Redemption

A short story by Alice Holm

When he walks into the studio, my heart starts racing. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up. He pauses right before me, blocking the exit, recognition written all over the smug smile on his face. I have no choice but to stand up tall and look him in the eye. 

“Ronnie, it’s been ages.” 

The timing is terrible with anxious mothers and children all around us. But he is alone. He must be the instructor, realization dawned on me. I had brought my nephew to the new karate studio in town. On the website it had just said “Ron” next to the 5pm class. Ron’s a common enough name. Besides, eight years ago, he was Ronnie. 

But Ronnie—Ron—doesn’t miss a beat. He stares right back at me, then lets his gaze drop below my chin, just long enough that I notice. 

“Hello, Clara,” he says, in English. And then he switches to German, because that was the language we had used when we lived in Berlin together. “You look exquisite.” 

Before I can respond, he heads towards the center of the room, calling the class to him. 

For the next hour, I abandon the errands I’d intended. I watch him teach, replaying his words. It’s been a long time since anyone has spoken to me in German; longer still since anyone has called me exquisite. 

I’d googled him on and off over the years, but never found much. I emailed him once, a year after we broke up. When he didn’t respond, I imagined he was still angry at me, and let him be. I could never have pictured him here, teaching blocks and strikes to kids in a swanky DC suburb. 

After class, Ronnie finds me amidst the throng of parents. “Clara,” he says. “The world is full of surprises.” 

He looks highly amused, as always. Nothing fazed Ronnie, not once in all the times I caught him cheating. He always had his excuses, so many that I started to believe his infidelities were reasonable and I was the crazy one.

Oh no, nothing fazed Ronnie. Until the day I let him catch me in bed with a girl.

I’d met her at a club. She’d been cute, but I hadn’t really cared about her. I’d wanted a reaction from him, but I hadn’t foreseen the raw fury that would rearrange his features like a grotesque carnival mask. Nor the way he would excise me from his life afterwards as if I were an unpleasant growth on his otherwise unblemished skin. 

There is none of that ugliness now, only the classic Ronnie smirk—the world is full of surprises reverberating in my skull.  

“The sea is deep, Ronnie,” I retort, trying not to look shaken. “And the world is wide.” Once I say it, I wish I could take it back. It’s a rhyme from a children’s book—I’ve been my nephew’s nanny since a year after I came back from Germany.  But Ronnie doesn’t seem to get the silly reference. 

“Would you like to have coffee with me?”

His question, in English no less, is brazen. Mothers surround us, waiting for the opportunity to fawn over the handsome and charismatic instructor. He ignores them, appraising only me. I appraise him right back. Still tall and handsome, with dark skin and a strong jawline. He is completely bald now, but it only adds to his appeal. 

“Why are you here?” I ask, switching to German. 

He raises a cavalier eyebrow at me. “I’d think it obvious, Clara. I teach karate.” 

Then he pulls something from the pocket of his gi. He slips it into my hand and turns away. It’s clear from the shape and weight of it that it’s his business card. The intent is clear too-–if I want to see him, I can call him. 

What I am less sure of is why he wants me to, and why, inevitably, I will. 

****

“It’s good of you to come, Clara.” He stands up from the table, kisses me on both cheeks. He still smells the same. It brings me back to a mattress on a terracotta tiled floor, high ceilings, open windows. Wind rustling the sheets, his naked back, smoke from a cigarette trailing upwards.

“Did I have a choice?” 

When he doesn’t answer right away, I sit down.

“You always have a choice.” He hands me a cup and saucer. 

“Except of drink, apparently.”

“I took a risk.” 

He sips his drink. I sip mine. He isn’t wrong. I still drink cappuccinos. 

I didn’t call him right away. I let the weeks pile up. I let him study me at drop-off and pick-up. Yet, I couldn’t stop pondering whether it was truly a coincidence that had brought him back to my life. 

We sit across the table from one another, assessing. Dark skin and blue eyes, tattered jeans and a crisp button down shirt, he is a study in contrasts. Neither of us seems inclined to break the silence. I could ask him about the last eight years; he could ask me. But I do not; he does not. If he had googled me, he wouldn’t find much—inactive dating app profiles, results from regional Crossfit competitions. 

