THE WOLF AT HIS DOOR
by Deborah Castellano

I had things I could wear for the night, of course. The Barbie-pink PVC pencil skirt I got from ASOS. The leather leggings I bought on a whim from Top Shop at Nordstrom. The gold, jingly, fuck-me Manolo Blahniks that I snaked out from under another chick during a particularly intense Neiman Marcus semi-annual. Would he even notice the amount of care I put into what I wore, anyway? Even now, he played his cards so close to his chest that unless he was being intentionally overt, I never could catch him noticing me, even though we had known each other for almost half our lives.

We had seen all of the very best and the very worst that we had to offer each other since our freshman year. We kissed each other drunk during college, we had brunches of disco fries and Taylor ham sandwiches at diners after clubbing in our twenties, we consoled each other through our divorces in our thirties, we told each other everything. And even now, late at night at a party, he would twirl me around my kitchen, and I would pretend we were in an old movie and put my head on his chest, both of us laughing. But we never fell into bed with each other, somehow.

Oh, he always flirted with me as he flirted with all of our oldest and closest friends. I teased him that he was Laurie from Little Women and always a little in love with all of the March sisters, which he never denied. We always tried to impress each other with stories of our debauched adventures, though they became more carefully selected as we got older. It was only a few months ago that I was regaling him with stories of a particularly ridiculous fetish event I had gone to. I was intent on checking off as many buckets on my bucket list as I could in one night since I went to events less frequently now and there were still a whole host of things I had never tried before that evening.

I’m impressed, he texted.

I know, right? I texted back. I paused a second. We were always honest with each other. I don’t know though. It was fun. It was crazy, but it wasn’t meaningful.

What do you mean?

I mean, if there’s no significant energy exchange, if there’s no chance to get into the other person’s head in a noteworthy sort of way, it’s just an experience for me.

I know what you mean. I’ve been feeling that way lately too.

Really?

Yeah. I mean, it’s fun. It’s always fun but lately it hasn’t been a very deep connection. So it can feel kind of empty at the end of the night.

Yes, exactly! I thought for a moment and then typed: Sometimes I wonder if I will ever really be someone’s dominant again. Should I have said that? Why did I even say it? None of his interests were in that arena anyway. I had begun to think none of my interests were even in that area, not that I had been given much of an opportunity in my travels to explore that side of the whip. Why did I suddenly care what he would think about any of that anyway?

There was a long pause.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get the opportunity to be someone’s submissive.

I snapped myself back to the moment and tried to focus on getting dressed. Everything felt like a costume, like I would be spending the evening playing at being Pussy Cat Meow Meow, pro dominatrix extraordinaire. Finally I settled on a little black dress, back-seamed stockings held up with a blush-pink, embroidered-silk garter belt, a sheer black bra and gossamer black panties. I put on my black ballet shoes, feeling the elastic snap resolutely over the silk of my stockings. My hands started to tremble as I thought about the boundaries we could cross tonight, if we both could be brave. I took a deep breath and put my hands on my vanity and closed my eyes. After a moment, I resolutely put on my scarlet Nars lipstick. Cruella. Could I be? How would I even start this? I thought about my conversation with my friend Julie earlier to steady my nerves.

“I don’t understand how you get so worked up sometimes, Lucy. I know, the anxiety. But you have this beast of a man who would literally let you walk all over him in heels if you batted your eyelashes up at him.”

“I know. I know! I really trust him to try this with me, too. I just can’t seem to get it together.”

“I don’t entirely understand what you’re doing and it’s not my thing. But you deserve a chance to see if it’s your thing. Give yourself a chance to be centered in your power. Be present in it, okay? You’ve got this.”

You’ve got this, I mouthed to myself in the mirror, willing it to become true as I heard his knock at my door.

We hugged hello as we always did and sat down on my sofa together as we had a hundred times before. He opened a bottle of rosé and carefully poured it into the two glasses I had put out. We clinked and sat quietly as I nervously sipped my wine while he patiently sat next to me, waiting to see what I would do.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I whispered finally.

He squeezed my knee and waited until I looked into his cerulean eyes. I had never noticed before how much they reminded me of the sea. “Whatever you do, I will not judge you. No matter what. Okay?”

I nodded. I put my hand on top of his, admiring how small it looked by comparison. Delicate was not a word that was ever used to describe me, either in personality or appearance. I hissed out a half laugh. “Well, what do you do? You’ve done this as the dominant like a million times.”

“I wouldn’t say a million, maybe only half a million,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes, this. We look at our hands until I feel sure enough to decide what to do. Sometimes everything is as carefully choreographed as an opera at the Met. It depends on the people, it depends on the energy.”

“Yes, but. What do I do?” I said in exasperation.

He looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Lucy. What will you do?”

