head, building momentum before it lashes her tenderized bottom.

When I am done, she is crossed in welts. I untie her, and kiss away her tears.

“Did that do it, baby?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “L’il bit,” she drawled.

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