I turned twenty-one today. We didn't have enough money to go out to eat, and there were not enough ingredients in the larder to bake any kind of dessert from scratch, so we are sharing some packaged cupcakes we got from a convenience store in lieu of traditional birthday cake.

We've been seeing each other for several weeks now. I hesitate to call it "dating," or to call him my "boyfriend," because he's twice my age, and "dating" and "boyfriends" seem inappropriately adolescent as ways to describe an affair with him - and it is an affair. We aren't boyfriend and girlfriend, going steady and making plans to attend the prom. We're lovers.

He gave me a birthday present: a rare used hardback copy of the poems of Emily Dickinson. It's an antique first edition - maybe not of the poems themselves, but certainly of that particular anthology, which was printed in the very early part of this century. And it's in mint condition. This is probably the reason my "birthday cake" consists of plastic-wrapped snack food. I'll take the book over cake any day, though, especially when part of my present involves his reading aloud to me.

Wild nights, wild nights,

were I with thee,

Wild nights should be

our luxury -

He punctuates the verses with kisses: my forehead, my cheeks, my hair, my neck. My lips. My lips are burning under his. He has such soft, warm lips, to take my breath away.

Futile the winds

to the heart in port -

Done with the compass,

done with the chart -

Time to screw my courage to the sticking point.

I lean back into his embrace, and interrupt him by whispering in his ear, "Master, teach me."

His breath stops, and I feel his body suddenly become as tense as a bowstring. Any more tense and he'll be jumping out of his skin.

"What?"

"I know what you want. And I know what I want. Master, teach me."

He groans quietly and closes his eyes. He's closing them against himself, I think. That can't be very effective.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"I ransacked your personal library on our last few dates, remember? Then there was that little game of Twenty Questions we played last night. Good heavens. I know what I'm asking."

"Do you have any idea what kind of effect you're having on me?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I know because I can see you. Silly. I can reach out and feel you, too, where you're threatening to burst out of your pants. Master, teach me. I want to apprentice myself."

I can feel him trembling. Am I trembling too? I must be. My voice is. But all I feel is him.

"Is this something you really want, or do you just want to learn how to be a dominant?" Shaking. God, he's shaking. His raw need rips through me. "You did mention your former girlfriend wanting you to play the dominant. I can advise you without actually asking anything of you if that's the case. Or is this about that conversation we had a while back about studying magic -"

"If I only wanted advice, I'd ask for advice. I don't just want advice. I want you. Master, teach me." I take a deep breath.

Silence falls.

"I want that very badly," he says at last.

"I'm yours for the taking. Please. Take me."

The room is still. Too still. The very air is holding its breath.

"Please."

The only one trembling now is me.

He seizes my wrists in one of his hands and pins them to the futon, behind my head. My nose decides now, of all times, to itch, and I try to scratch it, but of course, I can't, because he's pinning me down. I can't get loose. I had no idea he had this much strength. He's only slightly built, but he has me caught. He's unbuttoning me with his other hand, freeing my breasts, and he squeezes my nipple until it is hard, and I moan with desire, arching against him, nearly lifting him off the futon with me as I do so.

"We need to negotiate. Is there anything you absolutely do not want to do?"

"I don't know."

"Of course. Rather silly of me to ask, if you don't know what my specific quirks might be. I probably have you at something of a disadvantage, as well." He smiles. "Should I stop?"

"Oh, no. Please don't stop..."

He's teasing my nipple with his fingers, kissing and nibbling my neck, and licking around my ear in slow, careful circles, making me cry out and writhe and buck up against him. I am made of fire and need. Such little things - of course, he's kissed me and used his fingers to pleasure me before, and done other things as well, leading to the usual denouement, but somehow it was never like this. What is this? Being pinned down makes everything different? That doesn't make sense; I've been pinned down in martial arts, many times, and never responded this wildly, not even when it turned me on. His personality, maybe? Something he's doing? I am being consumed. I had no idea it would feel this way. So delirious. Oh, so beautiful.

Raggedly, he asks, "What do you dream about doing?"

That's harder to answer than it might initially sound. The things he's doing to me almost make me forget how to speak; I just want to moan. I find it oddly comforting that he's struggling to keep his composure as well. Let us both be consumed by the same fire. "Um. I've never actually been tied up before, myself, although my last girlfriend had me tie her up once. The end result was a bit awkward. I told you about that. I saw a riding crop in a novelty store in the mall that looked really interesting. I get turned on thinking about Vulcan mind melds."

He stares at me incredulously. "Vulcan mind melds?"

"They're romantic."

"Hmm. Unfortunately, I don't think I can help you out with the Vulcan mind meld thing." He takes his free hand, wraps it around my jaw, and presses his mouth to mine. Now my mouth is as trapped as my arms are; he opens me and devours me with his tongue. Meanwhile, his body is still pressing itself on mine, grinding into mine. He's hard - incredibly so. It feels good. I start to moan.

"First lesson: you do not speak until I give you leave. You do not cry out. You do not moan."

Rats.

"Noise releases energy; I want you to keep your energy inside until I ask for it." He takes his hand off my jaw and, moving aside slightly, reaches down under my leggings and underwear to rub his fingers against me. I'm soaked. I almost whimper, but I have to stay quiet. Not being able to make noise hurts. I feel my hips rocking of their own accord.

"Be still."

Now that was not even remotely fair.

His fingers continue to play with my nether lips as he works off my clothes, rubbing wet cotton back and forth against my genitals as he pulls my panties down. I can't move. I can't moan. I gasp desperately on the edge of orgasm.

"Open your legs."

I do my best to comply. It's not difficult; I am burning up with my own need. At some point he must have removed some of his own garments; I never even noticed, and for some reason, I find that eerily disorienting.

He still has me by the wrists.

"Wider."

No, no, I can't scream when he enters me, I can't. I can't move. I have to contain this. I bite my lip, trying not to make noise.

His mouth on my mouth, his lips on my lips. "Mine," he gasps. His free hand is in my hair, holding me fast. "Mine, now. Mine." Suddenly he yanks me back, hard, and I feel his teeth wrap around my exposed throat. Biting. He moves down, down all along my neck, covering me with bites, seizing my skin, and pulling on it as if he could suck my soul from out of my flesh.

"Mine."

Driving into me, violently; the futon is soaked with the juices of my desire, the sweat pouring from me as I strain to avoid crying out in ecstasy, avoid wrapping my legs around him to move things to my own pace. Too much -

He bends down and murmurs into my ear, "I am going to kiss you again. When you need to scream, scream into my mouth. Give your scream to me."

His voice is shaking.

It doesn't take me long; within seconds, I am screaming. I am also writhing, bucking, thrusting madly against him as my orgasm overwhelms both of us.