I Like Your Eyes Wide Ch. 01

His eyes move from my lashes to my collarbone and downwards, ever downwards, and I wish I could tell him to look at my eyes but I can't. If I could have, I would have already.

In all my life, I've never seen such violent lust.

"I like your eyes wide," he says. "They haven't seen danger enough to close, to squint, not yet."

He touches my cheek. Softly.

"I like your skin smooth," he says. "It hasn't seen needles or bruises or hands like mine.

"Not yet."

---

I was freshly 23. Like every other 23 year old girl I knew, my mouth was dry for a drink and the youthful electricity running through my bones had a single remedy: Movement. Touch. Men.

I'd recently moved to a new city. I was filled with the promise of newness and overnight, I changed. I had never been quiet, but now, I was energized, alert, and present. I was easygoing. Friendly. Would talk with anyone, flirt with anyone, and surprise them later with my intelligence and wit.

When I talked at the bar, people listened. When I walked down the street, people looked - and looked again. I wielded a subtle, soft power that I hadn't realized before.

I was beautiful, but not exceptionally so. Trim frame, wide hips, big breasts, bright green eyes and easy curls. I wore sundresses in the summer, big sweaters and tight pants in the winter. I loved easily - people, fun, the outdoors - and made every attempt to show it. Run-and-jump hugs for greetings; easy, light-hearted dancing at the bar; happy, deep laughter at my friends' jokes. To me, there was very little worth being upset about, and so much to be thankful for.

I was told I had a certain innocence about me. A good girl essence that men assumed to be true.

They didn't know that, behind the understanding eyes and the unassuming body, I was restless and eager to shed my innocence. To get as in touch with my desires as I was with the world around me. Since I was young, I'd been fascinated by sex - by passionate, rough, lose-control sex. I'd had dreams of nameless, strong men grabbing me roughly by the shoulders and having their way with me. Tender kisses and sweeping romantic gestures touched my heart, but with every encounter, my primal desire grew deeper.

I wanted - needed - to be fucked. To be owned. It terrified me - the idea of relinquishing my power, of putting myself at the whims of someone else's pleasure - but only because I'd never done it before. In public, I was an easy leader; a decider; a focal point. The moment I entered a bedroom, I wanted nothing more than to shed my skin, drop to my knees, and embrace the part of my body that wanted to give - give touch, give pleasure, give myself away.

The same way a person knows they like their favorite food - the same way a person knows their middle name - I knew I was meant to be a submissive.

I had told my partners of my preferences before, but none seemed to understand. Some simply weren't interested and preferred mild, tender sex. Some assumed the dominant role, but it was clear that their hearts weren't in it; their words were too staged and their touches too uncertain. They tried to want to control me and own me, but in doing so, they gave their control away.

I've been told that, if you are a dominant or a submissive, the moment your opposite enters the room, you know it. Beneath the pleasantries, there is a lingering, pulsing, unavoidable energy. I've been told that a true dominant can spot a true submissive from across a room, with a single glance.

I never believed it till him.

--

I was at a bar with my friends Jessie and Mara. We were laughing, heads close together over our beers, music playing loudly in the background. I wore a flowing white sun dress that hugged my chest and flowed easily down my thighs with tall, black boots. My cheeks were red with the glow of the music and the beer.

"Come on," Jessie said, putting on her jacket. "Let's go have a smoke." We topped our beers with cardboard coasters and hopped down from our barstools. I reached under my seat for my purse, and when I looked up toward the door, I saw him.

The first thing I noticed was his eyes. He stood near the door, his face half-masked with dim barlight shadow, but even still I saw his eyes. Deep, threatening gold, wildly alive, and staring straight at me. He was tall, but not too tall. Dark, short, brown hair and a firm body. Five foot eleven. He must have been about 30. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans. If it weren't for his eyes, he could have faded easily into the crowd, but something about his stare captured me.

"Let's go," said Jessie, tugging me gently by the arm. Dazed, I followed her, squeezing between barstools and bodies.

I looked up again. He was still looking at me. By the time I reached the door, I was close enough to sense his height, almost close enough to brush against him as Jessie reached for the handle. A swift chill blew into the bar. I felt a hand on my back.

I turned. Lifted my face to meet his eyes, certain, golden. Their intensity spoke volumes. I could hear it in the noisy bar.

