I watched Raylene’s presented ass and her crimson face. You never really know what someone else is thinking, but sometimes in bdsm you feel you have some sort of intuitive access, at intense moments. This seemed to be one of those.
I felt that she was a little scared, though not really afraid, and she was excited. I probably knew those things by smell.
I also had things to think about, mostly more mundane than hers. For example:
Do I really have condoms in my wallet? (I think so. Didn’t I replace the last lot?)
How much of an idiot will I look if I don’t have condoms? (Considerable.)
Can I get away with checking, now? (No. It’d break the moment. Anyway, this is neurotic. Of course they’re there. Anyway, there’s oral sex to keep her on-side, then a dash to the chemist. Focus, f’fuck’s sake.)
I had been intending that we’d go to her bedroom and fuck first, and then I’d give her the razor strop afterwards, and that would probably be hot enough that we’d fuck again. It seems to be happening in this order instead. But what if it hurts too much, or she doesn’t like it? What if she gets pissed off with me? (Then you’ve blown it, and she probably won’t fuck you. Too late to back out now. C’est la vie.)
Okay, but how hard should I make the strokes? Love-taps or lashes? (Firm, I think, and fairly hard. She’d be disappointed if it doesn’t feel serious. Go with the best guess, and that’s it. And hell, she’s been in gang fights, which is more than you’ve ever done. She probably has a higher pain threshold than you, you total wuss, you.)
How many? (It should feel like a landmark. Sort of an achievement. Make it … thirty. That sounds like a dramatic number. You can go softer if she’s not handling it. But she’d be proud to have managed it, once we’re through it. Thirty sounds a good whole-hearted number.)
Do I tell her the number in advance, or might she enjoy the suspense of not knowing? (Um, better tell her, for a first time.)
Uh, wait. Do I actually, all things considered, have the right … ? (Oh fuck off. Time to get moving.)
So I put my hand on Raylene’s waist, and squeezed her, enough to feel forceful, and hurt just a little. She expelled a breath, hard. My voice had absolute, baritone, certainty. “All right, girl.”