Fucking Amber or, rather, being fucked by Amber, made me feel like a rubbing post. Without dying, it was as close as was physically possible to being non-sentient, to not being a person, to just being a body. Amber took the vanity out of sex: I wasn’t getting off on looking at her, looking at me. There wasn’t this reflexive desire I often felt in bed, this awareness that I could be next to literally anyone, as long as they found me attractive. Under Amber’s cold, probing touch, I became an object, abstracted from myself by several degrees: a sculpture of a mirror image. I was just… there, having things done to me.

Our sexual encounters often had a similar rhythm. I’d turn up outside her flat, at the agreed time. She never liked me to text her when I was on my way (“too clingy”) or to tell her that I’d arrived (“ring the doorbell, like a grown-up”). So, I’d ring her flat, Unit C on some faceless street in Tottenham Hale. She liked to keep me waiting. Depending on the time of year, I’d be on her doorstep, shivering, looking pleadingly at the black, all-seeing orb of a security camera, trying to make sure it caught my cleavage at a good angle. Amber liked to pick out my clothes and, invariably,  whatever I was wearing was cheap, nasty, and low-cut; at least once, it was literally a faux fur coat and no knickers. No matter how cold I was, I had to count to a thousand before I rang the bell again. When I had rung once more, I had to resume the count. Sometimes she’d buzz me in on the second ring. But if I raced through the numbers too quickly, pressed the bell too soon, I had to wait longer, and count to a thousand again. If I was left out on the stoop after the second ring, I’d learn my lesson and slowly roll each number around in my mind, mentally elongating each digit, before buzzing a third time. 

Once I was inside the building, I was in a competition with myself to ascend the stairs to the first floor as quickly as possible without physically exerting myself. Amber hated me taking too much time, but found it pathetic when I appeared breathless after vaulting up the steps. She was exacting, and I liked it. I liked the ritual, the rules. When I pushed open her front door (always unlocked) she would be sitting, fully clothed on a leather chair – an Eames knockoff, but not a bad one – with her back to the door. More often than not, she was on her phone, sometimes swiping a dating app. If she’d had a busy week, there would be a list, written in her typically brusque style: “clean toilet. scrub properly under rim this time. oven needs cleaning, wear gloves.”  Wading through bleach and sodium hydroxide, I’d often wonder if I was special: the only sub whose kink was weaponised for the purposes of household cleaning. 

Once finished, and with hopefully minimal damage to my acrylic nails, I’d take my clothes off and fold them neatly on the floor near the door. I’d wait until Amber got up from her chair, and we’d begin. At this point, I always felt like a wedding DJ taking requests, or a member of a middling improv group: whatever Amber said, I’d do. If she wasn’t convinced, she’d backhand me across the face. If I was in a bad mood, or I was ovulating and horny, I liked to fight. I guess the term is ‘be a brat’. I’d refuse to play along, pout, sulk, and she’d hit me. But then I’d bite, scratch, try to  smack her, wriggle from her grasp. After a certain amount of time, she’d retaliate, bringing the routine to a close by smacking me so hard across the head that I could  feel my brain sloshing about in my skull. She’d try to dirty talk while she did it, calling me her little slut, but my ears would be ringing and her voice would sound all tinny – like when you’re a kid and you tumble off the swings and feel like you’ve been reset to factory mode. 

This series of demeaning, repetitive steps would always culminate in me lying, naked, against the edge of the bed and Amber’s hand pressing down on my cheek; the pressure twisting my neck to the side, her bony fingers flattening my face and spilling  over my eye line, obscuring my vision. Not that it mattered if I could see or not; her instruction was always to keep my eyes firmly, resolutely shut. So, I’d performatively scrunch up my eyes. This often triggered some kind of muscle memory which would take me back to childhood games of hide and seek as if, any minute now, I’d be ready to fling my eyes open and shout; “ready or not, here I come!”. 

Sometimes, I’d squirm, protest, whine from the pain. If I said she was hurting me, she’d press harder, firmer. She’d remind me that I had to be completely quiet, completely still, for what came next. Normally, by this point, the fleshy tip of my nose would be pressed flat, just shy of the top of my lip, as my face burrowed deeper and deeper into the scratchy bedsheets. The pressure against my skull would make me acutely aware of the architecture of my face. There was normally a kind of dull silence, interrupted only by Amber’s hot breath, filling up the space like an over excited caller on a phone sex line. I’m sure she thought I was filled with anticipation. Normally, I was just kind of bored. With nothing to do but to wait for the inevitable, as Amber took her sweet, sadistic time, getting off on me prostrate, naked and helpless, my boredom would mutate into intrusive thoughts of a) “What if my nose doesn’t snap back to its original shape once I get up from here? Everyone always said I had a cute nose.” b) “Is it possible for my nose to wholly snap off, like is that a  thing? I wish I could search this up right now.”

Once Amber was satisfied that she’d worn me down, that my body was completely pliant under her hands, I’d feel the weight on the bed shift, as she leaned herself forward. One hand still pressing my face down, the other would stretch out and steady herself on the bed. Then, she’d grind her clit against my pelvic bone, faster and harder and harder and faster. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see her, I knew that if my eyes were open, she’d be looking right through me, and that, if I could witness it, it would be like being fucked by a man who’s just about to finish. And rightly enough, after about five minutes, she’d cum. She never wanted to sound vulnerable: normally things would cut off with an abrupt cough, like her body was imploding. It was always a disappointment, all that build up, for next to nothing. But this was one of her signature moves; an immovable piece in the game we played together. Her  other moves, in case you’re interested, included gathering my hair in a ponytail at the base of my neck, then twisting it around her hand, tightening her grip like a noose.

I wouldn’t say that what I felt with Amber was enjoyment, that’s far too simple a term. I know she enjoyed using me, and using my body. But for me, things were different. Of course, she was hot, and strong enough to pin me down, with this crazy dragon tattoo that travelled down from her sternum, gliding between her tits. Normally, I couldn’t feel attracted to women without feeling guilty – not in an internalised homophobia way, but in an ‘is this demeaning to women?’ way – but Amber eliminated that dilemma altogether. I was barely allowed to look at her, and the only avenue for connecting our bodies was by inflicting pain: dragging my nails down her arm, and holding my breath, flinching, in anticipation of her disciplinarian revenge.  

It was like pure embodiment, each smack pushing me back into my body, and severing me from my brain.

Megan Wallace is a writer exploring eros and hedonism through prose. They publish dispatches from the sexual underground via their Substack PULP and write about desire and sexuality for the likes of Cosmoplitan, British GQ and Playboy.

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