The Door Game

She sat back into the couch and tried not to fidget.

Twisting as she sat a little deeper, the muscles in her hips contracting, creating a pressure that made her feel warm in the middle, and served to release a tiny bit of the tension. She let out a low sigh, looking over at the glass of water on the side table. Half empty, the surface of the liquid appeared as a floating disc, undisturbed in the centre of the clear vessel. She lifted it and took a sip.

'No drinking' he'd said. Fuck -- she wanted a gin.

Even just a red wine would've settled her nerves. But that was kind-of the point. It was all part of the game, the planning, preparation, the feeling of doing things to lead into it.

It had made her feel tingly for the whole day.

He'd been very specific in his messages:

I'm coming to see you Friday evening

No playing from Tuesday onward

And no drinking - I want your senses sharp

I want you totally present

I want it to be 100% you

I want you to feel it all

The thought of it both excited and terrified her.

A couple were arguing on TV, with canned laughter bellowing out, indicating that it was at least meant to be funny, but she couldn't concentrate. It was just people talking somewhere, like background noise in a crowded room. As she stared blankly ahead, her phone buzzed with a short, sharp vibration, and the screen illuminated on the arm of the couch.

Looking down, she read the notification.

Two words: I'm here.

She muted the TV, stood up and crossed the room with four light steps, her bare feet padding soundlessly against the wooden floor. She reached for the lock to the front door of her apartment, turned it, and the bolt slid back with a satisfying 'shunk'.

She reached for the handle, paused, breathed out, and opened the door.

Stood in the open hallway, about three steps back, he looked straight at her and smiled. He was exactly as his pictures promised, and they'd already had a few rather fun, funny and in-depth video chats, so no surprises here, but it was still different. He was 'real', moving in space. He had depth.

They regarded each other and attempted to quietly conceal their own personal mix of relief, approval and a slight fluttering in the stomach. This part never got any less weird - when someone you met online suddenly has mass. It can all go wrong. They transform from flat imagery to something that 'is'.

She took him in - tall, athletic, with smooth caramel-coloured skin and a light dusting of stubble, a few patches of grey peppering his face and temples. His skin was clear and soft and he looked radiant - healthy, he looked strong. She almost had to stop herself from nodding in approval.

He was wearing tight, dark blue jeans and a dark grey T-shirt with a deep V, a patch of dark, soft hair showing at the top of his chest. As she scanned him, a million little processes between her eyes and brain considered this beautiful man. Everything about his stance, his posture, his manner, looked relaxed, confident, ready.

Her brain subconsciously searched that mysterious database of every gorgeous man she'd ever seen, concluding that he looked like a younger version of Lenny Kravitz in The Hunger Games (minus the sparkly makeup).

And his eyes. My god, his eyes were mesmeric -- a shade of green like the colour of jade. Bright and lustrous, they locked with hers. It wasn't confrontational or assertive, he just looked straight at her and could hold her gaze without looking away.

There was something so fucking hot about that.

Looking back at her, illuminated in the doorway, her hair appeared as a mass of dark brown, the light behind catching slivers of rich red running through it in long unravelling curls that rounded out at her shoulders.

She was dressed exactly as he had requested in his message: 'Wear something loose and comfy -- the sort of thing you'd wear when you're binge-watching a box set. This isn't about trying to look sexy or alluring -- I know that you're hot. It's about something else'.

She felt a little odd about not getting dressed up in something at least a bit more sexy, but she also loved to receive instructions, to prepare for something specific. She'd opted for a simple white camisole top, the thin straps running alongside the straps of her bra (a very subtle white with turquoise lace threaded through) and a pair of really-quite-little grey shorts. Basically, she was wearing something she would sleep in on a warm night.

He tried not to obviously scan her, but it was hard not to look.

He applied some self-discipline. Eye contact -- lock it in. She already looked gorgeous -- cute, unassuming, like he'd just interrupted her on a warm summer night - and he easily recalled the pictures she'd sent him which showed off her shape. He'd always asked for clothed shots -- enough to let him see her body type, but not more than he would see if he had met her in a club or bar.

