To say he forced me would be an exaggeration.
He bought a directional lamp for this purpose, but preferred to use sunlight. With the sun, what he did transformed into ritual. With the sun, he could let himself believe the forces of the universe colluded to satisfy him. I was incidental. He used an online calculator to determine which days and minutes solar angles would burst through the various windows of our home. The best angles came at sunrise. He didn’t tell me when the season approached. He liked it best if I was surprised when he woke me before dawn to prepare.
There was a strict procedure. I was to stand naked facing the bare white wall and given a small flashlight with a dog-eared copy of Nancy Friday’s old book of housewives’ sexual fantasies. He prepared my body while I was made to read specific passages aloud to him. That was the part I didn’t like. I didn’t like saying those things: “Slippery fingers” and “tongues flicking” and “I am wet with my own juices.” Even if I did grow wet, I didn’t like saying those words. But if I stopped, even so long as to moisten my lips, he pricked a needle into my skin–sometimes my calf, sometimes my lower back, sometimes worse places. I never knew where it would be and I never got used to it. So I read with as few pauses as possible.
In the still dark room, with only the flashlight reflecting off the book pages, he used a soft, wide paintbrush to coat my body in oil. He painted every inch except my nipples, my vulva and the flesh between my buttocks. He said the pleasure of being caressed in those places had to be earned.
When the sun finally came strong through the window, it shined hot onto my back and bottom, casting the sharp silhouette of my body onto the wall. He had me stare at the shadow of myself with my legs spread. My gaze was to be kept forward, at only the wall.
His shadow penis hung between my shadow legs. His shadow hands massaged the V of my upper thighs. His shadow fingers probed up into my shadow center. But he left my flesh untouched, aching with thirst. He teased with his shadow tongue lapping my shadow point until my own juices leaked and I whispered, “Please.”
Pinprick to an ass cheek, “You want permission to speak?”
“Please.” My vagina walls squeezed, yearning to be entered; my back now sweating from the heat of the sun.
“Please what,” his breath damp at my ear.
“Please fuck me.”
His shadow began low at my shadow ankles, pointing a shadow dildo towards my body. I watched the dark shape approach, pass my knees. Then, he made it glide along my inner thigh–still pointing up–the phallus actually touching my actual thigh, making its way higher, slowly, too slowly.
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