I take another drink. He takes another drink. 

“You can leave at any time,” he says finally, and unnecessarily. We are in a public coffee shop. How would he stop me? 

“I will, if I get bored.”

“Well we can’t have that. Tell me, Clara, are you happy?”

“Tell me, Ronnie, is happiness the purpose of life?” This is a familiar script. Conversations had late in the night, arms linked, stumbling home from the clubs. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he says. 

This, however, is an unexpected deviation. I am not sure I am ready. Eight years is not so long, and the heartache plus lack of closure still reverberates inside me, making me nauseous if I dwell on it. He was the love of my life. There hasn’t been anyone else since. After that night with the girl in the club, I don’t trust myself in relationships. 

Instead of answering, I return to the familiar territory of another old conversation, another line he used to justify his cheating. Another line I believed. 

“The highest highs and the lowest lows, Ronnie. You can’t have one without the other.” 

That’s what we were—the higher we went, the further we fell. I was the one who cheated in the end, but it had been only a reaction to all his previous times. He had told me it didn’t mean anything, and I had believed him. Yet, each time, it was salt poured deeper into an old abandonment wound.

“Still?” Once again, he chooses to stray from the script.

“No,” I offer. “Life is copacetic now.” 

This is true. My life runs incredibly smoothly—easy money taking care of my nephew, and plenty of time to train. To be competitive in Crossfit requires a monastic-like existence that I’ve embraced. But my routine lacks any of the highs Ronnie and I sought together. Even new experiences have been remarkably lacking. 

“Then perhaps you won’t be interested in what I am offering.” 

He takes a long, slow sip of his drink. My eyes seek his mouth. I remember hours and hours of kissing until my lips had been swollen and my cheeks rubbed raw from his stubble. 

I put my hands down, palms up on the table. I look him directly in the eye. “Try me.” 

****

I am in the bath. My friend, Meredith, sits on the floor next to me. We’ve been close since before I moved to Germany after high school. She knows how much I loved Ronnie, knows that since him I have been afraid of my decision making capacity in relationships. That the one time I acted out, the ending was catastrophic. 

Meredith runs her hand back and forth through the bubbles, careful not to slosh water over the rim. I can’t stop thinking about the way Ronnie and I used to squeeze together into the tiny claw foot tub in his old apartment. Water would spill out over the edges; mold started growing between the tiles.

“There is a man.” 

The words tumble out of my mouth. I hadn’t intended to tell Meredith about Ronnie. Now that I am, I feel my nipples hardening, and am grateful for the privacy the bubbles afford. 

When I don’t offer more, she asks, “A man?” Like she does not believe me. We both know I shy away from dating, afraid as I am to trust my instincts. 

She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. Meredith always seemed to have her life together—her model wife, their immaculate daughter. I’d probably hate her if she wasn’t so unfailingly loyal. I slip lower into the bath, only visible now from the chin up. My hand slides up my own thigh. 

“I need this, Meredith.” 

“Ronnie.” 

To her credit, Meredith tries not to sound disapproving. Still, the two syllables hang heavy between us. I’m not surprised she guessed. 

“What does he want?” Her brow is furrowed, but I’m grateful she is curious. Yet, all I can think to say in response is, 

“Redemption. For the past.”

“And you agreed?”  

Her question doesn’t require an answer. It’s obvious to both of us that I did.  

I inhale and slide under the water. Slowly, I blow the air out, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. The water burns my eyes and I have to fight my urge to close them. I like the pain, the reminder that in this small moment, I am in control. 

I come up for air, and give into the reflex of wiping the water from my face. I know I am beautiful, even if my eyes must be red enough to match my hair. It hangs heavy down my back as I rise from the tub. 

Meredith rises, too, and hands me a towel. I wrap it tightly around myself. 

“What’s in it for you?” 

There are several ways I could answer. Ronnie is experimenting with the intersection of pain and pleasure—it’s a new thrill for him, one he offered to me. I’m flattered and intrigued. 

There is something more, something greater.

“He’s offering me a chance to end things with him in a different way.”

I won’t realize until later that in any BDSM play, the dom is never the one who is calling the shots. 

