The agreement was a paragraph long. They had rewritten it four times.
It sat on the dresser in typed print, both their signatures dated two weeks ago, witnessed by a friend who had no skin in the game except wanting them to be careful. The paragraph read, in its first sentence: For the purposes of this scene, the bottom grants the top prior, standing, revocable permission to proceed past verbal refusal, up to but not including any of the boundaries listed below. The second sentence listed the boundaries — eight of them — and the third sentence listed the revocation handles: a single tap on the top’s wrist for slow down, two taps for stop, and the word red for this scene is over, full stop, no discussion, no negotiation in the moment. The fourth sentence said: Revocation handles may be used at any time, for any reason or no reason, without consequence or apology, and the top will honor them instantly, completely, and without question.
Jordan reread the paragraph at seven p.m. Sasha reread it at the same time, in the next room, sitting on the bed they had spent the morning arranging. Then they folded the paper, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked the envelope into the drawer.
Sasha, who was twenty-nine, came out of the bedroom in a black slip and bare feet. Her hair was braided down her back. She had left her glasses on the nightstand and her eyes were soft and a little unfocused without them, the way she always looked right before she let Jordan take her apart.
“Ready?” Jordan said.
“Yes.”
“Last chance to call it.”
“I’m not calling it. I want it. We wrote it down.”
“I know. I wanted to hear you say it.”
“I want it.”
“Good girl. Bathroom. Clean up. Then come out and stand by the bed.”
She came back smelling of nothing — unscented soap, the kind they had agreed on for scenes that involved her mouth — and stood by the bed with her hands at her sides. The room was warm. Jordan had turned on the single lamp and turned off everything else.
“Take off the slip,” Jordan said. “Fold it. Set it on the chair.”
Sasha did.
“Underwear too.”
She did. She folded it. Her hands were very steady. The rest of her was less steady, and Jordan could tell because her breath was short, the way it always got when she was between the part where they had agreed and the part where they hadn’t yet started.
“Get on the bed. Hands behind your head. Knees wide.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir yet. We haven’t begun.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’re almost there.”
Sasha got on the bed. Jordan stood at the foot of it and looked at her for what felt like a long time. She was — the word Jordan never said out loud because Sasha didn’t need to hear it during a scene, but the word nonetheless — beautiful, in the particular human sense of the word: someone you had chosen, who had chosen you back, who was letting you look.
“I’m going to begin,” Jordan said.
“Okay.”
“You have your handles.”
“I do.”
“Use them if you need them.”
“I will.”
“I believe you.”
Jordan crossed the room in two steps. They put their hand over Sasha’s mouth — gently, palm flat, no pressure yet — and held it there. Sasha inhaled through her nose. Jordan watched her eyes.
This was the cue. The cue was the start of the scene.
What Jordan said next, Sasha had not agreed to hear in advance. That was the point.
“You don’t want this,” Jordan said, low and even, the way they had rehearsed. “You want to say no. You can’t.”
Sasha’s body answered before her mouth could. A small shiver, a small flinch, a small tightening of her fingers behind her head. She didn’t speak.
“You can stop me,” Jordan said. “You know how.”
She knew how. She didn’t use it.
“You won’t, though,” Jordan said. “Because we wrote it down.”
She nodded, very slightly.
“Tell me why you won’t.”
“Because you wrote it down with me,” Sasha whispered. “Because I signed it.”
“And because?”
“Because I want this. Even the part that sounds like you not wanting me to want it.”
“That’s right.”
Jordan took their hand from Sasha’s mouth and brought it down, slowly, to her throat. Not gripping. Resting. The weight of a hand. Sasha swallowed against it and the swallowing was its own small surrender.
Jordan’s other hand went to her breast and stayed there, palm flat, the way you steady something you’re holding. Sasha’s breath hitched. Jordan could feel her heart under her palm, and the heart was fast.
“You can say no,” Jordan said again. “You can say it now.”
Sasha closed her eyes. “I’m not saying no.”
“You’re not saying no, but you could.”
“I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“I won’t.”
Jordan moved their hand from her throat to her jaw, tilted her head back, and kissed her once, hard and full, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission. Sasha made a small sound against it — not a word, not a handle, just the sound of someone being kissed by someone they had chosen.
“Don’t move your hands,” Jordan said, against her mouth.
“I won’t.”
“I’m going to do things you haven’t agreed to in advance. Things I haven’t told you about. That’s the shape of tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Use the handle if you need it.”
“I will.”
“I believe you.”
Jordan blindfolded her.
They had talked about this. Sasha had said, the night before, I want the scene to start with my eyes closed, and Jordan had said are you sure, and Sasha had said I’m sure, I want the surprise, and Jordan had said then we put it in the agreement, and Sasha had said yes, please put it in the agreement. So they had put it in the agreement. The blindfold was a length of black silk that they kept in a specific drawer for this purpose, and they folded it twice before tying it, so Sasha’s eyes were fully covered.
“What do you see,” Jordan said.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Jordan spent the next several minutes doing things that Sasha could not see. They touched her shoulders, her collarbone, the tops of her arms. They moved away. They came back. They didn’t always return to the same place they had left. They put their mouth against the inside of her wrist, briefly, and felt her pulse jump. They put their mouth against her hip, briefly, and felt her breath catch. They did not, yet, go further south.
