The Missing

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I lie in bed. Replaying things we’ve done in my head. What he wore. What he said. Him.

I have this metal bar. It has holes for ankles at each end and holes for wrists nearer the middle. The whole thing opens right up on a hinge and fixes closed with a nut and bolt. It’s heavy and brutish and clumsy. It’s the sexiest thing I own.

I use it to fix Jack’s ankles. I use rigid handcuffs to hold his wrist in front of his body. I put a collar round his neck. I use rope to string all this together so he’s held tight and still: his ankles to his wrists to the D ring at his neck.

When I take his gag off, he gasps and chokes a moment. He doesn’t notice what I’m doing. And then he does. He turns his head and sees I am holding a bar of soap on my hand. And his face, in his face, I see every part of how much he doesn’t want to have to hold that soap in his mouth. I see his reaction and I know how he feels.

He wails as it goes in. Like he wants to be anywhere but here. And I’m wet. Then – when I did it. Last night – when I masturbated over it. Now – as I write this.

I move close enough to whisper in his ear. ‘I love you.’

Sometimes I like him to say he loves me. I make him look me in the eye and say it when I hurt him. I also tell him to say ‘I like this‘ and ‘I love this‘. And I ask him to say it again and again. In time with the belt or as the weights go on the clamps.

- I love this. I love this.
- I. Love. This.

And his voice falters and cracks. He can’t help sneering. He slows his words and puts heavy emphasis on each one so I can hear what he really feels running like a baseline underneath it.

- I hate this.

But there are more layers than that because when I ask him why. *Why* he likes it. *Why* he loves it.

- Because it’s degrading. Dehumanising.’
- And you like that?
- Yes. I like it. I like to be degraded.

And every word of that is true.

And in bed, in the dark, I remember that and my fingers slip-slide on how wet I am. And I come and come. And I say his name. And I hear his voice. ‘I like to be degraded.’

It’s his face I miss the most.

It’s the looks on his face.

I told Jack this once. It’s the look on his face when he’s in pain. When he’s dealing with pain. It’s the look on his face when he’s being brave. When he’s trying to find a place to put the pain so he can take a little more for me.

That’s when I love him most.

That’s what I miss. The way his nostrils flare when he does than hard inhale because it hurts. It hurts.

When I told him, back before he left, how much I saw in his face, he said, ‘God, at last my over reactions serve some purpose.’

I love you. I miss you so much. (And not just your cock I swear.)

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