Page 33 of Hurts So Good

Mae seizes a strap, stretching it away from my shoulder. Upon release, it snaps against my skin, evoking a savory synthesis of pain and pleasure.

“I don’t like the bullet style,” I assert, guiding my body into a sitting position. “It looks like something that belongs on the obstacle course at driving school.”

“You—” Mae starts, but this is as far as she gets. I watch as her gaze strays to the implement in my hand, watch as her eyes glide along the shiny black switch.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I drawl, pressing the tip of the whip into Mae’s shoulder, eliciting titters and trembles.

Mae settles onto my lap, the lacy accents of her scanties tickling my thighs. “Oh?” she queries, digits stroking the curve of my hip.

My limbs quiver at the contact. “You’re thinking—”

“I can speak for myself, thank you,” Mae affirms, and snatches the whip from my grip. She hops off my lap, strides to the tripod assembled in the center of the room.

I watch as my lover adjusts the camera. “Well?”

“Hmm?” Mae murmurs, lips pursed in concentration.

“What are you thinking?”

She laughs, looks up at me. “I was thinking,” she says, “that it’s time to spank your fanny, Dani.” Mae’s tone is flippant, almost nonchalant, but her expression belies the inflection in her voice.

I study my lover’s eyes behind their tilted frames. The irises glimmer, incandescent, like a theatre marquee.

In a matter of minutes, we will be transported to the 1950s, recreating the tame but tantalizing stag films that featured the three B’s: bondage, backsides, and Bettie Page. Mae and I own a production company, creating erotic films for the nostalgically inclined. We work both behind and in front of the camera. Not out of necessity, although finances are a factor, but by choice.

A year ago, however, when Mae first proposed the idea, I chafed at her suggestion. Porn? She wanted to make porn?

The word reeked of peep shows and peeping toms.

I envisioned films with such titles as Rock around the Cock and A Tale of Two Titties.

I envisioned our audience—men clad in flimsy beige trench coats, sweat drenching their brows.

I imagined—

Here, Mae interrupted my imaginings, first with a kiss, then with a compromise. “You’ll only have one costar,” she promised. “Me. It’ll be just the two of us.” Then she added, thinking that she could change my mind by changing words, “And we won’t really be making porn. We’ll be making…period pieces.”

Still, I remained skeptical.

“Just the two of us,” Mae reiterated. “And perhaps some equestrian equipment…”

Inevitably, I warmed up to the idea, because the more I deliberated, the more alluring the proposition became. It began to intrigue me—the thought of someone looking, desiring from a distance, aching to touch yet not being able to. And so I agreed, and Cup of Tease was born.

“You ready?” Mae inquires, angling the lens toward the settee. On celluloid, the mint green upholstery will be converted to a grainy gray.

“Picture you upon my knee,” I croon. “Just tease for two and two for tease.”

Mae’s smile segues into a smirk. “Actually, Dani,” she says, tapping the riding crop against her calf, “you’ll be on my knee today, remember?”

She gestures for me to lie down. I take direction well. Maneuvering my body into repose, I melt into the cushion, the satin fabric conforming to the contours of my figure.

Mae pushes the record button.

Action.

Expelling a yawn, I pretend to stir from slumber, extending my arms behind my head, arching my back like a feline stretching after a nap. I ball my fists, twist them in front of my eyes, back and forth, to and fro.

I look straight into the camera and gasp, expanding the oval of my mouth, widening the circumference of my eyes, as though I have just been caught unawares. But soon my surprise transitions into curiosity. I wave at the lens, fluttering my fingers, batting my eyelashes.

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