"It's cold out, now," he said, and held out a jacket. His voice was gravel, liquid, depth. My friends turned, seeing the exchange and smiling at one another, as they continued outside and shut the door behind them.

I smiled nervously. "It's not really not so bad," I said, surprised by how quiet and uncertain my voice sounded, as I reached up to pull a curl behind my ear - a nervous habit. He watched my hand as it traversed across the air. The movement seemed to take hours.

He watched my hand fall to my side and smiled a slow half smile. He watched my eyes meet his, drop to the floor, meet his. We stood so close to each other in the small bar that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Take it." His voice was low, quiet, and sure, and without thinking I reached out and took the jacket.

"Thanks," I said softly, and slipped my arms into the too-big sleeves. I swam in it. His eyes took in my form, dwarfed by the jacket that dropped past my white dress, boots turned inwards and knees close together. Eyes peering up at him from below my lashes. He dragged his gaze upwards to meet mine. In an instant, his eyes burned with the heat of a solar flare.

He had decided something.

"Go on," he said, his voice suddenly without thickness or weight. "I'm sure your friends are waiting for you." He kept his eyes on mine for a moment longer before crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from me.

--

When my friends and I walked back inside after a hearty smoke, our hands clasped against the chill, he was gone. I scanned the bar twice, eying every barstool and lingering body, but he was nowhere to be found. My heart sank dangerously.

"Who was that cutie?" Mara asked me as we returned to our seats.

I smiled coyly, pulling his jacket tighter around me.

"Honestly - I don't know," I replied, "but it looks like he's not getting his jacket back."

My friends smiled at one another. "He looked a little old, don't you think?" teased Mara.

I scowled. "Old? Honestly? He was 30 years old, tops."

She made a face. "Yeah, that's old." We laughed, both of us thinking the other was out of her mind.

As the three of us turned to face the band, I slipped my hands, still cold from the chill, into the jacket pockets. I felt a piece of paper and removed it eagerly, hoping it was a business card with my stranger's name.

Disappointed, I squinted at it the dim light. It was a simple piece of white paper, folded in two. When I opened it, I could barely make out the single sentence scrawled boldly in his hand.

"If you felt what I felt, meet me at 6 Harris Street at 11."

My breath caught in my chest. I heard my heartbeat, thick in my ears. Mara and Jessie were still facing the band as I discreetly slipped the note back into my pocket. Hands clammy, mind racing, I debated the sensibility of chasing after this nameless stranger. I knew I'd felt a connection just looking at him, just staring into those haunted eyes. His hold over me in a single gaze was absolute.

To obey his note would be reckless. Absolute insanity. To meet him at his place - I assumed 6 Harris Street was his address - would be a move straight out of How Not To Be Safe 101. But, behind his dangerous gaze and commanding presence, I sensed a strange and nameless safety. A tenderness that could only come from deep physical attraction and ownership. Something about our twenty-second exchange had moved me, terrified me and calmed me, and I instantly knew that I would be at Harris Street before the night was over.

Reckless insanity or not.

---

An hour later, Mara, Jessie and I stood on the street corner exchanging goodbyes. When they had both departed for their cars, I turned in the opposite direction. Harris Street was nearby - a five minute walk, at most - and as my boots echoed loudly in the quiet night, I wished it were farther so I'd have more time for a pep talk.

I couldn't decide if it was my free-spirited nature or deep, certain passion for this stranger that propelled me towards him. A combination of both, I assumed. I played back our short exchange in my mind over and over, heated despite the chill of the night, and before I knew it, I was at 9 Harris. 8 Harris.

7 Harris.

6 Harris.

I drew in a deep breath as I walked up the front path and ascended the stairs. There was a single flickering light, buried deep inside the house, casting a warm orange glow through the upstairs window. The front porch was unassuming - an old wicker bench, a pair of running shoes, a potted plant. Taking a strange solace in the presence of the plant - what sort of serial killer keeps plants? - I tried to quell my trembling as I touched the door bell.

The bell rang. Silence. I looked around me and pressed the bell again, my foot tapping in nervous anticipation. I didn't hear a sound from the house. Beginning to think I'd been scammed, I nervously turned and began walking back down the stairs.

The door creaked.

