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‘Even in such a nice hotel?’
‘Yes, even in such a nice hotel.’ He laughed very quietly.
‘They live here!’
Maybe he was used to them. Probably. Or maybe he was a new person, too. Maybe he, too, no longer knew if he was afraid of spiders.
Another interesting effect of becoming a new person is that your lover gets to know you better than you know yourself, in certain ways.
So that he can say: you want to come when you’ve been spanked.
And he loved that. He adored the fact that he knew me so intimately. I’m not sure if he realised that I didn’t know myself so well. I’m not sure if he realised that I was becoming a new person.
How could he know? He never met the old one.
Humiliation in the jungle bed
The hotel room was like a little house, with a tiny garden and white bricks and carved monkeys on the table.
We had no neighbours except the sea, just a few metres from our heads when we slept.
He had his backpack with him.
‘How did you get that through airport security? With all those weapons?’
I still don’t know but he did.
Again he began the unpacking of the treasure. He had a lot more rope with him, blue like the sky it was designed to make you fly in.
He unpacked the well-used belt, the collar, and a pretty new leash from the weekend market, the puppy section.
We were lying close on the jungle bed, after a long wonderful session trying out so many things, for the first time together, and maybe even for the first time ever. Then we whispered, only a little louder than the sea, but so close that our skins could lip-read, and he came up with the next one I delighted in.
Now I think he must have made a list, from all the things I wrote to him on Mr Hong’s ancient world access machine, or told him on the phone, in the hot midday sun in the dusty main street on the other island’s shanty town. All those days, he was working on the list.
So he whispered to me, after a long exciting session of breast bondage, all done by the book, but not quite by the book, in his own, Nai style of doing things.
With intense concentration he worked on my nipples. He made my breasts swell so that they overspilled their D cups, and had to be bound, securely he said, to be tormented in the proper way. And when he was done he tormented my nipples, so shy, so quick to retreat at any hint of danger, they grew hard and long and red, and ached from the air that touched them.
I still have a photograph of those tormented, huge, wildly excited nipples standing out from my aching breasts.
He had asked me, respectfully, if he could take pictures of me.
‘Of your body, only, in play,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ll make sure no one can identify you, not that I want to show them to anybody.’
And when I looked a little hurt he said: ‘Of your face at breakfast.’
When we left for the tropical airport he gave me the pictures on a data stick. True to his word, there was not one that combined my face and my body.
My body was sensationally beautiful. He had chosen the most sexually outrageous moments and the closest close-ups of my most intimate places.
My face at breakfast looked confused and insecure.
There was not one picture that showed both of us, my Nai and me, together.
‘So,’ he whispered into my hair, after he had released my breasts into his long, bony hands, and kissed them long and wetly, ‘what is it that you want, in humiliation?’
I couldn’t say it, straight away.
‘Come on, you’ve mentioned it, now you’ve got to say it.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ I had mentioned it, when he asked me what I wanted. As usual, I had just said the truth. Never thinking he would listen.
So I closed my eyes, really fast, and snuggled up to him, stomach to hip, skin to skin, and all I could do was whisper: ‘I want to be made to say things. Embarrassing things. Humiliating things. About me.’
He gave me a hug.
‘Now, make yourself come.’
‘I don’t know if I can, my Nai.’
I started to try. But it didn’t work. Partly because I’m not very good at making myself come when there’s somebody else there, it’s too private! Almost like cheating on my most trusted and most vulnerable lover, me. And partly because I didn’t really want to. After all, I can make love with myself whenever I am in a romantic mood, but I can’t make love with him if he’s not there. I suddenly felt very sad, not knowing if, after these few days, I would ever see him again. So for those precious moments, those few precious moments, he is here, and I’m supposed to make myself come all by myself!!
I looked at him, sort of forlorn.
He said: ‘Think of being spanked.’
In spite of myself, I felt my pelvic muscles go soft and finally a few drops of moisture coated the lower end of my vulva, just outside the entrance. What I think of as rolling out the red carpet for my lover.
