The margin

The manuscript was a stack of plain pages and I had been mean to it for four hours. Camel sweater, glasses on, lamp pulled low so the rest of the apartment dropped out. Dean came in with tea, saw my face, and did not ask how the book was. He asked how I was. I took the glasses off, put them on the pages, and said I was sick of being the one who decides what is good.

Then he stood behind my chair and said, look at me. I did. He said he was going to tell me true things, and that I was not allowed to correct them. If I wanted his hand over my eyes I could ask. I asked. His palm settled, warm, loose enough that I could turn my head and dislodge it. I could still speak. I told him so, and he said good, then keep talking if you need to, but you are going to let the praise land.

He said he liked my mind when it was tired, because it got honest. He said my mouth was beautiful when I stopped pressing it flat. His other hand moved under the sweater, over my stomach, and waited. I said yes. He cupped my breast and told me I was good for letting him, said it like a fact he had checked. I made a small sound and he praised that too, which would have embarrassed me with my eyes open. In the dark of his hand my cunt went hot.

I pushed my trousers down myself. He kept my eyes covered and fucked two fingers into my cunt, slow, narrating what he felt as if I deserved to hear it. Soft, he said. Eager. Your cunt is ready, and you are doing so well, staying with me. He worked my clit and eased off and told me I did not have to earn the ending. When I came it was against his hand, my cunt tight on his fingers, my own grip white on the chair, his voice in my ear saying there you are, that is it, I have you. He did not move his palm until I asked for the light back. My tea had gone cold. I did not care. That fuck was the whole night, and I did not edit a word of it.