“You will obey me,” I said.

He didn’t respond, but there was a glint in his eyes that thrilled me—wasn’t there?—and my heart raced. The image of him I’d had as a child: me draped over his lap, his hand grabbing my hair, wrenching my head around, the other hand smacking my ass—in a second, I was wet. Would he really do it—would he pull me onto his lap, would he spank me? I was dizzy, I was thrilled, either this would happen or I would faint—

“You know what I want,” I said.

He was silent, just looking at me.

“Spank me.”

More silence. More looking.

“Spank me!”

Silence.

“Then let me fuck you!”

“You don’t really want to do that.”

“Why is everyone always telling me what I do and don’t want?”

He didn’t respond. A little whimper, the beginning of a tantrum, bubbled out of me.

“I need to touch myself,” I whispered.

He didn’t speak or move. I pulled myself over the arm of the couch so that it pressed into my stomach. With every move I made, I stared harder into his eyes: as I reached underneath to unbutton my jeans; as I pulled them down over my ass; as I began smacking myself with my left hand while I touched myself with my right. His eyes bore into mine. I rubbed harder, harder. The couch pressed deeper into my belly. My left arm began to ache but I continued to smack myself, again and again and again. He barely moved, but I saw his heart beating at his neck. As I came, he watched me scream.

I continued to hold his gaze, panting deep in my throat. Then I slid back onto the couch, flipped myself back over, pulled my jeans back up, and lay in filled-up quiet.

“Why do you think you needed to do that?” he said.

Immediately I felt sick. The urge to masturbate again was almost unbearable. I didn’t know how to answer and instead pulled the blanket back up to my chin and wrapped my arms around myself and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I am not criticizing you,” he said. “I am asking you to examine.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There is,” he said. “There is all the difference in the world.”

Underneath the blanket, so slowly I was sure he couldn’t see, I slid my hand toward my crotch again, then pressed my fingers there. The intense comfort of it, my home.

“I’ve done it for a very long time,” I said. “Like I told you.”

Silence.

“I can’t help it,” I said finally.

“There is no need to help it,” he said. “I am only suggesting that it might provide clues as to who you are.”

People masturbate when they’re full of craving, when they’re horny, when they want. This much was obvious. But this wasn’t all of it, I knew. I thought back to the opera, to what had happened right before I’d run to the bathroom: Werther, his anguished frenzy, my own.