It was just so overwhelming, so recent, the hot hard fast, never-ending spanking, so hard and fast and hot and sharp and close, so close his arms his legs, all hot and the spanking, the spanking so furious time looped on itself and there really was no end.
My body was still there, still glowing and swollen, my brain hadn’t had the time to lay down memory coils, so it was all fresh, all still there – I grew more liquid under my fingers, and slowly I could feel the big inside muscles relax and shiver playfully.
I could hear my Nai giggle. A giggling Nai! He only giggled if he told me stories about silly people. Or dogs who peed into flower pots.
‘You do so love to be spanked,’ he giggled.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘Yes, I do.’
How wonderful to say it, like that. So directly. So clearly. No smuttiness, no twisted ‘I am doing this but really it is dirty and so are you,’ no adolescent forty-year-old swagger.
Just real.
I feel as if I am being seen without mirrors. Without filters and mirrors, without distortions. It feels as if it is me who is being seen. Not like so many times, a man looks at me, and all he sees is just himself in drag. Like my first lover on alt: thinking about where he should have been, rather than be with me. Looking at me, making me into the symbol of his sexuality, the part he craved and despised, the part he rejected, the part he looked down on.
That was one of the best things about my Nai: he looked at me and he saw me.
Sometimes. When we were having sex. When we, and more importantly when he was engaged in a scene. It was as if being my Nai in a scene gave him the ability to see me. To see. A transformation that brought him into his full power, and beauty, and brought all his talents into balance. Passion woke his hidden powers. Passion made all the parts of his body and mind more clearly defined. Passion was the catalyst that blew him into another dimension. A higher frequency of himself.
When he was out of it, he was just as blind as other men. Sometimes blinder. Often, because, as a traditional, unquestioning conservative, he was not a member of the reality-based community. Outside passion, he could only see the world as handed down to him.
But not now. Now he had eyes like an eagle satellite. That could spot a Russian submarine from twenty miles up in space. That could see everything for what it was. He had eyes like an eagle and moved like a tiger. The tiger that was already there of course. He lives here. On this island. In this jungle. Maybe he’s lived in this hotel room all the time. Waiting for my Nai to show up. Waiting to be him.
Waiting to see me.
What could be difficult, after this?
I get closer. My Nai can sense it. Whenever I lose the way, I concentrate on the burning sparkles from the spanking in my ass.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘say: “I am such a slut.”’
Interesting. This isn’t even a very powerful word for me. The world of sluts and, what would be the other side? Good girls? Moral women? Whatever it is, it doesn’t carry much of an erotic charge.
But when he tells me to say it, out loud, I feel its connections to other, wilder, more humiliating words.
I have to say, out loud, in front of another person, who I am, deep inside, in the dreams that nobody knows. I have to bring my darkest identity out and show it. Show it to him.
Something that I have been hiding. From the outside world, from the accusations of evil, from the insinuations of deviance, from the suspicions and the attempts to change me, or cure me, or push me out of society. From myself, even, for a long time. If he only knew, my Nai would tell me to say some other words, words that are far more loaded for me, loaded so deeply that, for a long time, I couldn’t say them, not even to myself, not even to my therapist. And that was when I finally decided to talk to a therapist just about that, my sexuality. I couldn’t say the words any more. It was as if a big iron door, too long unused, had rusted and settled into its closed and shuttered state, so that the only way to open it would be to push it until it collapsed. Or to explode it or melt it down. Or to laser it away with the newest technology. Or for the earth to open up and eat it all.
If he knew he would tell me to say: ‘I want to be spanked. I deserve to be beaten. I need the belt. Please, Nai, I need the belt.’
These would be the words of power.
For a long time, I would never say them. For a long time before that, I wouldn’t even write them, form them in my mind. When somebody else said them, with apparent ease, either because they said them so often they had become desensitised or because the mere saying of words didn’t have, for them, the same power, I got a charge from them, like an electrical shock. I thought it must have been visible to the speakers of the words, but maybe not. Maybe not if they don’t feel it themselves. Maybe not if they didn’t watch me closely enough. Like my Nai.
