Violation

I know his name. Not because he’s told me. Even his emails are stripped of any real names. Yet his identity’s printed on the Business Week lying upon his kitchen table. It’s all over the stack of bills he’s left sitting in the hall. It’s on the birthday card affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet of Michaelangelo's David: Michael—Happy birthday! Tim and Janie.

For two years, every six weeks or so, he’s communicated to me in code. Wife and kid are gone for the weekend. I’m going to bed at ten, he’ll say, when he’s in the mood. If I don’t get the letter in time or if I don’t reply, he knows not to expect me. If I write back something equally benign—Sleep tight, buddy—I’ll find a light shining over the side door when I park on his quiet street.

The door is always unlocked. I shut it behind me. I’m never in a hurry. His thrill is in having an intruder in his house; I know he likes to hear me slowly making my way through his rooms, a stranger among his familiar belongings. Just to heighten his excitement I’ll knock against his piano just so the glass atop it will bounce a little. I’ll kick a chair, just slightly, so that it scrapes against his hardwood floors. I’ll bang against a door, as if off-balance in the dark. When I finally finish toying with sounds in the living room, I’ll make my way up the stairs. Slowly. One step at a time, as if I’m trying to keep silent. I’ve learned that one of the stairs squeaks in the middle, so I press my weight onto it slowly. It lets out a long, plaintive cry. Then I pause, as if I were a prowler listening for a response from the bedroom.

I could just stomp into the house and walk up to where he’s waiting for me on the bed. He’d welcome me all the same. But over the years I’ve learned how well he responds to this long, drawn-out succession of cues that tells him how far I’ve trespassed into his house. Once again, I’m right. By the time I read his bedroom, his breath is raspy. If I placed a hand to his chest, I’d feel his heart thumping like a wild, caged animal desperate to escape. It’s not time to touch him, though. Not yet.

The only light in the room comes from the neighbor’s house next door. It eases through the wooden slats of his blinds and reveals the shape of him, face down, ass up. He feigns sleep badly. Though his eyes are closed, he knows I’ve made it to his room, and he can barely conceal his excitement. He always arrays the equipment he wants me to use on the other side of the king-sized bed, as if he had been carrying a towel and lube and sometimes a dildo across the room, forgot he’d set them down, and accidentally fallen asleep atop the covers beside them. This time there’s a bandanna as well, carelessly strewn over the side of the bed.

I cross my arms. And I wait.

I’m in no hurry. Prolonging the moment only makes him more desperate. In the weak and borrowed incandescent light the curve of his ass only arouses me; I watch him grind his pelvis into the mattress, helplessly waiting for me to do something.

But I wait.

Finally, when neither of us can no longer stand it, I reach for my belt, and unthread the leather from the loop that holds it tight. My fingers let go, deliberately. The metal of the belt jangles, then falls silent. In the quiet it seems like the clang of a church bell or the sound of a shot being fired. A moment later, I release the button of my jeans and pull down the zipper. It’s a softer noise, but just as audible. It’s a noise of intent.

He stirs slightly as I reach over him for the bandanna and take it by the corners, twirling it around until it’s a long strip of cloth I can ease over his forehead. He’ll roll his head slightly to help me, here, but it’s a natural motion, the rag-doll loll of a man deep in sleep. I’ve been gentle up until now, but when I yank the knot tight of the blindfold, it’s with a jolt. I use my fingers to grab the knot and I jerk his head back so I can whisper curses into his ear.

His fantasy is to have a man violate his house and then violate him; I instantly jam two fingers of my left hand into his ass. It’s already lubed, as always. He only resists momentarily before he clamps down on my digits, warm and wanting. He’s by far more muscular than I. He could toss me off with a mighty push if he cared, but he wants to be helpless as a kitten. I spit profane warnings in his ear, and he nods and moans. I could recite the Lord’s Prayer to him now and he wouldn’t notice if I did it in a growl. The fulfillment of his fantasy takes him beyond words. Every time he vocalizes it’s with a groan or a growl.

It’s not one of those nights when he wants his burglar to taunt him with sex toys or bind his wrists or clamp his nipples. He hasn’t left out the equipment for those things. He just wants to be used. When I yank on his hips to bring him to his knees, I can feel that the bedcovers where he’s been lying and waiting are soaked his precum, and not in small patches, but a large, slimy circumference. He cries out when I enter him. I haven’t bothered to undress, or even to pull my pants down much below my balls. With no apologies I’m on his bed in my jeans and t-shirt and boots, driving into him as deeply as I can.

I can tell by the way he yelps that the prong of my belt buckle is gouging him with every thrust, cold inflexible metal against his warm ass. My zipper’s scraping him, too, with every back and forth motion of our pelvises. Too bad. I’m too far gone much to care. With my right hand still gripping the back of his blindfold, I jerk him backwards. I’m as deep as I can go, now.

With all the anticipation in silence and the violent release he can’t last long, I’ve learned. I can gauge his arousal by the sounds he’s making. They’re louder and breathier, now, as I continue to pound into him. I pull out almost all the way and slam it in, three times. On the fourth, he yells as I feel his hole twitch and jerk around me. I’ve also learned that once spent, he’s done for the night; sometimes I have to pull out, spit on my palm, and blow my load all over his buttocks, but tonight we’re in synch. Our orgasms are nearly simultaneous, with me finishing only a few seconds after him. He’s still groaning as I pull out. When I reach down beneath where he’s kneeling, I can feel the trails of sperm left by his jerking, untouched cock.

There’s nothing for me to do but pull up my pants from around my hips, zip, and fasten my belt again. He’s collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, but I lean over and warn him not to rise until he’s heard my car pull away. He agrees, meekly, as if my power over extends beyond the fiction we’ve created.

I leave the path I came, only swiftly and silently.

His email’s waiting for me the next morning. Thank you, it simply says. I really needed that.

He never signs his name.