Crybaby

CW: Brief description of SA & DV/Abuse

Rope, more than anything else, was what set my heart racing. It was a meditative practice, bringing me careening back into my body from wherever I had been. It allowed my mind to settle into a realm of complete tranquility. The gentle scratching on the most sensitive areas of my skin acted as an extension of my lover's hands, caressing and holding me tenderly. It was the cloud upon which I floated, the one thing that I could go back to, again and again, without ever getting bored.

That all changed the night Jaime and I ended. Our scene, I thought, had been planned thoroughly, but she had other ideas when she pushed me to the floor of her apartment bedroom, my head snapping against her nightstand. Stars erupted in front of me, clouding my vision, and I was left stunned, unable to speak as she looped layer upon layer of rope around me. I tried desperately to sputter out our safeword, but in the back of my mind, I knew it didn't matter. And besides, she had already taken the liberty of wrapping the cord around my mouth and throat, leaving me gagged and struggling for air.

It didn't last long. She cried the whole time, but it made her no less violent, no less cruel. The rough texture of the rope all around my upper body bit into my skin, made the corners of my lips chap and bleed. It held me like a briar patch, its thorns digging into me relentlessly. Jaime was inside of me and all around me and I could do nothing but wait for it to finally end. The air was silent around us for the few minutes she used me, save for her breathless sobbing and my weak, unsteady moans of protest. When it was over, she told me not to come back. That she'd rather not see me again.

I was a cheater, unfaithful, Jaime said, and it ruined her. I ruined her. Laying helpless on the cold vinyl floor, I didn't have the energy to suggest it might have been the other way around. A drum was beating in my head, every movement painful and tinged with vertigo. When I was released from my bondage, a small bag of my belongings - a cheap plastic toothbrush, half a bottle of rose-scented shampoo, some stray panties - was thrust into my hands. Jaime said nothing else to me, just ushered me out and slammed the door behind me. I stood there a while, mind blank as I studied the layers of dust caked to the baseboards of the hallway. I thought I might stay there all night, lost in the fugue state I found myself in. But it was cold, and Jaime's apartment complex was always lit like a horror movie, flimsy fluorescents blinking slowly, so I wanted more than anything to get out of there.

In my car, I found myself drifting again. Fear bubbled up in me, knowing that everyone would be so sad to hear we'd broken up, that God, I thought you were so cute together, and weren't you going to move in when your lease ended? Threads of anxious thoughts chained together, wrapped around my brain like barbed wire.

I hated rope. Hated it. On the drive home, I mapped my body, noted every inch of skin that was still red and raw from friction. All those places, dead to me. The concussion would heal with time, but those lines of burnt flesh would never leave my memory, even as month after lonely month passed. I stopped going to play parties after that, too scared to risk bumping into Jaime, and all but disappeared into hermetism after my landlord agreed to renew my lease. Even he asked, wondering about that girlfriend of mine.

For the most part, I was left alone. I ran into friends, but I always shrank away. Grocery shopping and work became the only things that brought me out of my home, and even those felt nearly impossible. I'd get texts from random friends or old lovers, asking how I was, but they went unanswered. I didn't know what to say, wasn't sure how to exist in this liminal space I found myself in, where I wasn't quite me anymore.

It was months before I let anyone come by my place. By then, I'd disassembled the two-by-fours that made up my suspension rig, wrapped up bundles of nylon and hemp cords and threw them in the trash. Everything else seemed to follow, cascading out of my life. I just couldn't take it. The thought of being touched that way left me queasy and panicked, and even vanilla sex felt disjointed and frightening, so it went, too. When I touched myself, it was in the pitch black, under my sheets. I'd lay on my stomach, crying into my pillow while my fingers ran furious, dry circles around my clit. It was joyless. It was mechanical. It was how I lived after Jaime, and how I thought I'd live forever.

Jack would have none of it. When they came to visit from Chicago, knowing only that I was single now and gone from the scene, they were confused and worried. I'd been in isolation for four months, a self-imposed quarantine that startled them. When we first met, all those years ago, I'd been the center of attention at the play parties they attended. Jack would watch me from a distance, all cool leather and thick, impossibly strong arms, propped against a wall to study me. They would always approach slowly after I finished a scene with someone else, basking in the warm glow of my euphoria. They would speak to me kindly, saying I was the most beautiful femme they'd ever seen. It made me swoon every time, since they were the most handsome butch I'd ever seen.

