Craving Flight

by Tamsen Parker

  A large metal ring, several bundles of rope of different colors and thicknesses, a hairbrush, three canes, and a pile of clamps of various sizes. Oh, my.

  And oh, that wily man. I don’t believe for a minute that he “forgot” his wallet in his pocket. He meant for me to see these things. He meant to make me ruminate on them, think about what he’s going to do with them. Maybe to distract me from the quality—or lack thereof—of the curry?

  Two can play at this game, Elan. You think you have a flighty, scatterbrained wife? I can do that.

  I stroll back, casual as can be, to where he’s scooping out some curry onto beds of rice. It really does smell delicious and it looks like curry too. He hands me a plate and raises an eyebrow.

  “Hungry?”

  Is my husband flirting with me? I can play that game too.

  “Very.” The exaggerated syllables draw his attention and Elan’s eyes are riveted to my lips.

  “See anything you like?”

  I want to wipe the cocky look right off his handsome face. Instead, I narrow my eyes and tip my head. “Everything looks very…enticing.”

  He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curling up into an almost piratical smile. I suddenly want to be pillaged. Quite badly. But first things first.

  We sit down at the table, say our prayers and start to eat. The curry—beef with onions, peppers, broccoli and cashews—is delicious and I don’t think it’s just because I’m famished from my long day.

  “Thank you for making dinner, Elan. It’s very good. And curry.” I smile so he knows I appreciate it, how he remembered and went out of his way.

  He spears a piece of meat on his fork. “Yes, well, I had to make something.”

  A few of the bubbles in my champagne euphoria pop. Could he not just do something nice for me and admit he was being nice? He tends to be considerate of me but there’s a distinct lack of affection. I try to tell myself fondness is something that grows over time and we’ve only planted the seeds. It’s ridiculous to expect that some great riot of warmth would’ve sprung from the earth overnight.

  We make very small talk over the rest of our meal. Not that he’s usually some chatty Cathy, but he’s particularly reticent this evening, even my most carefully crafted questions barely eliciting one-word responses. In part because we’re both devouring our food, but also because we’re eager to get on to the evening’s other activities.

  A metal ring, rope, a hairbrush, canes, and clamps. It’s enough to make me shift in my seat just thinking about it.

  After we’ve hastily cleared and cleaned up the kitchen, he gestures down the hall with his arm. “After you.”

  It’s possible I let my hips sway more than usual as I walk the short distance, wondering if he notices the extra swish in the skirts around my calves. Or perhaps he’s focused on my hips themselves, the subtle sensuousness of their easy roll. Follow me.

  He shuts the door behind us and steers me with a harsh grip above my elbow to stand in front of the bed, littered with the objects that swirled around my head all through dinner. Have they been occupying his mind as well?

  His breath is hot in my ear as he bends down behind me. “Are you wet already, little bird?”

  If I hadn’t been before, his words would be enough to make me so. The low, insinuating softness of them masks something lusciously ominous and it strikes a chord inside of me.

  “Yes, master.”

  “I could see your mind wandering while we ate. Did you figure it out? All the terrible things I’m going to do to you?”

  I swallow hard because yes, I’ve conjured a hundred scenarios in the past hour or so but I know whatever he’s dreamed up for me is going to be better than my imagination. He’s quite creative and I wonder how he has all this time to think of me. His days are filled with prayer and work. Yet somehow he’s planned this experience for us, and I’m grateful. “I have some ideas, master.”

  “I’m sure you do. Your mind is rarely quiet, is it Tzipporah?”

  I shake my head, his beard rasping against the soft skin behind my ear and then his hand is at my throat, trapping me against him. “Answer me.”

  “No, master.”

  That’s one of the things I like best about these times of ours together: how he’s able to mute the thoughts that nag at me day and night. When we’re with each other this way, all ideas are gone as if he’s chased them away. If anyone could, it’s Elan when he’s being fierce as he is in here.