****

Ronnie has arranged everything. I have never done anything like this. And though my palms are sweating, not for a second do I doubt my choice, nor Ronnie’s. 

He outlined explicitly what he wanted, and together we agreed on safeguards. I am nervous only because of the unfamiliarity of my role. 

I hang my jacket on a nail by the door. I am wearing a silky tank top and low riding jeans. Black stiletto boots—ones that snake up my legs—complete the look, hugging my calves. I haven’t worn them since Berlin. 

Straight ahead are two open windows with a mattress between them. In front of the bed is a small woven rug. Ronnie kneels there, facing away from me. He is naked, his hands clasped behind his back.

Coming up behind him, I skim my fingers along his spine from his neck down to his tailbone. It sends a shiver through his body, visible in the goosebumps that emerge on his arms. The silk of my shirt brushing against my erect nipples sends an answering shiver deep into my belly. 

I reach around his neck so I can run my fingers over his collar bone, his throat, up to his lips. I trace the lines of his face. He stays deathly still. With my other hand, I take something from my pocket. My hands meet as I wrap the cloth around his eyes, tying it tightly. When I pause to admire my work, I am aware of the pulsing that has begun inside me, just below my pubic bone. 

I walk the few steps to the bed. My boots cut through the silence, making loud clacking sounds against the terracotta tile floor. He thought of everything—even the flooring is the same as it was in Berlin. 

I am sure he’s tracking my movements. He will know I am picking up what he left for me on the bed. Will hear me as I walk the few steps back to stand behind him once more. 

"Rise up onto your knees.” 

My voice is hoarse, as if from disuse. Perhaps that is true. I certainly never spoke up for myself when we were together. But Ronnie does as he’s told. His hands are still clasped behind his back, and I take them in my hands and wrap ropes tightly around them. The rope abrades his skin. He is naked, blind, bound, helpless before me. Something is throbbing deep inside me now, and I can actually feel my pussy opening. I had not been certain this would turn me on so much. 

He must hear it first: the sound of whistling through the air. When the whip lands on his back, his whole body trembles. He lists slightly to the right and his shoulders hunch inwards. 

He recovers quickly, pulling his shoulders back and lengthening his spine. It makes me question what I saw, and whether I am affecting him the way he is affecting me. I can feel the moisture gathering between my lips. They feel puffy against the rough denim of my jeans, as if they’re already swollen. 

Am I ready for this? I know what he wants from me, and so I go to a place deep within myself—a place of betrayal when Ronnie left me. I can feel that hurt coursing through me, and I can see the lost girl that I was. See her weeping as she boarded a plane back to the States, to her alcoholic father, because she had nowhere else to go. 

With an almost imperceptible flick of my wrist, the second whip comes harder than the first. This time I imagine it is true pain that sears through his body. I imagine he braces himself as the third strike lands. I imagine he bites down on his inner lip to keep from crying out. 

In truth, he gives no visible clues. Adrenaline rushes through me, and my heart starts racing—respond, dammit! I cannot help but think that I am reliving my desperate need to elicit a response in him. 

Except this time, I can call the shots, even within the parameters Ronnie and I set for his safety and my own.

So I improvise for a minute, letting the whip fall to the ground, satisfied when the thunk of leather on wood startles Ronnie. I step towards him, reach out and trace my fingers along the red lines starting to show on his back. I bring my hand up to his hair, grip it, tug. He moans, low and quiet, but unmistakable. 

Leaning forward, I whisper, “Are you ready for your redemption?” His whimper rushes through me with incredible force.  

I back up, then lean forward, relishing the weight of the wooden handle as I lift it from the ground, my palm wrapping around it once more. 

The whip flies through the air, again and again. I am merciless, giving him only seconds to recover between lashes. They come faster and more furious until I am nothing more than this cord of leather sailing through space. 

This is what Ronnie had asked for, and still with each whip I feel my own story rewriting itself.

When he lowers to the ground, once more sitting on his knees, the whip connects only with the air. He has not cried out, he has not trembled. Yet his movement gives me pause. 

Ronnie raises his head. Tears leak from under the blindfold. His lip is bleeding where he must have bit it. 

