I put you in the middle of the rug with a contract in your hands and I make you read it out loud. Slowly. If you rush a clause, we start the page again.

I am fifty-three. Petite. Red silk to the knee. Light-brown heels. I do not need to raise my voice. I circle you. That is enough.

I love this. I love the way your voice stays steady until it doesn’t. I love the sound your b*lls make when I greet them — an open palm, from the side you are not watching, while your eyes are still on the word duration. Not a beating. A claim. They jump against my hand and I keep them there, warm, cupped, mine, a half-second longer than kindness. I enjoy that lift. That helpless l*ttle lift. I tell you I am not finished when you think I am finished, and I mean it.

You tuck. You always tuck. You pull them in as if you could hide them from me. I adore that. It brings them straight onto my knee.

I step in like a wife turning a page. Breast to your arm. Mouth on your jaw. Initial here.

Then the knee. Closed. Precise. Both of them caught together with nowhere to go because you helped me. I feel the give. I hear the air leave you. I hold the knee there and I hold the paper so you cannot drop either. That sound — the punched, astonished one — that is the one I like. I lower the knee and let the empty air h*t you next. Then I squeeze through the cloth, slow, measuring the heat I just put there. Still tight. Still interested. Obscene and perfect. I enjoy that too.

Behind you I play wife. Hands on your shoulders. Kiss at the nape. You lean into the safety.

My foot comes up from behind, instep first, short and mean, and meets them on the way up. I used your own protection. You lifted for me. You always lift for me. It is loyal. It is st*pid. I love it. I keep you standing by the shoulders while your stomach drops. That drop is not an accident. I put it there on purpose and I stay close enough to taste the salt at your hairline.

I point at surrender like we are in a meeting. Your head follows my finger. My sandal is already coming from the other door — sideways, flattening, a different map. Less of a fall. More of a white bloom that opens your mouth without sound. I say the word for you, since you cannot.

Then I kiss you properly. Marriage mouth. Slow. And I slap your b*lls into that kiss. Harder. I drink the moan. I do it again. Metronome. Slap. Pause. Slap. I want your mouth on me and my hand on your b*lls in the same second. That is how we talk in this house. My heel between your feet so you stay open. If you close them I will open them with a kick and the angle will be worse. You know I mean it. So do I. I enjoy watching you choose to stay open.

I pretend the hallway called me. I bend as if a page fell. You look at my *ss, my zipper, my heels.

The stacked heel comes home from behind without me looking at you. A hammer in leather. Deep. Through the sack and into the pit. I turn and catch your chest before you take my floor. I press my brow to yours and I ask if you are still inside this. You say yes like a wreck. I tell you to thank me for the donkey kick. You thank me. I like the way gratitude sounds when your b*lls are still singing.

I am not done. I want them sick and awake.

A flick — just enough spark to make your hips j*rk.

A scoop with the inside of the sandal — lifting, nauseous, sweet.

A roundhouse, shin wrapped in red, climbing into your stomach and the root of your c*ck.

Two fingers on your lips. I know. Let it climb.

You are hard. After my heel. After my knee. After all of it. Your c*ck is a loyal idiot and I adore it. It does not get touched. It gets to watch what I do to its brothers.

Last cluster. Ready is not required.

Slap from below. Lift.

Knee. Same second. Stacked.

And as you fold I steal your balance and write the last sentence with the b*ll of my foot against the door your own thighs just closed.

You pour into the red. Contract crushed between us. I hold the back of your head. Small woman. Full room. I am breathing harder too — not from effort. From the beauty of you taking it.

I list what you gave me: palm, knee, kick from behind, side sh*t, heel like a hammer, scoop, roundhouse, and that last stack. You did not drop my name. You did not drop the page until I asked. Tomorrow they will throb in the car and the throb will have my handwriting. Every beat says Aoife. Every beat says I used them and I am not sorry, and I love you, and I am not done.

Hold them. I like watching you hold what I just finished h*tting.

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