Anticipation. Build-up.

No one did that shit anymore.

For him, it was the best thing there was.

She stepped back and held the door open, hoping it would be enough of a gesture to usher him in. As he stepped forward, a nervous flutter in her stomach made her throat feel tight, and she worried that if she spoke, he'd hear a shaky, tentative quality in her words.

Oh god, he smelled good. He smelled really good.

Don't say anything yet.

Quiet was good.

Quiet worked.

He stepped past her into the room and she pushed the door closed, reaching down to twist the lock into place. She paused for a second, which he noticed, then committed to the idea. To the entire premise. To locking herself inside her home with this man. She knew was going to touch her, control her, he might put his hand on her throat, maybe even hurt her a little.

------------

They had messaged each other incessantly for the last week, and she had decided to take a chance. She told him about her desires. About the dark things that made her stomach warm. About the loving, supportive, kindhearted boyfriends who had brought her gifts and showered her with compliments, who made love to her tenderly with the lights out and touched her so gently that it made her feel like she was soft, like she was fragile.

About the one night she went to her friend's gallery opening in London, and the artist from Norway she had chatted and drank with. The older man who reminded her of Mads Mikkelsen, who talked to her about seeing darkness and light in everyone, about the joy and cruelty of love, the Jungian shadow, the potential that every person has to be terrible, to be monstrous.

He said we have a duty to integrate that terrible self, instead of fearing it. So when she realised he was flying home in two days, she decided to take charge, to use that terrible self, to follow a primal urge to its primal end.

About how she felt strong, decisive, empowered, and took charge that day - and yet discovered on the same night, that she liked to be restrained, mistreated and denied breath. To have someone whisper terrible things in her ear while they pinned her down. About how his perfectly placed hand lit up her skin with a sharp, resounding crack that would sting and throb... and yet somehow she'd want another.

About how all of it made her senses feel like they were dialled up to eleven, like she was truly awake -- finally connected to a level of experience where she could so clearly see why Thomas, and Luka, and Alexander had never been able to make her forget herself. To lose herself in a beautiful, brutish, frenzied act.

She'd been with each of them for years.

They had loved her, she had loved them.

They made her feel nice, pretty, safe.

But not like she was on fire, not glowing like there was electricity running through her, not feeling like she might faint - where, at the edge of her pleasure with her stomach tied up in equal parts fear and excitement, she was desperate to see what would happen if she pushed just a little more.

She closed her eyes and listened to the deliberate sound it made as the bolt found its home in the doorframe. It was the sound of letting go, of giving up control, of falling into the sea and letting the current take you somewhere unexpected, it was..

As she moved to turn, hands appeared on her shoulders. The touch was gentle, but the strength of his arms held her firmly in place. She stood there, looking forward, unsure. His hands travelled down from her shoulders and slid slowly over her forearms until they found her wrists.

He leaned in, his chest brushing lightly against her exposed skin, every hair on the back of her neck standing up, as if charged with static. Her eyes closed for just a second and she swallowed. He reached forward and up, bringing her hands out in front and she watched, puzzled but curious, as he gently placed them flat against the white wood of the door.

His voice suddenly appeared at her right ear, low, calm and steady: 'I'd like us to play a game'. She flinched, surprised by the sudden intimacy, but closed her eyes again and listened. 'Your hands stay here' -- he pressed gently forward to emphasise where they now rested.

A second of silence passed. Her lips parted, a slight intake of breath to ask a question.

He spoke. 'There are three rules to this game'.

She kept her eyes closed. 'I'm going to touch you, use my hands on you, use my mouth on you, find all of the things that you love, all of the things that make your breathing change, that make your hips twist, that make you want to grind against something, and let out dreadful, unfeminine sounds... and I'm going to do them for you, and you're going to keep your hands on this door...'

She swallowed hard.

'...and if you take them off, I'll open it, walk through and I'm gone.'

Another pause.

'Do you understand?'

She nodded her head earnestly, and accompanied the motion with a rather sharp intake of breath -- just in case it wasn't obvious that the combination of gentle touch, close proximity and a deep, masculine voice speaking softly right next to her ear had, in a matter of seconds, made her heart beat like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest.