I drained the rest of my glass of wine with determination. I will be fearless. I will cross this edge. I will be the wolf at his door that he is not strong enough to resist, tearing open his heart with my bare teeth and drinking his heart’s blood until it fuels mine. Until his heart is mine.

I pulled his hand into mine, letting my fingernails leave tiny crescent moons on his palm, but not deep enough to draw blood. Just enough to draw a small sigh from his lips as he obeyed my silent command to follow me into my bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

He stood quietly as I twined one of my hands into his flaxen hair, admiring how soft it was. I wound my hand tighter and tighter until my hand reached the nape of his neck, and I sharply drew his hair in my fist as his breath caught. I put my hand to his chest and delicately pressed against his chest, where I could feel his heart drumming as fiercely as a fawn’s heart. Feeling him react so strongly to me sent an immediate rush of power to my brain and wetness to my pussy.

He sat down on my goose-down duvet, his hands balled to his sides. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted, allowing me to stare at him freely. How had I never noticed the graceful planes of his face, the curve of his neck, in over twenty years? The newness of noticing with the familiarity of his frame caught me in the stomach, making my pulse quicken.

I straddled him, the feeling of his hardness against my pillowy thighs making me gasp. Tipping his face up with his leashed hair, his eyes were unfocused as he looked up at me. Softly, I ran my fingertips against the spiral of his ear. His breathing became more jagged as I bit the soft flesh of his ear and trailed down his neck, pulling his hair back in my fist so his neck would be more exposed to me. I inhaled against his skin, smelling the familiar, clean scent of his soap. My blood was rushing so loudly in my ears, I couldn’t think clearly enough to consider anything but the feel of his hair wound around my hand and how delicious he smelled.

Trembling, I brushed my hand against his cheek and then his lips as he kissed the palm of my hand. Everything in me went limp, and I gathered up all my bravado to kiss his verdant mouth. His hands shuddered at his sides, clenching and unclenching, but never touching me. I slid my tongue into his mouth and pulled at his curls severely, his rigid cock becoming even more stiff under his grey wool trousers. I put my lips to his ear, so he could hear the softness of my whisper.

“Do you want to fuck me, boy?”

“Yes.”

The blood in my ears became a tidal wave. “You cannot tonight.” A rush of malicious joy coursed through me. I didn’t know I could be so blatantly harsh, let alone enjoy it. I was breathing fast. The fierceness of denying him swept over me. I was so wet I could barely figure out what to do with myself. “How does that make you feel?”

He groaned softly, pressing his hardness against my thighs as he brushed his lips across my ear, sending a shudder down my spine. “It makes me want you more, Lucy.”

“Do you want to feel your hands on my body?”

“Very much.” His eyes were soft as meadows, and I could see he was in the hyper-present/completely absent place that submission sometimes brought, when the connection was especially electric.

“Beg me,” I whispered.

“Please,” he said simply. He brushed his lips against my neck, and I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head. He gently tugged at my ear with his teeth. “Please.”

“You may.”

His big hands immediately swept to my hips, squeezing the flesh beneath my dress as I slowly writhed against his hardness, taunting him with what I would not allow him to have. He pulled me still closer to him. I licked the flesh behind his ear as he shuddered. His breathing became more rapid and his eyes drifted closed in pleasure. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck! God, Lucy.”

The more the space between us deepened, the more I relished giving him the smallest promise that there could be a release for him and then pulling it away from him. I rolled onto the bed, pulling him by the hair to bring him next to me, but not quite touching my body, abruptly bringing any chance he had to get off to a sudden halt. He inhaled, bringing his face to my hair, and then kissed me deeply.

He did not press his suit, even though I would have had a difficult time at that point denying him—I was that desperate for him. As he continued to obey while never demanding, his mouth on mine, I felt a fine glimmer of sweat on my back. The longer he kissed me while lying so still and close to me without pushing his body up against mine, the more urgently I wanted him. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I circled his wrist with my hand, bringing his hand to my pussy, pulling my panties aside as his fingers found my clit.

His hand slowly massaged my clit in lazy, unhurried circles as I arched up to better meet his touch, pulling his hair. I whispered his name in his ear as my moans became more soprano, and he drew me still closer to him, his breath warm and uneven against my neck. As I rocked against him, I could feel the muscles in my thighs becoming tighter. My head swam with unfocused desire as he steadily increased his pace. My fingers became claws as I raked his back with my nails and bit his shoulder so hard I could taste his blood in his mouth. Waves of pleasure pulsated through my pussy, making silvery sparkling lights glisten behind my eyelids. I wound my legs through his and rested on top of him. We laid entwined, and he gently kissed the inside of my hand.

When I could breathe and form thoughts again, I saw he was already giving me a soft look that spoke of more than longtime friendship. My blood rushed with emotion that was almost—but not quite—ready to be called by name.

“So, um, we’re doing this?” I said softly into his ear.

He brushed the hair out of my eyes and smiled. “It certainly seems we are.”