Six Sides

From their table on the pavement, Genevieve watched Remy through the clear plastic sheets hanging across the shop entrance.

They bent him in places as he moved behind them. A shoulder widening, then narrowing. The straight line of his trousers breaking at the knee. He turned sideways to let a woman pass, two white paper parcels balanced in one hand, and disappeared briefly behind a crease.

She shifted in the plastic chair.

The dress pulled higher against her thighs. Dark green, fitted through the waist, with a neckline that had required tape and an honest conversation with herself before they left the apartment. It was too much for four-thirty in the afternoon. Much too much for a fish-and-chip shop.

That had been the point.

Beneath the table, Horus lifted his head. His lead ran once around the leg of her chair, though she had already unwound him twice.

Remy pushed through the gap in the plastic with his shoulder.

The suit was charcoal, tailored closely enough that she could see the shape of him even while he carried their dinner. No tie. The first two buttons of his white shirt open, his Lola's thin silver chain resting against his throat.

New Balance shoes underneath it all.

She smiled.

He set the parcels on the table.

"Fried. Chicken salt."

He moved one towards her.

"Grilled. Plain."

He placed the other in front of the empty chair, then added a single bottle of Sprite Zero and two paper cups.

Genevieve looked at the bottle.

"One?"

"You never finish yours."

"Because you drink it."

"Exactly."

Horus pushed his nose against Remy's thigh as he sat down.

"Hey, bud."

Remy bent to scratch behind his ears. Horus leaned his full weight into the hand, tail striking the underside of the table.

Genevieve opened her parcel. Steam rose into her face, carrying vinegar and salt with it. A small avalanche of chips had been piled over the fish.

She picked one up immediately.

Remy poured the drink between the two cups, giving her slightly less.

She watched him do it.

"You could pretend."

"Then I'd have to pour it into mine later."

He put the bottle between them and began opening his own parcel, careful not to let the paper touch the cuff of his shirt.

"So," he said. "What's this game you want to play?"

Genevieve bit the end off the chip.

"I don't know yet."

He looked up.

She reached into her handbag and placed a small red die on the table.

Remy looked at it. Then at her.

"You bought dice."

"A die."

"You bought one die."

"I found one die."

"Where?"

"Your Warhammer box."

He picked it up and turned it between his fingers.

"Gen, this has twenty sides."

She stared at it.

He held the expression for another second, then smiled. It had six sides.

She kicked him lightly under the table.

"Dickhead."

"You looked worried."

"I was worried. I thought I'd stolen the wrong one."

"You did steal it."

"Borrowed."

She held out her hand.

He placed the die in her palm.

"And what are we doing with my borrowed property?"

"That's what we have to work out."

He picked up his wooden fork and separated a piece of fish.

"You said you wanted to play a game."

"I do."

"But you don't know the game."

"I brought the equipment."

"One-sixth of a Monopoly set."

"Do you want to play or not?"

He ate the fish, watching her while he chewed.

"Yes."

The answer was simple. No smile under it. No performance.

Something shifted low in her stomach.

She put the die beside the Sprite bottle and reached for another chip.

"Okay. Six things."

"That could get very specific."

"Three things, then. One for me and one for you."

"Three categories."

"Yes."

"What's the first one?"

"Pleasure."

He nodded slowly, as if she had suggested a sensible heading for a spreadsheet.

"One is pleasure for me. Two is pleasure for you."

"Why do you get one?"

"It was my idea."

"Fair."

She tore a corner from the clean edge of the paper wrapping and searched her bag for a pen.

Lipstick, keys, purse, a folded shopping receipt and two dog bags.

Remy held his pen out to her.

She looked at it.

"Of course you have a pen."

"You brought a die and no pen."

"I didn't know there would be paperwork."

She took it and wrote:

1. Pleasure -- G

2. Pleasure -- R

The table shifted as Horus rearranged himself underneath it.

"Who chooses?" Remy asked.

She looked up from the paper.

"Chooses what?"

"What the pleasure is."

"The person giving it."

"So if it lands on one, I choose what I do to you."

"Yes."

"And if it lands on two, you choose what you do to me."

She paused.