I reach down and remove the fabric covering his eyes. He looks up at me with what I can only describe as desperation. With a jolt, I worry I have gone too far. 

“Don’t stop Clara. Please, don’t stop.” 

He rises back up on his knees. His back is rubbed raw, long angry welts already forming. For a moment I feel queasy and glance away. When I look back, his head is turned in my direction and he stares at me with wide, pleading eyes. I give him what he asks for—the whip once more dancing between us. 

Eventually it is too much—Ronnie gives in completely, crumpling to the ground, pressing his face into the carpet. He moans and sighs until the trembling in his body stills. The surrounding air is still. The whip is silent. 

Then his body is wracked with silent tears. He is shaking now, not from pain or anticipation, but with the overwhelming, all-encompassing relief of release.

I know because I am shaking from it too. 

I wrap my arms around him from behind and lift him onto his knees. We are both dazed as I trace my finger gently over  the red lines that run the length of his back and ass. He jerks away from the sting at first, but then succumbs to the tenderness of my touch. He isn’t bleeding. With a jolt, I realize that everything we experienced had been more emotional than physical. 

Yet from the tips of my tingling fingers to the constriction in my throat, my body is alight with sparkling electricity. I do not know yet if I have forgiven him or myself, but I do know I need his body pressed hard against mine with a desperation that delights me. 

I untie his wrists. He brings his hands in front of him, rubs where the rope cut into his skin. I pull his back against me, wrap my arms around his waist, and hold him tightly. I can feel my erect nipples pressing into the muscle of his back. I run my hands up and down his chest, the sides of his waist. I take his nipples in my fingers, squeeze them, make them tight and wanting. His cock is pointed downwards, clenched between his thighs, but I can still see how hard he is. 

We stay like this for a moment. But then he wraps his fingers around my wrists and dislodges himself from me. 

“No,” he says, firmly. “You’ve done enough.” 

Ronnie rises from the floor. Even though his cock sticks straight out like a lightning rod, he walks away from me towards the door.

I want to follow him, but flooded with confusion, I remain rooted in place. This cannot be happening. He cannot be leaving me now, with my soaking wet panties and my skin that is burning from every point of contact it had with him. 

The illusion of control I had only moments before is slipping rapidly away. 

With his hand on the doorknob, the door half open, he turns his head. My mind is reeling, not understanding what kind of sick joke he’s playing. It takes a moment for his words to reach me. 

“Now,” he is saying, “I have something for you.” 

He opens the door wider. A woman walks in. I don’t understand why she is here. 

And yet, I’ve always had a soft spot for curvy brunettes. 

*** *

All I can see are her curves and the dark beads of her nipples visible through the thin sheaf of her white dress. Ronnie closes the door behind her. 

I seethe at him. He smirks back. I turn to the woman. Our eyes meet. My body is tense, my senses rattled from both raging desire and red hot fury. Once more, I feel totally at the mercy of this arrogant man. 

“What the fuck is going on, Ronnie?” I ask in German, on the off-chance she doesn’t speak it and won’t be offended by my crassness. 

Ronnie’s smirk has grown into a full-on, shit-eating grin.

“Now, Clara, be polite,” he chides, in English. “Our guest speaks more languages than you and I combined.”

I want to smack him. My nerves are frayed and too much is happening all at once.

I don’t want to apologize, but I also don’t want to stand here, moisture dripping from my pussy, feeling like a fool. At the very least, I had envisioned Ronnie and myself as equals. Now, once more, I’m two steps behind. 

“Welcome, guest,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do. “I’m Clara.” 

I’m hoping she will introduce herself, but she doesn’t. Instead, Ronnie beams at me again. “Clara, this is my wife. Your gift for the evening.” 

I don’t know which one of these facts to touch on first, but the first is so startling that I settle on the second. “My gift?” 

“You’ve offered me so much, I thought I would reward you.” 

“Reward me?” I am usually not slow, but with my aching pussy and all the emotion thus far, I am overwhelmed.

“She is your plaything for the night. I have a game in mind for us. Of course, if you’d prefer me to leave. . .” 

Ronnie trails off. This I understand immediately. Although he is hopeful, he is afraid of my rejection—he always feared I would leave him for a woman. 