They let the silence do some of the work. Silence was a tool. Silence was a tool that did not appear in the agreement but that they had discussed in negotiation — Sasha had said I want long pauses, and Jordan had said I will give you long pauses, and Sasha had said the long pauses are part of it.
“What are you going to do to me,” Sasha said, after one of the long pauses. It was not quite a question. It was the kind of statement that wants to be a question.
“I’m going to do what we agreed on.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“No.”
Sasha’s hands flexed behind her head. The gesture was small. Jordan saw it.
“What is that,” Jordan said.
“Nothing. Reaching.”
“Reaching for what?”
“For you.”
“You don’t reach. I reach. Tonight I reach.”
“I know.”
“Tell me you know.”
“I know.”
Jordan went to the dresser. They took out the flogger — a soft one, a beginner one, the kind they had agreed on for the first scene of this kind — and held it where Sasha could not see it.
“I’m going to do something,” Jordan said. “It’s in the agreement. You don’t need to use the handle.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me if you need to.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to count. When I count, you’re going to breathe. Out when the flogger lands, in when it doesn’t. Can you do that.”
“I can.”
“Out when it lands.”
“Out when it lands.”
“In when it doesn’t.”
“In when it doesn’t.”
“Count with me.”
“One,” Jordan said.
They didn’t strike her. They just said the number, to set the rhythm.
“One,” Sasha said.
“Two.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Three.”
“Breathe,” Jordan said.
She breathed. They watched her ribs move under the lamplight. They brought the flogger down across the back of her thighs — softly, the way you would the first time — and she exhaled exactly as they had agreed.
“Good,” Jordan said. “Again.”
They did it again. She exhaled again. They did it a third time and she made a sound that was not a word and was not a handle, and Jordan paused.
“Color,” Jordan said.
“Green.”
“Are you sure.”
“Green.”
The scene lasted forty-one minutes. It had a shape they had agreed on: the long pauses, the flogging, the restraint with the silk ties (pre-agreed, specified in the agreement, both partners having tried them on each other in a non-scene context first), the controlled loss of control that was its own kind of control. Sasha did not use the handles. Jordan checked in three times — color, color, color — and three times she answered green.
The revocation handle, when it came, was the second one. Not Sasha’s.
Jordan had been — the word they used in their aftercare conversations was escalating, the word they used in their own heads was settling into it, the word their body was using was going further than they had planned to. They caught themselves. They stopped. They took a breath.
“I’m pausing,” Jordan said.
“Okay.”
“I’m pausing for me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not stopping the scene. I’m pausing because I want to make sure I’m still inside what we wrote down.”
“You’re inside it.”
“I might not be.”
“I trust you.”
“That’s not the question. The question is whether I trust me.”
Sasha reached up and put her hand on Jordan’s wrist — once, twice, three times. Three taps. The third tap was the one they had agreed meant stop everything and renegotiate, full stop, no scene.
“You just used the handle,” Sasha said.
“I just used it.”
“Why?”
“Because I was going further than we had agreed. I caught myself. I wanted to be sure before I kept going.”
“What do you want to do now?”
“I want to keep going. I want to do the rest of what we wrote down. I want to slow down a little. I want to check in with you every five minutes instead of every ten.”
“Can we do that?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s do that.”
Jordan kissed her forehead. They had not, in the agreement, agreed on whether kissing during a scene was allowed; they had agreed, separately, that foreheads were always allowed, always, regardless of what else was happening, because foreheads were the part of the body that remembered being a person.
“Five minutes,” Jordan said.
“Five minutes,” Sasha said.
The second half of the scene was quieter. The flogging was lighter. The pauses were longer. The hand on her throat came back — briefly, gently, never for long — and each time Sasha breathed into it the way you breathe into something you’ve known for a long time. They brought her to the edge and held her there, and they did not let her fall over until she asked, in the specific voice they had agreed was the right voice, in the specific words they had agreed were the right words.
Afterward — after the ties came off, after the blindfold came off, after the water and the warm towel and the second water and the third — they lay in the quiet room and held each other.
“Okay?” Jordan said.
“More than okay.” Sasha’s voice was rough and small. “Thank you for stopping.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for telling me you were stopping.”
“That’s the whole deal. That’s the whole deal and I’m never going to stop telling you.”
“Tell me again.”
“Of course I’m going to stop. Of course I’m going to tell you. Of course we’re going to write it down again next time. Of course you’re going to use the handle if you need it, and I’m going to use mine if I need it, and we’re going to keep writing it down, and we’re going to keep talking about it, and the whole thing only works because we keep doing that.”
Sasha pressed her face against Jordan’s chest and didn’t say anything for a long time.
“The whole thing only works because we keep doing that,” she said, finally, into the warm skin.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me again.”
“Of course I’m going to stop.”
She closed her eyes. Jordan kept hold of her. The lamp was still on. The envelope was still in the drawer. The agreement was still in the envelope, both their signatures, the friend’s witness signature, the date two weeks ago, and the four sentences that made the whole thing possible.
They would rewrite it next time. They always did.