I came closer to coming, opening up from a lot deeper inside now.
‘Say it, say it now. I am such a slut.’
I opened my mouth. I ran my fingers over my clitoris. I formed the words in my mind, but they didn’t come out.
Say it.
‘I … I … I …’
‘Say it, slut.’
So I have to say it. Now. I dive deep down.
My Nai holds my hand. Literally. He holds my hand away from my clitoris. He holds it hard. No way to wiggle. No way to escape. No danger of escape.
‘Say it, slut, now.’
I open my mouth again but nothing comes out, not even a sigh or a syllable.
My Nai gives me a sensuous soft stroke, with his hand and with my own hand. My arms and shoulders and neck melt away with softness. He touches my breasts very tenderly with his other hand, almost flying over them, lingering over the bruises, making them feel hot and releasing more memories.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Don’t stop. In a moment I’ll let you come. Are you ready to come?’
‘Yes, yes. Yes, my Nai.’
My Nai reaches into the slim triangle that I have opened up at the top of my vulva. His fingers join my fingers.
‘Hmm, nice. Nice and wet,’ he says.
It’s taken me a lifetime to understand what a man means when he says that something is ‘nice’. I would probably translate it into ‘wild’, ‘exciting’, ‘makes me go crazy’. But for a man, it’s ‘nice’. So, now, here, in the presence of the tiger who is dragging open the long-closed doors of my heart with its bare teeth, I, the sexual being, am ‘nice’.
His fingers push much harder than mine, and, at this stage in our relationship, a little too hard for me, and a bit too fast. No inkling of the clit fests to come. When I was contorted on the floor with continuous orgasms, one pushing the other, pushing the other, until my stomach muscles cramped, until I felt I was going to throw up.
‘Now,’ says my Nai, his mouth very close to my ear so that I could feel his breath, ‘open your eyes.’
I open my eyes and I can see his face so close to me. He looks into my eyes, and he whispers: ‘Say it. Say it. Say it to me.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, my body shivering because in all this time he hadn’t stopped rubbing my clit and I hadn’t stopped running my fingers around my labia either.
‘I don’t know if – if I can. I’ve never said this. I’ve always kept my eyes shut.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Yes, if you keep your eyes shut you can always pretend it isn’t you. Look at me.’
Actually, I think, it’s not so much that it isn’t me when I keep my eyes shut. It’s more me, even. It’s that I don’t have to bring it out to you. Show my insides, my deepest secret insides, to you.
‘Yes, Nai,’ I say, and I do.
I look at him. He looks back into me.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Now say it.’
I want to have some peace, to collect myself. I want to meditate on it, make the private, secret core of me rise from the depths, slowly, as slow as it needs to be, and then I want to take a good long time to think about it, and hold it in my heart, and head, and then, maybe then – maybe –
Maybe then the doors will still be rusted. Rusted shut from all that time in the rain.
Maybe then it will be perfect. Maybe then it will come out in a full, mature, perfect shape. Completing the circle.
But that’s not how it is. That’s not how it’s going to be. No peaceful retreat. No thoughts. No maybe tomorrows.
My body trembles with different rhythms. I’m already catapulted into speaking. I feel my Nai’s body along mine, all along the length of it, the silky skin touch, the muscles that held me down, with such determination, the bones underneath.
I look into him, I go cold with fear, I feel faint, I feel disoriented, I don’t know any more what is up and what is down, the room is slanted, it stands on its side, pierced on fear.
I want to run away and hide, outside with the spiders and snakes. I want to stay here, close to my Nai, and just give up and crumble into a ball and cry and be held by him.
I want to jump and rush and slide down the stream while I scream, loudly, the words, so that they can be part of the wind.
I look into my Nai’s eyes and I can feel the shame creeping up my neck and cheeks, and for the first time I see in his eyes the satisfaction he feels at calling up the shame, and making me show it to him, to him alone, the owner. I feel his body press hard and his penis grow harder.
Tears streaming out of my eyes, I never look away. I say the words.
‘I am such a slut.’
