The pub was layers of noise; the occasional verse of a 20-year-old song faded into ear shot, deep and light laughter, a high pitched exclamation, the shifting of chairs, clinking of glasses, the door opening and closing and the cars sweeping past on the busy street outside.

But just for a moment it was silent for two people. They sat opposite one another, part of a large group but eyes so deeply linked that the others faded into nothing.

It wasn’t romance in that moment, others looking on may have mistaken it for that, young love if not young lovers taking a moment of togetherness on a busy night out.

If not romance, what then? What had so fixated them that for a moment they sat, transfixed in some private communication.

She had just spoken, telling a tale of some recent night out, a funny little tale of minor misdeeds that had made everyone laugh. Except he had not laughed. He had smiled and then without moving or saying a word they had both left the room, still in their chairs they were elsewhere.

She had smiled back, a half unmade and unmeant smile with her eye brows low over her eyes as she looked up at him and the she looked down again and away; her hands twisted neatly on her lap. Her face flushed, it could have been the heat of the room but it just came at that instant.

As for him he kept his gaze on her, seeing her dip away from him did nothing to dim his eyes, brows raised in a question come acknowledgement and something that was not a smile played on his lips.

For the others this moment was gone, almost unnoticed as the conversation meandered on, but not for me. I knew what it meant. I knew that exchange but was thrilled to see it on another set of faces. Do I look like that? Am I so obvious to others? Can I be read as those two were read by me?

I like to think not.

I know that later she will be unfurled over his lap somewhere, her pale thighs contrasting with his dark trousers. I imagine they will shake a little as she trembles out a protest. She will tell him that she did not mean it the way it sounded, that the night had not progressed as she had told it. She will tell him that she had played it for laughs and that she would never have behaved like she said she did.

Stroking her with deceptive gentleness he will shush her, listening as her words give up on her. He will take her hands in one of his and hold her tight behind her back in a parody of a dance. He will start slowly, a sudden slap that makes her breathe hard as she knows she deserves the punishment. Her legs will kick and her toes point. Her shoulder will turn and roll as he spanks harder creating layers of colour and heat on her cheeks.

She will tell him that she does not want it, that it hurts too much for her to bear and he knows that is true. So he holds her more tightly still and his hand hardens to the cause. He covers her bottom with a resolute care. It is swollen, and it looks sore and altered by him; a piece of artwork as temporary as a sand sculpture on the shore.  He will listen to her sobs and know that she is sorry.

So gently he will lift her that she is unsure how the movement will end, she is so compliant that she does not think to ask where she is going. But she feels the smooth cool sheet under her and feels her legs moved apart as he kneels between them. She looks to her right, at his muscled forearm as it rests by her face and feels him guide himself into her.

The gasp as he arrives is unlike any noise she has made today. It is tender as a birds cry at dusk and just as full of longing. She is so deep in submission that she cannot reach up to his shoulder or wrap her arms around his back as she normally might. Instead she reaches up with one small hand and holds onto his wrist kissing it gently until building desire forces her to arch her back into him, like a small crescent moon as he pushes back and repeatedly takes her, each thrust a claim until he claims her totally and she shudders and pulses against him.

At least that is what might happen. Maybe. I look up for a moment and catch my lover’s eyes. He knows what I am thinking. I blush and look down. I know he holds his gaze on me still.

A work of fiction by Indigo Sigh