She was torn: her intellect pulling one way, her desires quite another. She had left the hotel feeling a little giddy; a little sore; and definitely wanting a repeat engagement. He felt the same way: as first encounters went, this was one for the books, one that he’d remember. First encounters are always a bit awkward, a bit stagey, and easy to surpass,he thought; we’ll do better next time.

The trouble began with her work week: a flood of emails and tickets that needed answering; she calmed herself in her usual ways. She read some of his writing, which thrilled and scared her: some of his stories were too extreme, too much for her taste, her needs, her desires. If she stuck around, would this be her fate? As much as it aroused her, she found it troubling. It was, she thought, more than she’d bargained for. She avoided messaging him, limiting communication to a bare minimum — answering his texts, but no more. She was in a quandary: she wanted this, she didn’t want this. Or maybe she did. She didn’t know, and was afraid to find out.

They finally met for coffee: he chose the place, as always. She was late, as always. He had learned to always factor that in when telling her when to be somewhere. She slid into the booth, opposite him. He shook his head, gave a small smile, and moved around to the other side. Even has she flinched, it aroused her, awakening some long dormant and too much ignored need in her. It had always been so, with him.

“I thought,” he whispered into her ear, “that you wanted to be my good girl. You know how disappointed I am.”

She didn’t answer, looked down at the table, anything to avoid his gaze.

“No, no, pet. Look at me.” He gently touched her chin to raise her head; was he forcing her, or was she forcing herself? It was sometimes difficult to tell the difference. His hand was gentle; his voice was calm, even; it reached deep into her ear and tugged at some string connecting to her sex.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I want to explain.” He shook his head again.

“No explaining. You accepted a task, and didn’t deliver. You didn’t communicate. You ghosted me.” He smiled. “Well, you tried.”

“I’m sorry. If you knew the week I had. . . . And I needed some space. I read some things. . . things that you wrote. I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”

She could see, from his expression, that she had hurt him. “I told you, and I will tell you again, and I will continue to tell you: I won’t. You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do. But I think we both know what you want. And what you want to do.” He smiled again. She tried to look away but his hand held her chin now, keeping her head up. She could only look away by closing her eyes. And that, she knew, was its own trap.

She nodded.

“New rules,” he said. “Because you need a little structure: that is what you told me, and that is what I promised. I should have attended to this a while ago.”

“What are they?” Apprehensive: considering her workload the last couple of weeks she wasn’t sure how she would manage any of his requirements. Demands. Rules. Her nipples started to throb and ache, purely in anticipation. She closed her eyes tightly, slowed her breathing, allowed the knot in her stomach to unclench, permitted herself to sense how wet her panties had become. She wondered if he knew; and realized that, without question, he knew. His hands were nowhere near her legs, her thighs, her sex; and yet, somehow, he knew. He always knew.

“OK,” she said again. “What are the rules?”

”The rules are simple. There are only a few of them. First: good morning, always. Even if you don’t have time for anything else, and you should just say so.”

“Ok. Second?”

“Good night, always. The last thing you do before going to sleep.” She nodded.

“I would like,” he said slowly, “some kind of ping throughout the day; but that’s a wish, not a requirement. I have left you alone and given you space and that was a mistake, my mistake: it left you drifting. I won’t do that again.”

“And?”

“The last rule is the most important, because this is a relationship founded in our individual dishonesty. And so the rule is: between us, there are no secrets. Between us, there is complete honesty. Between us, there is nothing that can’t be said, can’t be shared, can’t be spoken about. Nothing. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper; she had dropped her eyes to the table again.

“If something is amiss, you tell me. If something is bothering you, you tell me. If something has happened and you can’t communicate with me for a day or two, you tell me. If you have a problem, you tell me. This,” he said, “this all relates back to my wish for some kind of status, even the briefest message. I realize there’s some tension there between what I said was a wish, and what I say is a requirement. You’ll figure it out and so will I.”

She nodded again, wanting never to disappoint. “Are there any others?”

”No. Not yet. If either of us sees a need, we’ll agree on a revision.”

“Do these rules go both ways?”

“Of course, pet. Especially honesty. Do you think you can live with this? Does it begin to provide a little structure?”

“Yes.”

He leaned over, putting his lips as close to her ear as possible.

“Good girl,” was all she heard. She felt his hand close on hers.

She closed her eyes and was back in the hotel with him. She closed her eyes and let her imagination take over. They were kissing: a long, deep, passionate mingling of lips, tongues, and even teeth. His hands were everywhere, or seemed to be. Now her breast, now her back, now her shoulder, her thigh, her nipple. He stroked, gently, the outer folds of her pussy; he felt how wet she was, her juices seeping out, now glistening on his fingers. She cried out; he pressed on, stroking her G-spot and closing his lips around her clitoris. He allowed one finger to slowly circle her anus, felt her squirm, and went no further. There were plenty of other delights today, and plenty of time

In the end, it wasn’t really close.