Craving Flight

by Tamsen Parker

  His scolding makes me shamefully hot for him. Whenever Brooks deigned to do this, I always felt like he was pretending. Like it was a foolish game he didn’t really want to play. With Elan, it feels real and the authenticity fans the flames of my desire. It’s better than I’d imagined.

  He toys with me for a while, leisurely in his actions like he has all the time in the world to make me squirm underneath him. And I suppose he does. Where else am I going to go?

  He switches to the other breast and continues to torture and tease me until I’m tossing my head on the pillow. I only realize I’m sweating when he stops his torment and wipes away some strands of hair that have become matted to my face.

  “Aren’t you a fun little plaything?” His gently mocking words make me even hotter for him and doubly so when he demands, “Answer me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  My breath has gone short and if he didn’t have my hands pinned above my head I’d pinch myself. Is he—

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I think a stronger word is called for. Out there, we live as man and wife, as equals. In here, though…this is a different matter. We’ll have our own little contract that says you’ve signed yourself over to me and my wishes. You’re going to call me master.”

  The bird inside me that usually flutters around, beating at my ribs and crowding my heart, sometimes hiding behind my lungs like a shy partridge—suddenly spreads its wings and the tips of the feathers catch on fire. And when I whisper, “Yes, master,” it bursts fully into flame, rising out of my chest like a phoenix.

  “There you go,” he says, stroking my hair. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

  “No, master.”

  The academic in me wants to slow down, take a step back, examine this from every angle. But the submissive part of me rejoiced in saying the word and I want to do it again and again. There will be plenty of time to think later.

  “Good girl. You’re a quick learner, are you?” I flush, because only sometimes, as he well knows. But in this, I desperately want to please and it comes so much easier to me. Particularly with his guidance.

  “Yes, master.”

  “Yes. That’s how you should answer me whenever I ask a question. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, master.”

  He nods his satisfaction and then releases me, making me miss his touch immediately. Crouching naked by the bed, he delves underneath. The sound of something dragging across the hardwood floor reaches my ears. When he comes to his feet, it’s with several hanks of rope and I’m surprised by the muted, deep purple. It’s beautiful. And not something you have just for the hell of it.

  I’d also be willing to wager those aren’t the only ones he has. My mind starts to dream up a rainbow of rope kept just out of my sight, but I’m called back by the soft fall of the carefully tied bundles on the bed beside me. He takes one up and unravels it, the long strands falling to the ground. I’ve seen pictures of the results of this kind of play, but never the process in person. I’m fascinated.

  With the same skill and concentration I’ve long admired him for in his shop, he handles the rope, and moves to the foot of the bed where he grasps my ankle. “Injuries? Anything else I should know?”

  “No injuries. I just…I need to be able to breathe.”

  He sets to work without acknowledging my answer, wrapping and tying the line around my ankle, making a thick cuff out of strand upon strand, the cord winding higher and higher until it’s just below the curve of my calf muscle. Then he uses the ends to attach me to the bedframe and proceeds almost without pause to the other side, creating a mirror image and leaving my legs bent. It’s quickly made apparent why as he fashions more wide cuffs just above my knees and, tugs just roughly enough to make me gasp, spreads my legs wider before tying off under the mattress.

  He bends over me with yet another hank of rope and sets to work on my wrists. The bonds are tight but not uncomfortable and I feel…held. Even when he’s not touching me.

  “You look very pretty in rope, little bird. In the future I’ll take more time with you, but for now…” His eyes rake down my spread out and bound body. I’ve always thought of him as a bear, but perhaps wolf is more apt. “For now I want to be inside you. Inside my wife.”

  He climbs deftly onto the bed, settling between my thighs on his knees. He’s so erect it looks almost painful. During one of our awkward courtship conversations, we’d had a perfunctory discussion of contraception. Yes, we both wanted children, probably sooner rather than later because I’m thirty-seven. No, neither of us had diseases. In that at least I’d been lucky. Brooks may have strayed from our marriage bed, but at least he didn’t bring anything back.