He spoke again, his voice soft but entirely unwavering: 'Then say it'.

Her mouth opened and she breathed out 'Yes', a feeble, cracked sound emanating from a throat that suddenly, and without her realising, had become completely dry.

Fuck. She was trying hard not to appear nervous, to exude confidence, calm, composure, and yet in a word, had managed to sound like a frightened little girl. She swallowed hard and straightened her hips, adjusting slightly to her new position, trying to centre herself.

He consciously steadied his own breath, but couldn't help himself and allowed his eyes to drop, looking over her shoulder and down at her chest. The soft fabric of her top rose and fell noticeably with her breathing. He wanted to reach up, to sink his palm into it, to pull the middle of it down, just a little, to look, to see the soft curves of her... Focus.

He steeled himself.

This was a game, and it was all about time and patience.

He continued as if he hadn't noticed her nerves, as if it didn't turn him on more. 'Rule number two is that you are clear and immediate when you need something to stop. If, you say the word Aurora, we pull the plug. Everything stops - Do you understand?'

She nodded as she spoke and tried to make the word sound as clear and confident as possible.

'Yes'

He reached his right arm across her, the hand closing over her left shoulder, the forearm resting on her chest just below her collar bone. At the same time, his left hand snaked upward into her hair, fingers spread.

In a single quick movement, he braced his arm across her front, holding her firmly while the fingers in her hair closed, twisting his fist to suddenly pull her head back, her chin jolting upward. She let out a yelp, more of surprise than pain and breathed in sharply through her nose.

He spoke again, soft, calm and measured 'Say it for me'.

She looked up at the ceiling and breathed the word: 'Aurora'.

With that, the grip in her hair loosened and her head slowly came back to rest, her eyes facing forward. The arm across her chest relaxed and he stepped back, leaving her there to float in space, in silence, arms outstretched.

'You see how that works?'

She nodded with a muted 'mm hmm'.

She stared forward into the white painted wood of the door, calming herself, steadying her breath, listening intently, waiting, but the only sound was a slight creak in the floor as she adjusted her footing.

His voice cut through the excruciating silence. 'The third rule is that you do not say no to me'. He paused between each word, almost moaning them into her ear,

'No... Stop... Don't... Not so hard... Not there... That's too much'

He leaned in closer and spoke faster, almost snarling at her. 'These are all things I don't want to hear - and if I do hear them, I'm going to keep going - probably harder and faster, because I know you're clever and you understand the rules. I'm going to assume all of these words mean the opposite of what they sound like and you're saying them to make fun of me or to derail our game'.

'Do you understand?'

Again, without thinking, she nodded.

Nothing.

Her eyes darted around as she tried to figure out why he hadn't responded. All she could hear was her own breathing. 'Yes' she blurted out -- stronger and more assured than last time, although that wasn't saying much.

He spoke gently, his mouth so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

'Good girl.'

Her bottom lip moved back between her teeth, a slight sting emanating as her jaw closed, biting into the soft pink flesh. These were two words she loved to hear a man say.

Someone bigger than her.

Stronger than her.

Someone in charge.

Uggh. She hated that she loved it, but she couldn't help it.

He paused. This part was delicious: the anticipation of touch. Stood just one step behind her, there was an absence of contact which, when she couldn't see him, may as well have been a mile. He was essentially invisible and able to appear on her body at any spot he chose, assured that it would elicit surprise and draw all of her focus.

He chose her wrist.

She stood facing forward with her eyes closed, waiting. The soft, thin skin of her right wrist came to life just where it met her palm. His fingertips were undulating, very gently, in a soft flutter of constant movement. The touch was so gentle it seemed to constantly make contact and disconnect. Although he stayed in the same spot, the nerves lit up all along her forearm. It sent a low-level sensation to her brain, like a mild electric current, or that feeling in the air just before a storm is about to break.

