Chapter 2: The Master
The door clicked shut, and the world outside vanished. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the rapid drum of my own heart. Ben stood before me, the golden light from the window haloing his form, his swim trunks still dripping a small, dark patch onto the cream-colored carpet.
He didn’t rush. He closed the distance slowly, giving me every chance to speak, to stop this. His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs smoothing over my cheekbones. He kissed me again, deeper this time, a possessive exploration that made my knees weak. The taste of him, of the pool and possibility, was overwhelming.
My hands went to the waistband of his trunks, fingers fumbling with the knot. He helped me, and they fell with a wet sound to the floor. I didn’t look down, not yet. I kept my eyes on his as I sank to my knees on the plush carpet. The pose felt ancient, subservient, but a surge of defiant control electrified me. I was choosing this. I was here.
Then I looked.
He was thick, and fully hard, curving up toward his stomach. A light dusting of hair led from his navel down. My mouth went dry. This was real. This was happening.
“Cynthia,” he breathed, a statement and a question.
I didn’t answer with words. I leaned forward, closing my eyes for a second, inhaling the clean, salty scent of him. My first touch was with my lips, a soft press against the head. He shuddered. I opened my mouth, taking him in slowly, my tongue flat against the underside.
It was an awkward fit. I had to relax my jaw, force down the instinct to pull away. I moved deeper, the solid weight of him pressing against the back of my throat. My eyes watered instantly. I heard a low groan from above me, felt his hand come to rest gently on the back of my head, not pushing, just present.
I set a rhythm, shallow at first, learning the shape of him. Saliva gathered and spilled from the corners of my lips. The sounds were obscene, wet and gulping in the quiet room. I gagged, a sudden, violent contraction of my throat, and jerked back, a string of spit connecting my lips to his glistening skin.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice strained.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, catching my breath. The tears from gagging blurred my vision, warm tracks down my cheeks. I didn’t stop. I went back down, taking him deeper this time, forcing my throat to open. The sensation was a dizzying cocktail of violation and power. I was doing this. I was good at this. The thought was a bright, shocking star in the dark sky of my shame.
My nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. I held there, breathing hard through my nose, tears streaming freely now, mixing with the sweat on my face. I looked up. His head was thrown back, muscles in his neck corded tight, his own eyes squeezed shut. The sight fueled me. I pulled back, gasping for air, and went down again, faster, deeper.
“God, yes,” he hissed. His fingers threaded through my hair, tightening slightly, guiding my pace. I let him. I surrendered to the rhythm he set, a punishing, beautiful tempo that erased thought. The world narrowed to this: the stretch of my jaw, the salt on my tongue, the pressure in my throat, the choked sounds he made, the feeling of being utterly, disgustingly used for a pleasure I was orchestrating.
My mascara ran. I could feel it, a gritty, hot smear under my eyes. I was a mess. A glorious, ruined mess. I felt a sob build in my chest, not from pain, but from the sheer, untenable contradiction of it all. This was me. The girl who prayed five times a day, knees pressed to a clean sajadah. This was also me.
His breathing grew ragged, sharp. His hips gave a shallow, involuntary thrust. I gagged again, violently, but didn’t pull away.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice a raw scrape. “Cynthia, I’m gonna…”
I redoubled my efforts, my hand working the base of him where my mouth couldn’t reach. The tears were continuous now, silent rivers carving through the mess on my face. A hollow, desperate need opened up inside me. I wanted it. I needed the proof, the final, irrevocable mark.
“Please,” I heard myself beg, the word mangled around him, dripping with spit and desire and self-loathing. “Please, Ben. Give it to me.”
It was the permission he needed. His whole body stiffened. A guttural sound tore from his throat, part pleasure, part agony. The first pulse hit the back of my throat, hot and bitter. I swallowed convulsively, struggling to keep up, to take it all. More followed, and I drank him down, each swallow a covenant signed in sin.
When it was over, I collapsed forward, my forehead resting against his thigh, coughing, drawing in ragged, shuddering breaths. My face was soaked—tears, spit, him. I was trembling all over.
He slowly, gently, withdrew from my mouth. His hands, now tender, cupped my face, tilting it up. I blinked up at him, vision bleary. He looked down at me, his expression a complex mix of sated awe and something like concern.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his thumb smearing the black streaks on my cheek. “Look at you.”
I didn’t know what that meant. Was it revulsion? Admiration? I was too empty, too full, to decipher it.
He helped me to my feet. My legs were unsteady. He led me silently to the vast, marble bathroom, flicking on the blindingly bright lights. I flinched at the sight in the mirror. My hair was a wild tangle. My eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, the kohl smudged into grotesque shadows. My lips were puffy, bruised-looking. I looked like a woman who had been thoroughly debauched.
Wordlessly, he wet a face cloth with warm water. He turned me from the mirror and began to clean my face with a shocking gentleness. He wiped the tears, the smeared makeup, the residue from my chin. He didn’t speak. The only sound was the drip of the tap and my slowly steadying breath.
When he was done, he just looked at me, his gaze searching. He leaned in and kissed my forehead, a chaste, quiet gesture that somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
“Come on,” he said softly, taking my hand. “Let’s just lie down.”
He led me back to the bedroom, to the impossibly wide bed with its silk sheets. He pulled back the covers and I slid in, the fabric cool against my skin. He climbed in beside me, on his back, and drew me to him, my head on his chest. I listened to the strong, slow beat of his heart under my ear.
The city glittered beyond the window, a million pinpricks of light in the deepening blue. The call to Maghrib prayer would be sounding soon across the neighborhoods far below, a melodic whisper I could not hear from this height. I was suspended between worlds, lying in the arms of a man whose name I’d known for three days, my body humming with the memory of his, my soul feeling fractured and, for the moment, strangely quiet.
He stroked my hair. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.
I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes, breathing him in, and wondered which Cynthia would have to get up from this bed and go home.