  It’s the first time I’ve had sex with the intent of procreation. Or at least, without effort to prevent pregnancy. It feels more intimate somehow, knowing we could make a life, even though we’re essentially strangers.

  He grips my thighs, fingers digging into me in a way that’s likely to leave bruises. If the rope and the tone weren’t enough to make me feel conquered, this touch would do it. I strain against the ropes, trying to make myself more vulnerable to him, as if he needs the help.

  Soon, he’s leaning over me, propping himself up on a hand by my shoulder and finally, finally, he puts a hand between my legs, parting me gently and making an aggressively appreciative noise. “This is what you wanted. This is what you need. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, master.”

  With my acquiescence, he pushes a finger inside, making it two when there’s no resistance. The rhythmic thrusts feel incredible and make me want more of him, all of him. Make me crave the heavy thickness resting hot on my thigh.

  He doesn’t fuck me for long this way and I’m glad. Instead he drags his fingers from my body and plants his hand on the bed, containing me. Then he’s easing into me, the stretch making me aware of exactly how full I’ll be when he’s completely seated. Breached. Conquered. Possessed. That’s exactly how it feels when he’s in me to the hilt. And it gets better when he starts to move.

  Moving slowly, he rocks his hips that are spreading my thighs even wider than the rope. When he seems confident he’s not going to hurt me, not really, he thrusts harder and the force is delicious.

  I tilt my hips up to meet him, take him deeper inside. He takes it as an invitation and the thrusting changes to outright pounding. It doesn’t take long for me to be close and I realize he hasn’t told me… Am I supposed to ask? But perhaps he can tell, by some quickening of my breath, some change in the pitch of my encouraging moans, I’m nearly there.

  “Fly for me, little bird.”

  His low command trips something inside of me and I plummet down, my body seizing before rising up into an incredible climax. Fly for me, he said. And I am. The flight made more rewarding by his desire for it, his permission. I cry out, saying his name, as I pull at my bonds. He lets me ride out my orgasm, rocking up against him in an uneven rhythm to catch the last of it, scrambling for the aftershocks as if I’ll never come again.

  When I’m limp and replete beneath him, he kisses me: my cheekbone, just above my eyebrow, my lips. I kiss him back, a languid press of my lips, a dreamy sweep of my tongue. But a stirring inside me reminds me I’m the only one who’s satisfied.

  “Do you have anything to say to me?”

  “Thank you, master?”

  “Quick study indeed.”

  His praise—or perhaps it’s my orgasm—makes me glow and I smile at him.

  “Is there anything else you want from me?”

  “I want you to come. I want you to use me, finish inside of me. Let me know I please you.”

  “You do, Tzipporah, you do.” With that confirmation, he’s moving again, fucking me harder and faster than before. I wouldn’t be able to get off from this, but I sure do enjoy it. Especially knowing that he’s taking what he wants from me, not caring for my pleasure because I’ve been sated. With a last hard thrust that makes me yelp be
cause he’s reached someplace so deep inside, he comes, his groan of satisfaction drowning out my desultory protest. The sharp pain is already fading into an ache and the next presses of him inside of me are less forceful.

  If I weren’t tied down, I’d take his head in my hands, thread my fingers through his hair. As it is, I press my face to the side of his neck and listen to his slowing breath. At last he pushes up on his elbows and reaches over my head. The rope around my hands loosens and then unfurls. Still inside me, he rubs one wrist and then the other. When he rolls off, he offers me a cloth and I press it between my restrained legs. He uses a second to clean off and then stretches alongside me.

  I rest my hands on my stomach and notice the rope has pressed into my skin, imprinting a pattern in red.

  “It will fade by tomorrow.” He sounds apologetic and he should do anything but apologize.

  “I wasn’t concerned. I was…admiring them.”