We tried to date for a while. We both felt so connected, brought together by the universe. But life got in the way every time. Having Lake Michigan nestled between us made it difficult to meet up, and I had no interest in something long-distance, knowing how desperately I would miss their hands on me. Still, even after we parted, they showered me in adoration whenever they visited, and I did the same, until Jaime.

Even then, I felt pulled to Jack. It left me riddled with guilt, the way Jack would watch me from afar, forever the voyeur. Jaime noticed, of course, and I felt guilty for that, too. I knew that whenever Jaime saw them, her mind went swimming in a sea of impossible comparisons: Jack was strong and built broadly, their body chiseled from stone after years of testosterone and construction work. Jaime, while fit and butch enough in her own right, knew she didn't stack up with her soft features, rounded and plump from her desk job. So Jaime was rougher with me in front of them, a display of dominance and ownership over me that I knew hurt Jack's soft heart.

I supposed that it was fair for Jaime to call me unfaithful.

Jack spoke to me about it often. I wondered if they saw something in Jaime that everyone else missed, like some sixth sense for wolves in sheep's clothing. I always brushed it off, our phone calls and text exchanges growing more sporadic over time to avoid conflict. Instead, our mutual frustration ran as a steady undercurrent in our friendship just as our lust did. And now, with them sitting on my couch in front me, without Jaime in my life, and without so much else, I felt lost.

Jack was gorgeous, even more so now than the last time I'd seen them. The summer sun had kissed their skin lightly and bleached their dusty brown hair, cropped short so even their scalp showed signs of tanning. The wrinkles at the edges of their hazel eyes were slightly deeper now, matching the laugh lines that surrounded their lips. I couldn't stop looking at them sitting across from me. I felt small, deeply ashamed of my messy apartment and my disheveled, two-day-old sweatpants. Jack didn't care, wrapping their arms around me in a warm hug and whispering in my ear how they'd missed me.

After we pulled away, Jack kept a hand on me. It was an almost subconscious thing, their fingers tracing along mine or reaching up to brush a hair away from my face. It was all too much, brought face-to-face with everything I'd divorced myself from. I felt myself pulling away, and I hated it, my body wilting like rotten fruit. It was supposed to be Jack who was stone, not me. And yet, here I was, with my legs pulled up to my chest, greasy brown hair shrouding my face.

I knew I would tell Jack what happened if they asked me. I felt the words in my throat, clawing their way out. Panic bubbled up in my chest and my brain felt like hot wax, burning its way to oblivion. It didn't take long, of course, before they did - it was impossible not to, given the state I was in.

"Camille, please..." Jack whispered, their voice like honey.

That was all it took. I couldn't stop crying, even as they pulled me in and rested my head against their bound chest, their cologne, all citrus and warm musk, overwhelming my senses. I told them in short, sputtering sobs. Jack held me still the whole time, so I couldn't see their face. I felt their body react, though, their heartbeat pounding against my ear, their arms tensing around my shoulders. I told them everything, how Jaime would scream and throw things at me in a blind rage, and how there was no aftercare when we had sex. I told them, finally, before I could bite my tongue, of that final night with Jaime.

Jack was shaking, their whole body vibrating with fury. They pressed firm kisses into my hair and I felt hot tears splash against my scalp. I wished I could comfort them, push aside my own feelings, but I was gone from my body. I could hear myself crying. I could feel the fabric of Jack's forest green v-neck between my clenched fingers. But I wasn't there. I was somewhere far away, floating, exhausted.

"I'm so sorry, angel," I heard Jack whisper, and then, "I'll fucking kill her."

It was a cold comfort, those ferocious words on Jack's lips. I hated seeing them so distraught, feeling like it was my fault for being the bearer of bad news. But I still couldn't speak, could barely keep my eyes open. I felt completely drained. Jack seemed to recognize it, their hand rubbing up and down my back to soothe me. Eventually, they guided me back, away from their chest. I couldn't bring my eyes to meet their own, despite how much I yearned to lose myself in that warm hazel. Instead, I focused on their large, calloused hands. They guided me off the couch, towards the bathroom, helping me to strip out of my dirty clothes as Jack started a bath.

