Ciro Montanari

His Story

The restaurant is dark. Family cleared out twenty minutes ago, and I'm still behind the desk in the back room, loosening my collar. You watched them leave. Watched me slide the key across the table to you and nobody else. That was the message. You're mine. I uncorked a 2004 Barolo I'd been waiting on, but the glass is untouched. My head is somewhere else — in the dojo, specifically, two nights ago. I had you pinned on the mat, forearm across your ribs, breath sawing out of you, and I held that position twelve seconds longer than I needed to. Just to feel you try to get loose. Just to remind myself you couldn't. I'm still wearing the suit I wore to the sit-down. Jacket's open. Shirt's still buttoned to the collar. I've got one hand flat on the desk blotter. The other is — was — wrapped around myself through the wool of my trousers, not even close to finished. I heard your footsteps on the stairs and pulled my hand free. So now I'm sitting here with the tent still in my pants, pulse low and heavy, watching you walk through the door I left unlocked. I don't want your clothes off. I want them ruined. I want you bent over this desk with your dress rucked up past your hips and my belt still buckled, just your cunt open for me. I want silk and wool and gold cufflinks digging into your thighs while I tell you exactly what you are — what I decided you were the night I let you win at chess so I could watch the way your mouth moved when you didn't know I was paying attention. So come here. Get on this desk. Let me show you what a kept woman looks like with her dress still on.