  “You should.” He reaches over and traces line upon line, evidence of his possession. “You mark nicely.”

  Oh. On the extremely rare occasions I’d gotten Brooks to play hard enough to leave bruises and welts, I’d look at them whenever I’d get the chance. I didn’t tell him because I didn’t think he’d understand. He walked in on me once while I was getting ready for a shower. I’d been holding out a large hand mirror at arm’s length, reflecting my reflection so I could marvel at the evidence of our play he’d left on my back. I’d never seen him look so confused or disgusted. That might have been when he realized we were irrevocably different.

  The caress of Elan’s fingers against the impressed design on my wrists is gentle. Tender even. We lie there in silence until he speaks.

  “Was all of that okay? You didn’t tell me to stop. You know you can always tell me to stop and I will.”

  He hadn’t said it before, but I hadn’t been worried. It was stupid of me but I’d been so thrilled I hadn’t stopped to insist and I did trust him to stop if I asked him to. Completely reckless. I’m glad he’s correcting the mistake by talking about it, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

  “I…I liked everything.”

  “Good. Is there anything you absolutely don’t want me to do?”

  I give an awkward shrug. “I’ll try anything once. As long as you promise to be careful. And I don’t want any permanent marks.”

  “That’s reasonable. But if there’s ever something you didn’t like… Well, I won’t promise not to do it again, but it’s good information to have.”

  I murmur my thanks and assure him again, “So far, so good. But, my legs…”

  It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s been a while that I’ve been immobilized and I’d like to move. He glances down and then turns back to me. “Are they numb?”

  “No, master.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to tracing the marks on my wrists. I should be indignant, but somehow his oblique refusal lets me relax. I don’t have to choose even in this. After a while, he pets my hair and I soften further. So much so that I drift off, tied to my marital bed.

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  If I had thought better of it, I wouldn’t have had an October wedding. Although a month-long engagement was already raising a few eyebrows and shorter would’ve raised more and higher because that’s short even by frum standards, the confusion at the university may be worse. When I tell my Wednesday morning students they should call me Professor Klein, they look at me blankly. Particularly since I saw them on Monday, when I was Professor Berger.

  One backwards-ball-capped boy who sits in the back of the lecture hall who I think spends far more time checking Mets standings on his cell than paying attention to my class raises his hand.

  “Yes, Scott?”

  I make a point of memorizing my students’ names early in the semester. I’ve found it makes them care more to know that I realize when Scott or Lauren hasn’t handed in their homework than ID number 6009921. I hope it also makes it easier for them to come talk to me if they’re struggling since they already know I think of them as people.

  He looks surprised, though, as they so often do, because most of my colleagues don’t bother. “Why?”

  My face gets warm but I hope it doesn’t translate to a blush because I’m not embarrassed. I just don’t want to spend half the class answering questions about Orthodox wedding conventions. That class isn’t until November.

  I hold up my left hand, thankful for the thick band on my finger. Something everyone understands. “I got married on Tuesday. And as a wedding present from you all, I’d like to move on with class. We’ve got a lot of material to cover this semester and I can guarantee my personal life isn’t going to be on your final exam.”

  A few congratulations and a smattering of applause sound in the small auditorium and I wave and say thank you but flip open to my notes and start in on my introduction to religious texts. “How many of you have ever read the Bible?”

  *

  Wednesdays I come home from work on the earlier side, around four. After the divorce but before I married Elan, I would stay in my office or at the library until late. It was better to be where there was at least the opportunity for human interaction than to go home to my empty apartment.

  Over time, a couple of those late nights turned into Torah study at the shul and a weekly game of mahjong at Bina’s house. It’s one of the things I like best about this life I’ve chosen: when they say community, they mean it. For better or for ill, of course—what with the politics and petty grievances—but I’ve found it mostly for the better. You never have to be alone.

