Body Man

The President of the United States has a body man. His body man is a personal assistant charged with the care of the man behind the office, the flesh-and-blood human who needs someone to fetch aspirin, remember appointments and hold his keys. The President’s body man takes care of such things so that the chief executive can focus on larger matters.

I have a body man. She’s my servant girl.

Eden originally came to me for sex, offering in return her body as my whipping post. She takes much more punishment from flogs, whips and fists than I was accustomed to giving. With her body as my guide, I’m learning to be more brutal. I’m grateful for this. I show my gratitude by keeping her orgasms and bruises fresh.

There are times when I am bruised. Eden understands this. She recently offered to go into service for me, with the implicit acknowledgment that at times, I must allow her to take care of me. I agreed, knowing that being cared for will help me to care for others.

Eden was unable to attend Dark Odyssey last week due to an unhappy convergence of too much school and too little money. I petted her hair and told her that I wanted her service on my return.

I had learned last year that Dark Odyssey—or sex camp, as it’s also called in the vernacular—can be a phenomenal immersion in sexual freedom and education. I had also learned that it can be draining, both physically and psychically. I could anticipate several days of grinding my stamina on too little rest, allowing my mind and libido to push my body’s limits. More so, I have begun to appreciate the crash that sometimes follows when I walk around as “Jefferson.”

My public appearances as Jefferson have been few but are increasingly common. I’m gaining confidence in this role. Certainly, I enjoy meeting people who read me and I revel in teaching the things I know about sex and sexuality. Still, I appreciate that every step I take in Jefferson’s boots, like every word I write under his name, comes with some risks. Being a public pervert may not be wise in many aspects of my life, not the least of which is my relationship with my ex wife. Lucy continues in her mission to convince people that her decision to destroy our marriage was sound, which means continuing her search for evidence that I am not a good person. If she were to suspect my life as a pervert, she would surely take vindictive action. As time passes, I wonder if perhaps she would do otherwise and simply let me be. But memories of her abuse don’t fade easily, and so that anxiety remains.

The dread of Lucy’s rage looms beyond every new smile I encounter, every new hand I shake.

Last Monday, I returned from camp at four in the morning. By five, the car was unloaded and garaged. I fell to sleep at dawn. At ten, I awoke and went to work. Wendy had returned home with me and crashed at my place. I left without disturbing her.

Eden was waiting when I returned home. She and Wendy were talking. We were hungry. I ordered Chinese. We ate and the three of us undressed and cuddled. In time, Wendy pulled together her bags to return to her home. Eden and I were alone in bed. I pulled my body close to hers.

She ran her fingers though my hair. “Are you okay?”

I nodded into her shoulder. “Tired. Worn out by people.” I traced a finger along the soft down of her belly. “There was so much sex, incredible stuff, but sometimes I wanted . . . this.”

“Intimacy,” she nodded, caressing me. “It’s okay to want intimacy.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” I took her breast in my mouth. She drew a long breath as my teeth sank into her, increasing in intensity until finally, she was released. She exhaled. I fingered the indentation of my teeth in her flesh.

She put her hand on my arm. “It sounds like you had fun, though.”

“I did. I really, really did.” I thought about the stories I could tell her. Tender stories, like waking with Viviane, holding Wendy after a beating or making love under a clear blue sky. Unexpected stories, like fisting a woman I had just met or crushing a young boy under my boots, digging my heels into his bound breasts and pushing my soles into his flaccid strap-on penis. Outrageous stories, like acting as master of ceremonies at a blowjob contest, putting on a live sex show or being hauled into the woods by a chain around my waist. Secret stories, like what happened when I was taken away, or the abduction I managed to execute in full view with no one’s knowledge.

I might have told her about my strategies for feeling comfortable as Jefferson. Sharing a cabin with twenty people who fucked openly and continuously, I preferred to take my sex privately. When the bodies piled on one another, I escaped into long walks. I would get blown in front of one class I was teaching, and I would bring six women to orgasms in front of another. Otherwise, I tended to keep sex between myself and one partner at a time.

I sorted out these stories and strategies, knowing Eden would be curious. But I was tired of words and wearied by the sound of my voice. My body ached. My mind slurred.

I kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. I kissed my way down her neck, nibbling her torso, listening for her breath. I took her cunt in my mouth and made her cum, listening for the scream that is, for now, mine. I fucked her until I was exhausted by fucking.