And this woman is truly gorgeous. She looks eerily similar to the woman he found me in bed with eight years ago. 

I am frozen in desire and uncertainty. I’m struggling to wrap my head around the fact that he has a wife. I don’t even know her name. 

Ronnie says something in a language I realize must be Danish. I don’t speak it, but I know Ronnie does and I understand a few words. 

Before I can decipher anything further, the woman steps forward. She smiles at me and encircles one of my wrists in her soft hand. “Do we have your permission?” These are the first words she has spoken to me, and they give me chills. 

“Yes,” I whisper. She seems very pleased with my response. 

Ronnie speaks to her in Danish again. She lets go of my wrist and lets her hands rest gently on my shoulders. Then she spins me around so I face away from her. 

I hear scuffling and a cloth descends over my eyes. At first, I can still see shadows, but then Ronnie must turn off the light because everything goes dark. It’s disorienting, so I close my eyes. 

“Don’t move,” she whispers. “No touching, and no talking.”

I can feel her breath on my neck. She takes my arms and raises them above my head. I understand I should hold them there as she lifts the edges of my tank top and slides it up and off of me. Exposed to the air, my nipples feel taut, like they might explode with the lightest touch. She lowers my arms so that she can bind my hands together. 

I understand everything now. This game is my reward. He will direct his wife in Danish, so I cannot understand, and she will do things to me at his command. 

Suddenly, I am angry. Ronnie is still in control. His wife is not my plaything. I am his. And I am so fucking tired of that. I should open my mouth and end this, right here and now. 

Yet, she is standing behind me and I feel the heat of her body. I cannot help how wet I am, how my clit continues to throb. How I want this, even Ronnie’s way, I want it. 

My breath catches in my throat as her fingertip brushes against the skin of my lower back, just above the line of my jeans. She reaches around me, unbuckles my jeans and guides them down my hips. She lifts one of my feet and then the other, peeling off my boots and jeans, until I am left naked and at their mercy. 

Through my arousal and my frustration, a moment of clarity pierces me: I don't have to cede control. I swallow hard and finally I find my voice, loud and clear:

“Ronnie, she’s mine.” 

I can feel the tension in the air as everyone pauses. I am not supposed to speak. But then Ronnie responds, “We made the game for you, Clara. You’re in charge.” 

“No, Ronnie, I’m in charge because it’s my life.” Goosebumps break out on my arms with the truth of this. 

I take a step forward, away from her. 

“Untie me,” I demand, and they obey. 

“Now,” I whisper, “you’ll do as you are told. Or you can walk away.” 

They make no move to leave.  

“Sit on the bed, Ronnie.” And he does, simple as that. 

“What’s your name?” I ask, moving behind his wife.

“Annie.” 

“Do you want this, Annie?” 

“Very much,” Her voice is strong. 

I grasp the hem of her dress. I slide it upwards, exposing her round ass, the small of her back. I circle her naked body, admiring the curve of her belly, her shapely legs and the triangle of dark hair between them. Her breasts are full, her nipples delicate. I can’t resist pinching them between my fingers. I pull outwards and twist, hard. She doesn’t flinch but sucks in her breath. Out of the corner of my eye, Ronnie leans back on one hand, languidly stroking his cock with the other. 

Moving back behind her, I bite into the flesh of her exposed throat. She gasps and tilts backwards into me. I snake my arm around her, rest my palm on her belly, and pull her ass against my hips. Relief rushes through me as I finally feel pressure against my throbbing cunt. 

I bite and suck at her throat. With one arm, I hold her in place against me. Satisfied with my hold on her, I explore her hips, her obliques, the underside of her breasts. When I finally press my hand against the whole of her breast, flattening her nipple, her legs start to tremble. 

I take my hand away and she gasps. I imagine she wants more. The same need is like an electric current coursing through my own nipples. I take my hand off her belly and slide it downwards, cupping her pussy. With my other hand, I jerk her head back, turning it towards me. My mouth finds hers, and tenderly I part her lips with my tongue.