  “I’m going to silence all that noise. The only thing you’re going to be thinking of is me. Your only concern is pleasing me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Keep your eyes on the bed,” he instructs, and I don’t dare disobey. Then he strips me, removing layer upon layer until my tichels are the only things left. He unwinds them, disentangling the fine silk that’s been wrapped intricately around my hair. When it’s set free, he finger-combs it from root to tips, separating the strands and lifting some of them over my shoulders to drape over my breasts, the dark auburn curls drifting over my pale skin.

  “So pretty,” he says. “My beautiful wife.”

  His simple words make me feel beautiful. Desired.

  “Bend over.”

  Yes.

  I step forward and lean down until I can place my palms on the edge of the bed. The posture sends feelings of lust and vulnerability through me, and that’s before his hand connects with my behind.

  The impact forces a small noise from me. Not so much pain as of surprise, but yes, there’s a sensual sting as well. Why I find the bite of pain so intensely erotic, I couldn’t say. But I do. I so do. He continues to spank me as my eyes drift between the implements on the bed, fanning the coals of my smoldering desire for him into low flames that match the heated ache on my behind.

  That’s when he picks up the hairbrush.

  The first impact makes me gasp, the broad head making contact with already sensitized flesh. He works me up steadily, hitting harder and harder until my cheeks are on fire and tears are pooling in my eyes. But I haven’t stood up, haven’t tried to cover myself. I’ve breathed through the pain and relished it, given myself over to him.

  The blows stop and he leans over me, threading the fingers of one of his hands through mine.

  “Good. My good girl.”

  He takes my wrists in his hands, gathering them behind my back and urges me to upright. When he’s made sure I’m able to stand on my own, he guides me to the foot of the bed and reaches for a pillow that he drops on the floor.

  “On your knees.”

  I kneel up, not sitting back on my heels, and tense for another hiding. Instead, he brushes my hair. Not like a man who doesn’t understand these things, but starting at the bottom with small strokes and working out the tangles until he can drag the bristles from scalp to the ends without snagging on anything. So thoughtful, my Elan.

  When my hair’s been tamed to his satisfaction, he leaves me on my knees and reaches for a large hank of rope. I watch as he stands on the bed to unscrew what I thought was a cap on an unused light fixture and threads the rope through some kind of attachment point in the ceiling, leaving the thick cord dangling to the ground.

  Then he takes up the large ring and affixes it to the ropes perhaps a foot above my head. He slides me, along with the pillow, to just under the contraption he’s rigged and when I’m in place, unfurls one of the smaller bundles of rope and gathers my hair at the crown of my head.

  It feels as though he threads the whole mass of it through the ring and then there’s a tug and a fall of hair down my back, as if he’s using the ring as a pulley. Keeping tension in my scalp, he winds the narrower rope around the folded hair. He doesn’t stop there though. There’s more gentle tugging and then my hair’s off my back again. More winding of rope and the sensation of a decisive tie off.

  I can barely look up at him when he stands in front of me, my hair anchored as it is, but I can just see his face. He’s completely absor
bed by his task. With more rope, he winds quick, thick cuffs around my wrists and attaches them to the ring above my head, fashions a shelf of several layers of rope beneath my breasts—the better to display them—and uses more to attach canes to my knees and ankles, holding them apart.

  The bondage has me completely helpless and exposed, rendering my insides into a quivering mass of desire. I have to refrain from rocking my hips and the tension in my scalp is a good reminder. Don’t move.

  Now that I’m staked out like a butterfly pinned in a specimen box, he reaches between my legs and strokes my clit for a few beats before diving his fingers further back and almost, but not quite inside me.

  “You’re soaking wet, little bird. You like being bound and helpless for me? You like being spanked?”

  “Yes, master.”

  The confession makes my face heat and I want to look away, but the grip of his fingers hard on my jaw and the rope in my hair make it impossible.

  “We’re not done yet. You think I bound you up so pretty just to admire you? No. Oh, no.”