His fingers stiffened into a rigid shape of hardened points, his nails dragging up the inside of her arm. The mild electric feeling became something else - something that made her back straighten, and she readjusted her feet again, trying to offset the energy of the long, slow scrape. His fingers softened, appeared again at her wrist and moving slowly along her forearm to the inside of her elbow, drawing brief, rapid patterns of tiny overlapping circles on her skin as he did.

His hand disappeared and she was left to float.

She stood with her eyes closed.

Again, he was invisible.

Again, she waited.

She felt her top stir slightly as his hand slid under the soft fabric, making contact with the warm, sensitive skin of her lower back. His fingers began the same gentle, rapid pattern drawing, before he dug in harder and the nails pulled along the skin, drawing four lines that began as white and then filled out pink as the blood under the surface rushed up to them. As these four stinging strips came to life across her lower back, her mouth opened and she breathed out a low, involuntary 'Haaaaaa'.

He nodded. She liked the soft touch, but responded to the rough.

As he scratched slow shapes across her lower back, his other hand appeared on the back of her neck. She loved the sensation of having her neck touched and kissed, loved the gentle feeling of sensuous contact, loved to -- his fingers slid forward and wrapped around the front of her throat. At the same time, he took a step forward, the front of him making contact with the back of her.

His other hand slid around across her stomach. It braced and pulled her back onto him, then dragged, the same four-lined scrape across the soft flesh just above the line of her shorts.

She felt the hand on her throat close -- just a little. Not choking her, just letting her know it was there, and she could feel him leaning in against her. His chest and torso connected with her, covering her back, and it was there too - the unerring pressure of his arousal, aggressive, insistent. He was fully hard, pointing straight up -- it was like someone pushing a pipe flat against the softness between her ass cheeks.

He closed his eyes.

He'd been hard since he started talking into her ear. Seeing her twist and grind when he touched her, watching her chest drop as breath rushed out of her. This feeling of contact was delicious, and every fibre in him wanted to drag his length, long and slow against her.

Focus. He opened his eyes.

He knew this game well - it looks like it's all for him, but it's for her.

No rubbing himself on her like some horny teenager.

If she could have thought (which in that moment, she really couldn't) she might have mused how exciting it was to make a guy so hard without laying a finger on him, without him having touched any of the 'usual' places that guys reach for.

But this was something else altogether.

This was his discipline, his delayed gratification, the total focus of sensation on one small part of her body and then suddenly, so much of him in contact with so much of her. It was him being in control. It was her eyes closed and his listening for the way her breath changed, his senses searching for that faint scent which would betray her -- the scent that told him that while she tried to maintain her composure, the damp underwear which clung to her skin was already starting to soak through.

In that moment, pulled back against him, her stomach scratched, her throat squeezed, she let out a sound, a whimper, a sort of muted squeal from behind a closed mouth, and breathed hard through her nose.

He locked her in place like a seatbelt -- his left hand on her throat, the arm up and across her chest, his right hand on her waist with that arm flat across her, and squeezed a little tighter. She leaned her pelvis back into him again, somehow simultaneously edging towards panic and arousal - a confusing combination of wanting to break away, but also wanting to see what this feels like with a little more time, a little more pressure.

Her head began to fog a little, a dizzy buzz rising from her constricted throat. It wasn't a lack of air -- it felt like he was actually stopping the blood from getting up there. Her head began to feel heavy. She contracted her stomach, her hips tilted upwards, grinding her arse against his hardness. As she moved against him, she felt the muscles in his arms stiffen, holding her there, unable to move or protest, before suddenly and without warning, they released, his arms evaporating, his body moving away.

Again, he disappeared.

Again, she floated.

He watched as she leaned back, her body trying to follow him, to maintain contact, but the length of her arms fully extended with her hands braced to the wood meant he could easily keep himself just out of reach.

This was the game. It was like being held underwater and then suddenly brought up, just long enough to roar breath in before your face goes under again. It was sensation, gentle, then sudden and intense - and then nothing. It was leaving her standing, arms outstretched, breathing deep, her knickers wet, a dull throb emanating from just below her belt line, feeding out into her entire lower abdomen. A warm, vague sensation she wanted to reach down and press on -- that she wanted him to reach down and press on -- to move over -- to appease.