Jack talked me through everything they did, and asked permission before touching me. Despite being so angry, Jack was gentle. It was in their nature to be so loving, and I felt lucky to be on the receiving end of it. They sat on my toilet while I bathed, watching me silently as I scrubbed my arms and legs and massaged shampoo into my hair.

Their gentleness extended to the bedroom when we made our way there, going so far as to offer to sleep on the couch. I knew that I needed them with me, though, and Jack was happy to oblige when I said so. We laid together, our skin buzzing wherever we made contact under the comforter, but Jack, of course, didn't make any advances. I fell into sleep quickly, thinking idly that maybe, not tonight but maybe, I'd like them too.

--

Jack called their boss in Chicago and asked for a week off, saying they had a family emergency. When they first came to my place on Saturday, I thought I'd only see them for a couple days, and I was flooded with a sense of relief and gratitude that overwhelmed me when they said they'd be with me longer. I went to work begrudgingly that Monday, the hours drifting by slowly.

When I got home, Jack was in my kitchen, washing dishes at the sink. Their tanned, tattooed arms looked absurd, huge sticking out of my lemon-printed apron, and I laughed. They looked up at me, smiling, and I realized it was the first time I'd laughed in far too long, the sound unfamiliar in my throat.

"How was work?" they asked, wiping down a plate.

I shrugged and moved to stand behind them, wrapping my arms around their waist. Jack sighed, content, a sound that set my heart fluttering. I found myself pressing my forehead into their shoulder blade, frustrated with myself for ever leaving Jack in the first place. Meeting Jaime was perhaps the bigger mistake, but I was fixated on what I regretted most: I told Jack I couldn't do this, when it was all I wanted. I told Jack we weren't working, when they made me happier than anyone else ever had. I wanted them back so badly, and I hated myself for abandoning them.

I told Jack none of this, just pressed myself against them until they rotated in my arms to face me. They pressed their hand to my jaw, guiding my head up so I would face them.

"Camille," they said softly, "how are you feeling today?"

I swallowed, knowing they could see the bright pink blush that erupted on my cheeks. "Better, I think," I said quietly. "I don't know..."

Jack nodded. Their hand moved from my jaw to play with the strands of curled brown hair that framed my face while their free hand ran up and down my arm. I felt a familiar rumbling in my belly, a desire that had been shut down for so long. I had been thinking about Jack all day, my job as a hotel concierge boring and slow enough that I could get away with hours of wandering thoughts.

Jack reached around me, their hand trailing down the braid I'd set my hair in until they reached the hair tie at its base. They pulled it off gently, their fingers slowly raking through to undo it and free my soft waves. "I love your hair like this," Jack whispered. "It's gotten so long."

I hummed. My hands moved back, too, pulling loose the strings of my apron from their waist. It wasn't long after that Jack's lips found mine. They kept us perfectly still, going slowly when I felt so frantic. Their kiss was warm, their lips tasting faintly of the green tea they always drank with lunch. I surprised myself with how much more I wanted as their tongue ran gently over my lower lip.

"Jack," I whispered into their mouth. "Please, I... I want you."

Jack's hand on my arm was holding me firm, their own desire swelling up within them. They continued to move slowly as we wandered towards my bedroom, where Jack had folded fresh sheets over my mattress. They were focused entirely on me as we fell into bed, asking before removing any clothes or touching me at all. It would have been annoying if it were anybody else, at any other time. But here, with Jack, I was grateful to be shown such care.

My apron and both our tops and shoes were piled in a heap on the floor, Jack kissing down the soft fat of my stomach while their hand gently massaged my breast over my bra. All I could do was close my eyes and bury my fingers in their hair, my back arching to get closer to them.

"You're so beautiful, Camille," Jack whispered against my skin.

I was crying again, but it was different now. I felt my body relax in a way it hadn't in months, tears cascading down into my hairline while my body shivered. Jack rose to meet me, running a thumb along my temple to wipe the wetness away.

"We can stop, baby," they assured me, "it's okay."

"No," I said urgently. "I don't want to stop, I'm sorry. It's just so much."