  He strokes between my legs some more, seeming to know just how I like to be touched, precisely how to drive me crazy. He pushes me to the breaking point where I’m panting and straining to come and then backs off. “Not so fast. I’ve been looking forward to this and I’m going to take my time with you.”

  Leaving me in my bonds, he walks over to the bed where the clamps and a single cane are waiting. Apparently it’s time to be hurt and my body warms and softens in anticipation. I crave this as much as I did before I could really have it. Who knew I could covet something more when it’s mine than when it was out of my grasp?

  He pockets some of the clamps and hefts the cane. Rattan. Not that it’s heavy, but with his force behind it, it will be deliciously severe.

  Standing before me, he surveys his prize, helpless and waiting for him, soaking wet and desperate. He’s studying me, fixing his plans, or perhaps just torturing me with the wait. Then he kneels in front of me, still dwarfing me with his bulk, and puts down the cane before pulling a clamp from his pocket. He cups one of my breasts, kneads it until a sound escapes me and then toys with my nipple: pinching, pulling, rolling until he’s satisfied. That’s when he applies the clamp, the pressure biting into me so hard I yelp.

  He cradles my face in his hand, thumb pressing into my cheek and forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re okay, Tzipporah. You can take it. Just breathe through it. You’re going to do this for me.”

  I can, and his stern but encouraging gaze makes me believe I will. Doing as he says, I breathe, following the rise and fall of his broad shoulders, pinning my lifebreath to his. Soon, the screeching pain is fading to a dull roar.

  “Good girl. See, I told you that you could do it. You have to trust me.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “I think you do. But it’s still scary sometimes? I’ll help you. I’m not going to make you do it alone.”

  His promise fortifies me when he pulls out another clamp and repeats the process on the other side. When they’re both on, I’m more aware of my breasts. They feel swollen, tight, like the most obvious part of me, and oh, does that ever turn me on.

  He strokes between my legs some more and it doesn’t take long before I’m on the edge. But instead of letting me come, he takes more clamps from his pockets and shows them to me. “You’re a smart girl, I bet you can guess where these are going.”

  I can and it scares me. He must see the alarm on my face because he pets me and soothes me, tells me I’m doing so well and he’s so pleased with me. And then there’s tightness and pressure on my labia, pinching. I suck air through my teeth as my eyes water but he talks me through it, encourages my breath, rubs the side of my ribcage.

  “There’s my sweet little bird. You’re fragile, but so strong.”

  So I bear it until like the other ones, the bite fades and turns more into a throb. We’ve got to be close to finished. How much more can he ask of me? But then I remember the last cane. That’s how much more.

  He picks it up, swishes it through the air a few times and my heart beats harder. Getting down on one knee to my side, he wraps an arm around me so that my upper arms are braced against it. He has enough play for a decent swing but he won’t be able to put his full force behind the blows, and I can steady myself against him so I don’t pull too hard on my hair.

  “Pick a number between one and twenty.”

  Oh, I hate this game. Forcing me to choose. He’s so very wicked. I won’t pick a low number because I don’t want to disappoint him but I can’t pick too high because I’m afraid. Before I can entirely psych myself out, I blurt, “Twelve.”

  “Mmm.” His noise of acknowledgement doesn’t give me much to work with, but I don’t have long to think about it because the first stripe is landing across my behind, a defined line of pain. And I know by now that he wants me to count for him, thank him.

  “One. Thank you, master.”

  And on it goes, line after line, hurt after hurt, tallying the strikes and expressing my gratitude. The strange thing is, I really am grateful. Thankful for him allowing me to be this way without disdain, for giving this to me freely and even joyfully. I thank Hashem, too, for sending me this man with whom I can share this. With whom I’m able to create these moments of wholeness and abandon in a life otherwise fraught with fear that I’ll never be good enough for anyone.

  I choke out eleven and he leans into me. Talks low in my ear. “Beg me for it, Tzipporah. Ask me to hurt you. Plead with me to hit you harder, make you suffer.”

