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knees dropping to the carpet, his lips part. A devilish amount of power surges through me as I undo his jeans and drag them down. He inhales sharply, still confused, maybe.
    When I take him in my mouth there is a familiarity to this that’s frightening. I know I don’t remember ever doing this in three years. He leads the way. He controls the tempo. He runs the dance floor.
    But there is a strange sensation inside me that resembles a memory, and it’s positive I have done this before.
    I slide my hand up his shaft as I work my mouth down, massaging with my tongue. His hands grip the couch, desperate anddisoriented in the pleasure and unexpectedness of his loss of control. I can tell when he’s lost in the sucking and touching because he starts moving with me, grinding the way I do when he plays with me. Knowing I’m about to rock his world in another way, I suck one last time before sitting back.
    He looks up, flashing an expression I have never seen. His beauty has become tragic and pained. He looks uncomfortable and angry, and all of it turns me on more.
    I climb up his body, sitting back on his rigid cock. I’m soaked from sucking him off and being in charge, so while the entry is rushed it’s still perfect. Even I gasp, tilting my head back as I slide down his shaft.
    The frenzy of bliss and powerlessness hits him, bringing him to life in a frightening way. He leans forward, gripping my hips with vigor, and forcing me to ride him the way he wants.
    I let him go for a few moments, enjoying the feel of his punishing thrusts, matched with my rotating hips.
    Then I push him back, shaking my head. There’s a look on my face that I don’t know if I have ever made. The flame in my stare is lighting my whole body on fire. I continue to ride him the way my body wants, circling my hips and sliding up and down at the pace that’s perfect for me. He fills me in a way I don’t think he ever has. It’s too much if I sit the wrong way, but the pain of it becomes pleasure somehow.
    Everything builds quickly, becoming part of the too much as an orgasm rips through me. The room blurs as the waves of pleasure shake me to the core. A bead of sweat trickles down my cheek as I stop, realizing we have both finished.
    The room is silent, apart from our ragged breaths.
    The air is heady with the spent frustrations and lusty rage.
    The confusion is thick in us both.
    He looks wounded or angry still but in a satiated sort of way.I can see that the anger is empty of power. I have sucked every last drop of that from him. He doesn’t say a thing, just stands, lifting me with him. His cock slips from me as he walks to the bathroom, carrying me to the shower.
    He wraps around me as the water comes down, cold at first. I barely feel it as he takes the brunt of it but then opens us both up to the water when it’s hotter. He strokes me and holds me, like we have made love his way. But the depth of his emotion over the event feels deeper than normal.
    He feels different.
    He holds me tightly, as if trying to trap me there in that sensuality. But he can’t. I’ve done something different, and I liked it.
    I can feel the difference in me from it.
    We fall asleep that night without talking about it. I don’t know what to do about that.
    In the night I stir, unsure of the date or the time or even my name. When I wake, my memory is always a little worse, as if being asleep is akin to the coma I once lingered in.
    When I do wake fully, I realize a smell has found its way into my dream, disturbing my sleep. The rusty and grimy filth of the smell picks at me, poking until my eyes are open. I blink for several seconds to let the memories of the evening wash back in.
    It’s still dark in the room, and he’s gone. His inhales and exhales aren’t part of the sounds in the room. His warmth is missing from the bed.
    The smell becomes more important than his being gone. It’s not bleach and it’s not urine, but it’s sharp like both those smells.
    I