Our lips fit together as if they were puzzle pieces, and I nibble at her bottom one. She moans into my mouth, and something deep within me uncoils. I bite down hard, and bury my tongue inside her. She arches backwards as if to pull me even further into her. 

My whole body is on fire. With the hand that is cupping her pussy I pull her ass firmly against me. The tension behind my pelvis makes me crazy, like I can’t see clearly. But I don’t need to see to part her hair with my fingers, feeling the moisture pooled between her lips. I break our kiss long enough to say, “You are so ready for me.” Then I step forward forcing her towards the bed, and push her face down on the mattress. 

Keeping one hand on her neck to hold her in place, I lick down her spine until I get to her ass. Each cheek is a perfect sphere, and I use my other hand to pry her ass cheeks apart, making space for my face between them. She is totally at my mercy, moaning and grinding against the mattress as my tongue licks a line from the top of her ass to her asshole. I rim around the edges of it, relishing in how it puckers for me. I take both arms and slide them under her writhing torso so I can grab hold of her nipples. Only then do I stick my tongue in her ass. 

She moans as I lick in and out and all around. I want her to beg me to fuck her so that I can hold back and tease her longer, even though every part of me is screaming to be inside of her. I lick the delicate space between her ass and her pussy and finally slide lower, so that I can feel with my tongue how open she is. She shudders and lifts her hips in response, willing me deeper.

Moisture floods from me. Like hers, my lips are puffy and swollen, my clit throbbing. Seeing her body respond to me as I drink the sweet juices of her pussy makes me ravenous. I can’t wait any longer. I lift her up by the hips, flipping her over and spreading her legs apart. I slide down between her thighs and only at the last minute, do I raise my head and lock eyes with Ronnie. He is still sitting on the bed, holding his dick in his hands. 

“Get behind me,” I say. “Fuck me, and watch what I do to your wife.” Then I bury my face in her cunt. 

Ronnie’s dick is thick but he meets no resistance when he enters me. I’m not worried about a condom; I trust him not to cum until he is told. Annie is open and ready, but I take my time spreading her even wider apart with my fingers. My tongue is making lazy circles around her clit, which is so swollen I am careful not to touch her right away. She is whimpering, and I can feel her desperation for me to be all the way inside her. 

“Not yet,” I say, raising up just enough so she knows I am talking to her. But she looks back at me with so much need that I take pity on her and push three fingers into her, gripping her from the inside. 

Annie cries out and raises her pelvis off the bed, trying to pull my fingers deeper. Instead, I move them in and out, as fast and ferocious as I dare, and I put my tongue against the full length of her clit. I leave it there, not moving, and let her writhe against me. It is all the movement she needs to cum long and hard into my mouth, her hands gripping my hair and her eyes rolling back into her head. 

I don’t give her long to catch her breath. I turn my head and direct Ronnie, “Get on your back.” 

“Now you—on top of him.” Annie is dazed but doesn’t hesitate, climbing onto him as directed. 

I watch as she spreads the lips of her pussy wide apart and lowers herself over Ronnie’s cock, swallowing him whole. Satisfied, I spread my own lips, and sit on Ronnie’s face. His tongue runs the length of me, and I lean forward, my hands reaching for Annie’s tits, my mouth reaching for her tongue. 

They fall into their own easy rhythm, clearly familiar with each other's bodies. Ronnie’s tongue on my clit is sending electric pulses through my body, but I ignore it, fascinated by how seamlessly they move and moan together. I might have expected myself to be jealous. But I find that I’m happy for Ronnie–he found a woman to chase the highs with. 

More importantly, I’m happy for myself. 

Ronnie’s tongue becomes more erratic as he gets closer to climax, and I rise up so that my pussy hovers above his face, but he cannot reach it. From this position, I watch them cum together, as I expected they would. It sends an answering shudder through my body, but I do not feel unsatisfied. What I created tonight was beautiful. 

It is what comes next that catches me off guard. 

Annie pushes me backwards so I fall onto the mattress, landing on my back. She climbs on top of me, pinning me down. Brushing the hair out of my face, she whispers, “You aren’t going anywhere, until I make you scream.” Then she lowers herself, and buries her face in my cunt.

This time, with intention, I let my thoughts dissolve and I inhabit my body all the way.