"Okay, love," Jack whispered, trailing kisses down my cheek to my throat. "Shh, shh..."

Their hand was in my hair again, fingers playing with the soft curls while their free hand traveled slowly to the hem of my skirt. My breath was shaky, my body moving on its own to get as close as possible to Jack. They asked if they could take my skirt off, unbuttoning it slowly when I told them yes, please, please. I wrapped my legs around Jack's hips as their fingers brushed against the delicate lace of my panties, their own breath fast and ragged.

I knew what this did to them, how desire pooled between their legs until they were desperate to be inside me. I longed for them, ached for their fingers, their tongue, whatever they would give me.

It came soon enough, once I asked for it. Jack stayed up by my head so they could watch the look in my eyes when their fingers slipped under my panties, sinking in to find my clit and rubbing gently. I gasped, moaning desperately as they ran slow circles around the hardened bud. Jack groaned into my ear, their hips rutting against me. They whispered my name as if they were praying, as if I were something deserving of worship. Their hand moved from my hair, reaching down to grip my own and bring it above my head, holding it there, fingers entwined.

Jack kissed me as their fingers moved faster, my wetness soaking through the thin fabric of my panties and leaving my thighs sticky. I bucked up against them, knowing I was getting closer to the edge. They sent me over when their fingers dipped down and entered me, the first wave of orgasm washing over me. Jack watched in awe as my body arched and convulsed, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. I was whimpering out obscenities as their fingers pumped in and out, their thumb massaging my clit.

"Fuck, Camille," Jack whispered, overwhelmed by the feeling of me clenching around their fingers.

Tears welled up in their eyes, too, and eventually, we couldn't go on. Jack collapsed on top of me and wrapped their arms around me as we cried together. Hours went by as we laid there, limbs tangled up together. We cried and talked until dark, and made love again after ordering out for dinner.

The next day was the same, and every day after that until Jack finally had to take the ferry back to Illinois. As expensive as it was, they insisted on coming back to visit on weekends, and I couldn't protest. I wanted them with me, always. Weeks turned into months, until summer faded away to autumn and still, Jack came every time. We had strictly vanilla sex, the word 'Sir' on my lips drawing immediate protest from Jack.

"I don't want to push you," they explained, their eyes sad.

But I wanted to be pushed. I wanted reclamation, and I told them that. So we arranged for me to visit them one weekend in late October, where I would venture back into the lifestyle I'd abandoned.

Jack's house was a small bungalow on the outskirts of Chicago, a poorly-insulated brick one-bedroom that was nevertheless warm from Jack's attentiveness.

For my visit, they'd done exactly as I asked: the criss-crossing metal frame of a swing was set up in their living room, a plush blanket underneath. Their fireplace was roaring when they guided me inside, where bundles of jute rope were laid out on their coffee table. Jack took my coat, kissing my shoulders as they pulled it off of me.

They were dressed the way they always had when we were together for a scene: black leather boots, dark jeans, a black v-neck. They were a vision, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I turned around to face them as they hung up my coat, kissing them as soon I could.

"Hey," Jack smiled, pulling away. "You're feeling alright?"

"Yes, Jack."

"And you know we can stop at any time?"

"Yes, Jack."

Jack was grinning at me, running their fingers through my hair, but their eyes revealed their own hesitation. In the months we'd been reunited, Jaime's violence was never far from Jack's mind. Even as I started therapy and began venturing out of my house more confidently, they still fretted over me, as though I were a doll, a little thing, in need of protection.

Here, though, they leaned in to trust. Jack's lips moved to my throat before much more was said, adorning me with light pink marks of their own design until my breath quickened.

"Okay, Camille," Jack whispered in my ear, "remind me of the safeword?"

"Bubble," I said softly. "And may I call you Sir?"

Jack beamed. "I would like that, very much."

With that, something shifted in Jack and they eased into their role like a second skin. They set their shoulders back, standing tall as they pulled away from me and moved towards the metal frame.

"Come, stand here by the fire," Jack commanded, reaching over to grab a bundle of rope to unravel.

"Yes, Sir," I said obediently.

"You're going to strip for me," they instructed, looking over my body.

I did as Jack commanded, my cheeks flushing as I set to untying my wrap dress.