The Meaning of Anything

Before they go any further he insists on sitting down on the bed with her to discuss the meaning of “anything”. That was what she said, when they were still exchanging messages online. “You can do anything you want,” she wrote – a sentence that she lingered over for almost a whole minute before actually sending. A sentence which it made her wet just to type.

“Anything?” he’d replied. And, now, cosy together in her apartment, he asks it again. “Anything?”

“Anything,” she confirms.

He takes this in. He’s a serious boy. Thoughtful. Which is one of the reasons why she trusts him. He’s older than her usual lovers. Old enough to admit when he doesn’t know something. Old enough to make her laugh, sometimes, and feel small sometimes, in a good, complicated way.

She thinks he will be a good lover.

“So I can fuck you?” he says.

She cannot help but smile. She fights down a giggle. What else does he think they might do, now that they are sequestered in her bedroom? But he’s so serious about the question. “Of course,” she replies.

He nods. “Your mouth? I can fuck your mouth?”

“I’d like that,” she says.

A small half-smile. But he doesn’t pause in his questioning. “Your arse?”

“If you want to.” She doesn’t blink. Meets his gaze.

“Spank you?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.”

“Hard?”

She feels the question behind her ribs. A soft kick of excitement. “Yes,” she says.

“With my belt?”

Oh fuck. “Yes.”

“I can pull your hair?” The next few questions are relatively benign. Can he pull her hair? Will she suck his fingers? Will she swallow his come? She answers on autopilot, still dwelling on that soft but instant kick of arousal which came after hard.

“I can slap you in the cunt?” he says.

She pauses. An unexpected question, but she knows her answer already. “Yes.”

“In the face?”

She feels it again, before she’s ready for it. A gentle, urgent throb, as though her heart is trying to get out from behind her ribs. “Yes. Please.”

“Spit on you?”

It feels like he’s looking right through her. As though he can see the effect he’s having on her, though she’s given no outward sign. “Yes,” she says. Her lips tingle with the word.

“Spit in your mouth?”

It takes her a moment to reply. The yes is poised on her breath but she has to snatch for it because, quite unexpectedly, her heart is pounding now. She’s very aware of the feel of the bedsheets under her palms. “Y-yes,” she says.

He doesn’t hesitate. Maybe he’s smiling. It’s hard to tell. “I can come on your face?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll lick my balls?”

“Yes.”

“Lick my arsehole?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s wet. “Yes.”

“I’ll gag you? With my belt?”

“Yes.” She has to fight to keep her voice from breaking.

“I can bite you?”

“Yes.”

“Your tits? I can bite your tits?”

It goes on – an inexhaustible list of perversions. Some are mild. He asks if he can kiss her. If he can lick her cunt. Tie her up? Blindfold her? Put a collar on her neck? Some are less mild. Every so often in the litany something will make her heart thump extra hard. Make her feel as though gravity has been switched off. Can he call her cunt? Fuck her bareback? Come inside her without a condom? All yesses, of course, eager yesses. They discussed the nitty-gritty of contraception and sexual health hours ago, at the pub. They get their tests at the same clinic in town. None of these acts are new or alien to her… and yet there’s something about saying yes to each of them in turn, opening one forbidden door after another after another.

“You’ll beg for me to come in you?” he says

“Yes.”

“I can piss on you?”

“Yes.”

“In your mouth?”

Oh god. “Yes.”

She feels unfocussed. Outside of herself. It’s like these things are happening. As if, by saying each thing they are already doing each thing. For a brief moment the act is already happening in her head. He is hauling her to the en suite and making her kneel in the shower. He is baring his cock. She is cringing as his piss splashes onto her neck. He is telling her to open her mouth, voice as flat and procedural as it is right now.

Maybe he is imagining the things he is describing too. Maybe, for a brief few seconds, they are both simultaneously envisioning each act, so that it exists in some mutual space of the imagination between them.

She is so wet. With every new item on the list, it feels more and more like they’re already fucking.

“I can make you bleed?”

“If you like.”

“Fuck your arse without a condom?”

“Yes.”

“Kick you in the cunt?”

“Y-yes.”

“Pull you around by your hair.”

“Yes.” Please.

And then, just as she starts to feel like she cannot take it anymore, just as anticipation is about to tip over into helpless frustration, he seems to run dry. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t serve up another depraved suggestion. Has he run out of ideas? She doubts it. He shuts his mouth. Examines her carefully.

“I can fuck you?” he says again. And for a brief moment, in her mind, he is already fucking her.

“Yes,” she says, breathless.

“Now?” he says.

She exhales. Oh god. “Yes.”