  I let myself into the apartment I think of as Elan’s and put my things away. Maybe someday I’ll feel as if this place is ours, but it’s only been a single day. I spend some time unpacking boxes in the unused bedroom I’ve taken for my office before it’s time to make dinner.

  On the meat shelf in the refrigerator, there’s a neatly wrapped package he must have brought home during his lunch break or perhaps on his way to afternoon prayer services. It has a note on it, “For Dinner” spelled out in his methodical, blocky print. When I was trying to keep kosher as a single person, I’d mostly kept a vegetarian diet. It feels positively indulgent to have meat for dinner more than one night a week, never mind two nights in a row. I suppose that’s one of the benefits of being the butcher’s wife.

  There’s enough chicken in the package to feed half a dozen people. I’m about to wrap half of it back up to put in the freezer but I realize I’m doing my meal calculus based off how much I eat. One serving for me and five for Elan is probably about right.

  I turn on some music and set to work, pounding and breading the chicken, setting some mushrooms to sauté on the stove, boiling water for the noodles. Food has been one of the hardest things for me to acclimate to. Not just keeping strict kosher, although I’m still kind of a disaster at that—the number of times I’ve had to ask Rabbi Horowitz’s opinion on how to kasher a specific kitchen implement is downright embarrassing. I bet he and Bina keep one of those little wipeboards usually found on industrial sites: It Has Been X Days Since Tzipporah’s Screwed Up Keeping Kosher. There are also the cravings for foods I used to have. Bacon cheeseburgers. Lobster rolls. Veal Parmesan.

  Chicken piccata is one of the things I’ve been able to modify. Though I miss the buttery sauce I used to prepare, the recipe I make now with wine and broth is a decent substitute and it’s worth eating the kosher version. The same cannot be said for kosher pizza. That might be the saddest food in the universe.

  My timing is perfect. Elan arrives just as I’m taking the asparagus from the oven.

  “Smells good.” How is it that he makes a compliment sound like an allegation?

  I tame my grimace into a mere purse of my lips. “No butter. I promise.”

  He grunts and I roll my eyes. Not that it’s completely unreasonable of him to be suspicious, but I wish he’d trust me more than that. Although I suppose when one of his first ex
periences with me was me having a complete and utter meltdown because I messed up my brisket and I had to admit during our courtship that it’s something I continue to bungle regularly, it’s not surprising that’s his default. Hopefully over time, dutifully prepared meals, or at least realizing I’ll always tell him if I’ve made a mistake, will sand the sharp edges of his low expectations away, because I can’t live under this kind of scrutiny forever.

  “What is this…music?”

  Right. Given how conservative his family is, Elan probably listened to mostly, if not exclusively, Jewish music growing up. Does he still? If so, I don’t think Regina Spektor counts.

  “It’s the clean version,” I mutter after telling him the artist and the album, self-consciousness drawing my shoulder blades tight together. I’ve never been much for movies and TV so giving those up hasn’t been a problem, but there’s no way I’m letting go of my enormous iTunes library. Although if he adheres to the prohibition against men listening to women sing, I should be respectful of that. “But I could change it if you want. To a man.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, his brows drawing together as if he’s trying to acclimate himself to the idea that he’s going to be listening to pop music for the rest of his life. If he is, it doesn’t take long. The muscles in his forehead release and there’s a small shrug. Good, because I think Pink is up next in my library.

  After we’ve sat down to eat and said the blessing, he pokes at the chicken as if I might have poisoned it.

  “It’s kosher, I swear. No butter, no cream, no cheese. I didn’t even touch the dairy shelf. I used the meat utensils and dishes for everything. I checked all the labels. There was no blood in the eggs.” Tears start to sting behind my eyes as I recite my list. To think I used to enjoy cooking. I’m sure when, or at this point if, I’m more proficient, I’ll enjoy it again. But for now, it reduces me to a bundle of nerves and he’s not helping matters any. I’m going to develop a phobia.