  I’m so wet between my legs I can barely stand it, the pain ratcheting up my desire and making me crave him. The clamps have been jolted with every strike, reminding me anew of their presence and I’m practically out of my mind. So it’s no surprise I do as he asks and babble the words frantically.

  “Please, master. I need more. Hit me, bruise me. I want to feel this for days. Leave your marks on me. Make it hurt. I want to hurt for you. Please.”

  The cane falls across my flesh for the last time, this strike crossing the ones he’s already made. He’s hit me so hard I cry out without wanting to. There’s nothing to do but scream. And cry. The tears I’ve been choking back finally spill and I start to bawl, the sobs racking my body.

  It’s such a relief. It’s over, but I’ve done it. I’ve made him happy and in return, he’s set me free, given me permission to fall completely and utterly apart.

  He murmurs small, gruff words while he holds me, the sounds of the Yiddish soothing precisely because I can’t understand and for the moment I give up trying. I haven’t made much of an effort to learn because not so many people in my community speak it, not like in the Hasidic neighborhoods. In fact, it might be only the Kleins and a couple of the other more conservative families who use it and then not often. I’ve heard Elan speak it with his family, especially his brothers, but he doesn’t usually use it around me. I’m glad he’s chosen to now.

  After I’ve calmed, he starts to untie me. It takes a long time because he’s doing most of it single-handedly, keeping my slumped body against him so there’s not too much weight on my scalp or my shoulders. When I’m finally free, he picks me up and lays me on the bed.

  I find the lace edges of the bedspread easily though my eyes are closed. Curling my fingers around the side, I stroke weakly at them, needing to touch, needing to hold something solid.

  “Are you with me, Tzipporah? Can you tell me?”

  “Mmm.”

  “I need more than that.”

  Demanding man. I don’t think I can open my eyes and talk at the same time, so I choose speech. “Still here. Want more.”

  Of course he laughs at me. I don’t mind. He spreads my legs wide and then his fingers are inside me. I sigh because the penetration feels so good. It makes me want more. But instead of stripping and pressing inside of me, he releases the clamps and holy—

  “Sugar!”

  My modified curse makes him laugh again
. This time I open my eyes to see his face, the streak of white teeth surrounded by his beard, the way wrinkles form at the sides of his eyes. “That hurts, does it?”

  “You know it does.”

  My brain must be scrambled indeed, because that is not an appropriate response. Nor does he think so; I get a slap to the side of my breast for my insolence. “Try again.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Better.”

  And then he’s pulling the clamps from my nipples, licking and suckling away the pain from the rush of blood. It hurts, but it feels good and everything is starting to register as just feeling. I want him to make me feel more.

  “Elan, I want you inside me. Please.”

  He could slap me again, perhaps a pinch. It’s not my place to make demands. Instead, he stands, strips off his clothes and folds them. I watch him, the flex of his muscles as he performs this simple task and I suddenly want to see him at work so very badly. How ruthless and brutal would he seem hacking and tearing at huge pieces of meat? My great bear of a husband, who can be so gentle as he settles himself between my legs and leans over to ease inside of me.

  When he’s sure I can take him easily, the momentary gentleness is over and he ravages me, pounding inside, the motion slamming my abused behind into the bed. With every thrust it hurts anew, the fire set all over again as if he’s striking match after match and using my flesh as tinder.

  I clutch at his back, my fingers digging into him. I need so badly to hold onto something and he’s my only shelter in the storm. Soon I’m whimpering because I need yet another release. I believe he’ll fulfill his responsibility and give it to me, urging me with his words.

  “Yes, little bird. I want to see you fly.”

  I do, my whole body pure sensation as I come apart underneath him. My nails dig into him as he drives his way to his own release, my cries sending him higher until he goes rigid above me and I feel the pulse of his orgasm inside me.

  After our breathing returns to an approximation of normal, he rolls off me, nudging my shoulder so he can lie alongside me. He lifts an arm to look at the side of his ribcage and snorts.