(Warning: this is a story with sexual content meant for adults)
I arrive home late, disgrunted. Work, errands, traffic. I'm harshed out. Rebecca is already home, looking as tomboyish as possible in a partially loosened woman's office dress. Awkwardly compressed in a love-seat, lying down looking at a tablet computer, she just moves her neck a bit to acknowledge me and says "Fucked up day, huh?"
"Like sandpaper". I have this thing -- it's not exactly synaesthesia -- where clusters of sensations are strongly associated to a simple sensation, a word. Being harshed out from the competitive work environment, the frustration of bureaucracy and the pointlessness of commuting, it's sandpaper.
This rarely -- if ever -- happens. Not sandpaper, that's the nature of the game. I mean I'm always home before Rebecca. There's a method to this thing with me and Rebecca. I arrive earlier, decompress, do the dishes (she does laundry), shower, change into my night clothes -- usually swimming trunks and a t-shirt (long-sleeved in winter). Then I check out the vault for instructions; if none are found, I think up the plan for the night.
It's enough of an unusual situation that I feel stuck for a half-second. I should check the vault, but she's so close to the vault. She notices it, sighs and replies to the question I hadn't made coherent yet -- "don't be silly. Take your time. I've already done the dishes too".
Another half-second goes by -- the heel shoes? Once again she answers before I have a proper question "I dressed back into work clothes to make you confused, silly boy. Just to rustle your jimmies"-- a brief chuckle, and back to "Now that you noticed them, come pick them up and get them to the closet -- and take your time to properly arrive and decompress! I'll be in the computer room working on some drafts."
I'm harshed out and sexed up. I decided on a hot bath rather than a shower for that extra decompression. "The computer room" is the room with both our personal computers, of course, but it also has whips and collars and suspension gear. This is not what I was up to, and I'm pondering the pink elephant clause. I'm also pondering masturbation.
Rewind six years. Rebecca is edging me in public, her body so close to mine that her red curly hair gets stuck to my mouth. She's making me pledge submission, and for every inch I give she edges me so more. "So what if I want you to go straight to the floor and kiss my feet in a crowded mall? What if I want you to serve as a collared butler for a girls' night?" and on and on. Until a pink elephant comes up. "What if I demand a pink elephant?". Her question takes me from game on to cold in two seconds flat. "Safewords will never be enough with you, christ. If we do this we're gonna have a pink elephant clause. As in -- you don't get to touch me for three days if I bring it up." I've since used the pink elephant clause to carve out whatever personal space I want -- several times in a row, even.
Getting out of the bath, the day just seems stranger and stranger. There's a method to these things. Every single day -- Rebecca will arrive to find me already dressed accordingly, sit on her couch, snap her fingers to have her shoes removed and feet washed and massaged and so forth. She will then go take care of herself while she tells me to get something prepared -- often a word is enough; she knows about this thing I have, where clusters of sensations seem to associate with a word. I'm not a glutton for punishment, but I enjoy it just fine; everything turns alright usually. I don't know what the hell is going on today, though.
I get to my night clothes and rush to the computer room. Rebecca has her hair straightened out down -- how didn't I notice this before, and is wearing grey contacts. The first thing I notice is the purple -- or blue? -- babydoll nightgown, but that's not what I tell her -- she knows most of my thoughts before I'm able to make them into words anyway. I mention instead the contacts, and she says she just put them on for our night. The last thought of a pink elephant vanishes, and she seems to be reading it in my eyes as she says immediately after that since I was having a sandpaper day, she was going to balance it out with a satin night.
Somehow, the word "satin" evokes a number of sensations, even if we've never used it like that. It's not exactly synaesthesia. We've never done a "satin night" nor is what I'm about to do routine, but it feels right. I kneel down. She seems to have expected this; sometimes I suspect she sees right through my meaning-sensation cross-wiring. I feel satin over my mouth, effectively gagging me without discomfort. I hear, from behind me -- "don't worry, you don't have to think anymore today."
On my knees, looking at Rebecca -- who has shed a few pounds in the last weeks and looks almost unreal with the different hair and eyes -- I want a slap to the face so badly. It's not in "satin", though. I think of satin and feel the smooth soles of leather flip-flops in my chest. It's almost like foreshadowing; I feel like satin involves some trampling with soft smooth soles, some walking-on-fours led by soft hair-pulling, some verbal edging of some kind I've never seen -- firm, but not harsh, like this cloth that stops me from talking, almost from thinking.
I make a concerted effort to stop the running commentary and focus on "satin", on her voice, her glammed-up looks, that slight tone of condescension that's just the right -- I don't have a theory for this. I focus on satin instead.