"Are you going somewhere?" His voice, richly quiet, stopped me in my tracks. I turned to face him.

He stood against the doorframe. Wearing the same black t-shirt, the same jeans, but seeming grander somehow. As if standing here, on his porch, gave him the full space his presence demanded.

I blinked, suddenly self-conscious in the outfit I'd donned with confidence only hours before. I felt small, infinitesimally small, as I cautiously walked back up the stairs. I stopped two feet from him. He suddenly smiled, mildly but certainly, and I felt the same trace of inexplicable safety I'd felt before. He reached up and touched the side of my face.

"You're all right, you know. I will never hurt you," he said softly. I closed my eyes, reveling in his touch, as I nodded and exhaled. I believed him. He stood back, the smile gone and replaced with a trace of something darker, and held his arm to the entrance, inviting me inside.

Living room. Kitchen. Stairs. Hallway. Door. Bedroom. Candle. Bed.

--

His eyes move from my lashes to my collarbone and downwards, ever downwards, and I wish I could tell him to look at my eyes but I can't. If I could have, I would have already.

In all my life, I've never seen such violent lust.

"I like your eyes wide," he says. "They haven't seen danger enough to close, to squint, not yet."

He touches my cheek. Softly.

"I like your skin smooth," he says. "It hasn't seen needles or bruises or hands like mine.

"Not yet."

He walks toward me in the half light. When his chest is inches from my chin, his chin inches from my forehead, I shrink into my skin with eyes cast downwards. I am half teen and half woman and here, in this space, I have never felt more like both.

He reaches fingers-first and cups my jawline in his palm, pulling me out of my skin.

"Look at me," he says. I drag my eyes to meet his for an instant before they flutter clumsily to the floor. To look into his eyes is an agreement. A contract. An acknowledgment of this room and the bodies inside of it.

"Look at me," he commands. He raises my chin with one hand as the other drifts to my collar bone. His jacket falls heavily off my shoulders to the floor. My skin heats instantly under his firm touch and my eyes rise automatically to his. I can just barely see his golden irises, smothered so thoroughly with warm, dark black. He is eager to touch me, I know, but this moment is his entirely. His desire is certain, controlled, channeled. When he uses the pad of his thumb to push my dress down my left shoulder and lets it lie, exposing my fragile skin to the cool air, my knees weaken dangerously.

My hesitance dances on the tip of my tongue but I know it will never leave my lips. I'd sooner swallow every doubt than abandon this thrilling, reckless moment.

He traces my tender skin earlobe to shoulder. His eyes never leave mine and I don't dare blink. In a swift, certain motion, he tugs both straps sidewards and my dress billows gracefully to the floor and pools at my toes. I stand in my boots, my white lace panties, and nothing more.

A low and threatening hiss escapes his lips. Goosebumps flock to my exposed breasts, stomach, and thighs. I feel as though I've never been looked at before, never been seen, and now, as his eyes traverse the planes and curves of my skin, I feel more exposed than I ever have.

I've had boyfriends and desperate, greedy onlookers whose stares have felt more physical than a lovers' touch. But my experiences have been rushed and awkward. Disingenuous. With every inexperienced touch I've craved a firm caress and absolution from a knowing hand.

Like his. His feather fingers float down my chest and my nipples harden under his touch. I feel wetness between my legs, musky and immediate, and his eyes narrow in smug, quiet acknowledgement. I still cannot look away.

Suddenly, he reaches into my hair with a full hand and pulls me roughly into his chest. I whimper as my hands pad my fall and my breasts push deeply into the fabric of his shirt. He turns my head and whispers roughly into my ear,

"You are mine tonight."

My breath catches in my chest. I'm wetter still.

"This," he says, cupping my ass. He pulls my face up to meet his. "This," he whispers, reaching slowly behind and under me and gently, certainly, tracing my wetness with his finger. "And these," he says, bringing his finger to my half-parted lips and painting them with my own juices.

I moan and instinctively lick myself from my lips.

"Do you like the sound of that?" he asks me. I breathe heavily and nod. He tugs my hair sharply.

"Yes!" I cry. The word said. The contract signed. A dark smile passes across his beautifully haunting face and he kisses me tenderly, roughly, owning my body with the slightest touch.

"Get on your knees," he whispers.