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the mineral oil. The lover I’ve coaxed and molded these past few months, the one always so eager for my guidance… A novice no more. The master tonight.

Chapter Three
     
    As Caroly sets the oil on the floor beside the bed, I hear her mutter the faintest, “Okay,” to herself, a breath’s pep talk.
    A cool hand holds my hip then slippery fingertips glide between my cheeks. A shiver runs through me, chased by a fever.
    At once I wish my hands were free. I wish I could brace myself higher, against the footboard, turn my head to watch. Instead I drop my forehead between my fists and submit to the powerlessness.
    I moan each time she brushes my entrance, letting her know I want this. And that it’s okay if she wants it too, this act that used to furrow her brow with confusion…though she asked about it often, wanting to understand why other women would request it of me.
    She preps me well, with more oil and the slow, thrilling ventures of a single fingertip. Circling to start, then inside, just a millimeter. Deeper, deeper, by the tiniest measures. My entire body is on edge, that exotic mix of excitement and shame I know well, dark and rich as caviar. I ache to know what she feels—if she’s nervous or turned-on, scandalized or fascinated. All I get are her heavy breaths behind me.
    Then her finger is gone, and both hands. The dildo disappears from beside my elbow, and my arousal spikes in perfect counterbalance to my nerves.
    As the tip glances me, a desperate, helpless sound falls from my lips. Caroly draws it over my entrance in short sweeps and the pleasure sharpens. It’s by no means my first time in this position, not my first time with my hands bound, even. But it’s been a long while, six months or more since I had a client request this. It’s never a natural sensation, not for either sex, but that’s what makes it exciting. That and the sinfulness of the inversion, of a man letting a woman penetrate the most intimate depths of his body.
    The glass leaves me only to return in seconds, slippery with a fresh drizzle of oil. She doesn’t push yet, only strokes between my cheeks, the contact explicit and scary and forbidden.
    There’s hesitance as she whispers, “You can give me instructions. If I do anything that doesn’t feel right.”
    “Get me wet.” Such a female request—the words send a chill through me. “Get me ready, just as you are.” With that said, I suddenly don’t want my precious control. If we’re doing this, I want to submerge myself utterly. “Do as you want. I’ll say if it’s too much.” Though too much may feel perfect.
    Pressure suddenly. My lids squeeze shut. I force myself to keep breathing, calm my body and invite this experience. I wish she could feel this moment as I can, when I sink inside her sex. All that slippery, tight heat wrapping itself around my flesh, sensations wasted on a rigid length of unfeeling glass.
    “Oh.” The first surrender, that sudden, strangely gentle breaching.
    She’s good—doesn’t press farther, just moves the dildo with subtle twists as my muscles adjust. I gasp again when the pressure suddenly leaves and when the glass returns, slick again with oil, I welcome it easily. The room feels so quiet though. My thoughts so loud.
    “I want to hear what you’re thinking,” I tell her. Neither an order nor a plea, merely a request. She grants it.
    “I’m just admiring your body.” She runs her free palm down my back. “All these little muscles that tense.”
    Lovers’ Braille, I think. She reads my body as I so often do hers. The notion flees as the pressure returns. I clamp like a fist but only for a breath, willing my body to calm. To peel open the violation and find the pleasure wrapped inside. She holds back until I’ve relaxed then puts her palm to my hip, and pushes.
    I shudder, tiny hairs rising along my arms and back. The anxiety has finally fermented to excitement and I shift my hips, wanting more.
    “Does it feel good?” she