I fell back on my pillows. She curled next to me, talking low. I nodded and replied in monosyllables.

She brought me a drink. She studied my body, pushing my hair from my face, turning my hands in her own. She went to my medicine cabinet to retrieve scissors and clippers. She trimmed my nose hairs. She gave me a pedicure. She rubbed my legs.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“No.” I emptied my tumbler, swallowing slivers of ice. “Another drink. Three fingers.”

Eden smiled. “Two.”

I smiled. “Three.”

“My fingers are very big,” she noted.

“I’m well aware of the size of your fingers,” I said, holding forward my glass. “My thirst is also very big.”

She leaned forward, kissed me, and took my glass. At the door, she turned back to face me. “Two.”

“Brat,” I called after her. “Two and a half.”

I closed my eyes, waiting. She returned with a tall pour of bourbon.

“Ha!” I said taking the glass. “Four?”

“I got confused with all the math,” she laughed. “I think that’s two and a half.”

I took a deep sip and exhaled. “Okay, I’m ready.” I took another gulp and set aside the glass. I turned on my belly, holding a pillow to my body.

Eden left again, returning with a warm washcloth. I closed my eyes as she cleaned me. I sighed as her tongue found my ass. She had warned me when we met that she had some hard limits. Among these, she wouldn’t have her ass fucked. She wouldn’t rim anyone. Her throat could not be touched.

Now, her ass is mine to fuck. Her throat is mine to touch. Her mouth is mine to direct. Eden has come to a place where she does things she doesn’t do.

“That’s so good,” I moaned. My shoulders slumped forward, relaxing. Her tongue gave way to her fingers, which disappeared into my body—one, two, two and a half. My lower back clenched and released. My breathing slowed and deepened.

I turned on my hip and looked at her. “Okay.” I reached to touch her face, bringing her green eyes to mine. “I’m ready.”

She nodded. “Big or small?”

“Your small isn’t small. But it will do.” I rolled over on my back. “I want to see you. You are so pretty, Eden.”

She smiled. I took a few drinks as I watched her prepare.

When she was ready, she stood and looked at me. “Where . . . ?” she asked.

“Here,” I pointed. “Lay on your back, on my side of the bed.”

Eden lay back on my pillows, her sandy blond hair catching the light of my lamp. I leaned forward to kiss her, deep and long. I pulled back to caress her hair and smiled into her eyes.

I reached between my thighs and pulled her cock into me.

I lowered myself onto her as she pushed up into me, pivoting her hips slightly. “Shhh, shhh, let me,” I whispered. I rested my palms on her breasts, squeezing as I eased her into me.

Wearing a strap-on cock is the only act of topping that interests Eden. Her devotion to bottoming and service had led her to offer her cock to me. She knew that I enjoyed my experiences with Carlos, and if there was a service she could provide, she wanted to make it available.

I understood the generosity of her offer. I cherished it. It seemed that my writing about Carlos was read by some as a cri de coeur, a plea to be fucked, and by others as the beginning of open season on my ass. Eden understood that this was not a notch on her dildo. This was something she could give that I was prepared to take.

Riding her cock, I looked down at her pretty face, her eyes so intent on me and my sensation. I was exhausted and a little drunk, yet I felt entirely safe and at peace.

I began to cry.

My emotions had been tangled in all that had happened over the weekend, in all the kindnesses done for me, in all the good things people had done for one another, in all the ways my body was moved and touched. My sensations and feelings had also been kept guarded, as I avoided any missteps that might foment drama or unhappiness in others. I had locked up my anxieties about the risks I take in being Jefferson, about the fragility of the life I build so long as it is still in my ex’s power to do harm to me or my children.

Eden’s face became concerned. She touched my hips. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” I wept. “I just feel very lucky.”

“Oh my God,” she sniffled, her eyes tearing. “If you cry, I’m going to cry.”

I laughed over my sobs. “So cry!”

In my bed, my servant girl and I cried and kissed as she fucked me. I caressed her face, licking the salt from her cheeks.

Layers of vulnerability fell from me.

I realized how badly I needed to rest.

My crying subsided. I squeezed my nose, wiping snot on my thigh. “Ugh, disgusting,” I winced, coughing a sob. “I’m covered in snot and lube. Do you want to shower?”

“No.” Eden’s eyes grew large. “Let’s take a bath.”

When had I last taken a bath? I lit a candle. We soaked side by side. I don’t recall a word we said.

We made the bed with flannel sheets. I slept.