Chalk

I sat on the gym bench the next afternoon with the chalk bag in my lap and the rope coiled neat beside my shoe, and I was useless as a coach for a full minute because my cunt still belonged to the night before. My wrists were bare. He had not left a mark that showed. What he had left was the memory of his hands refusing me until I used my words.

Last night, after the rope came off, I thought we were done. Rex washed his hands, made me drink water, and then asked if I wanted a second round with nothing on my wrists at all. We stayed on the couch. He put me on my back, one of my knees hooked over his shoulder, and told me the only thing that would touch my cunt was his hands. I nodded. I asked him not to let me finish fast. He said he had not planned to.

He started at my calves, thumbs in the muscle, the way he does when I have been on my feet all day. It was almost innocent until it was not. He moved up, skipped where I wanted him, pressed his palm flat over my cunt and held still while I tried to grind. When I chased, he took the hand away and used it on my stomach instead, drawing idle lines through the sweat. I laughed, then I begged. He liked the beg better when it was specific. His fingers. In my cunt. Slower. I said it. He gave me exactly that and no more speed than I had named.

He edged me until my heel dug into the cushion and my voice went rough. Three times he brought me up and three times he stopped, kissing my knee, checking my face, asking if I still wanted the game. I did. On the fourth rise he curled his fingers and kept them fucking my cunt because I had said stay, and I came so hard I knocked the chalk off the coffee table. He fucked me through it with his hand and then gathered me in, wrists free, fingers still wet from my cunt. The rope stayed coiled. I did not need it to remember whose hands I had asked for.