"Yes."

He watched her.

"You hesitated."

"I was thinking."

"About changing it?"

"No."

"You choose."

"Okay."

He went back to his fish.

The ease of it irritated her slightly. She took a longer drink than she meant to, then pushed the cup towards the centre.

"Second category," he said.

"Pain."

His fork stopped against the paper.

Not for long. Just enough that she noticed.

"Three for you?" he asked.

"Obviously."

"Four for me."

"Obviously."

She wrote them down.

3. Pain -- G

4. Pain -- R

Remy rested one forearm against the edge of the table.

"What counts as pain?"

"You know."

"I want to know what you mean."

Genevieve looked down at her food. A chip had soaked through where it rested against the fish, soft and yellow at one end.

"Hair pulling," she said. "Spanking. Things like that."

"No, Gen."

She looked up.

His expression had not changed.

"You like those."

"I like pain."

"You like those things enough that they belong under pleasure."

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

He picked up a chip and ate it.

"If we're making different categories," he said, "pain has to be something that's actually a little painful."

"Oh."

He waited.

The meaning settled properly.

"Oh," she said again, her mouth going wider.

Remy reached for the Sprite and topped up his cup.

Genevieve sat back.

The plastic chair pressed hard against her spine. She studied him across the table: the open collar, the careful cuffs, the calm face of a man who had just taken her silly idea and found the part of it she had not allowed herself to examine.

"I liked this game more before you started helping."

"Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"I'm eating."

"Smugly."

He looked down at his plain grilled fish.

"It's difficult to be smug over this."

She laughed despite herself.

Horus's head appeared beside her knee, drawn by the sound or the smell. Genevieve broke off the smallest corner of fish.

Remy watched her lower it under the table.

"He's going to bother you for the rest of dinner."

"He already was."

"Because you always give in."

"He trusts me."

Horus took the fish delicately and vanished again.

Genevieve looked back at the list.

"The person giving still chooses."

Remy's attention returned to her.

"For pain?"

"For everything."

"Within what we already know is okay."

"Yes."

"And we can stop."

"We can always stop."

He nodded once.

Still, she became aware of her heel resting against the base of his chair. She had placed it there sometime during the conversation without noticing. She moved it, sliding the tip of her shoe slowly along the inside of his ankle.

Remy looked at her.

She took another chip.

"Two categories," she said.

"We need one more."

"Control?"

"Too broad."

"Restraint?"

"That could be pleasure or pain."

She sighed.

"You're very difficult."

"I'm being specific."

"You're being annoying."

He smiled and moved the last of his chips towards her side of the table.

They ate in silence for a while.

Cars passed along the street beyond their table. Inside the shop, a metal basket struck the edge of a fryer. Late sunlight reached beneath the awning in a narrow strip, catching the green fabric across Genevieve's knees.

Remy looked down at the list again.

"What do you want the last one to do?"

She considered it.

"I don't know."

"Pleasure is something we want. Pain is something we want that's harder."

"Maybe something we haven't done."

"That's just new."

"New can be scary."

The word stayed with her.

She touched the end of the pen to the paper.

"Fear."

Remy's gaze lifted.

"Fear how?"

"Let me think."

This time he did not tease her.

Genevieve turned the die so the five faced upward.

"Something we want," she said. "But we're afraid of."

"Afraid to do?"

"Or afraid to ask for."

He looked at the die, his attention quieter now.

"We each write one down," he said.

Genevieve's fingers tightened around the pen.

"Without telling the other person."

"Then how do we know what to do?"

"We give them the note. If the number comes up, they open it."

She looked at him.

"You already have one, don't you?"

It came out before she could decide whether she wanted to ask.

Remy's eyes stayed on hers.

"Yes."

There was no hesitation in it.

Genevieve looked back down at the paper.

The small list suddenly seemed less playful than it had a moment ago.

"Do you?" he asked.

She ran her thumb over the side of the pen.

"Yes."

"Okay."

He tore two clean strips from the unused paper beneath his parcel, folded each once and passed one to her.

"Five is yours," he said. "Six is mine."

She added them to the list.

5. Fear -- G

6. Fear -- R

The words looked strange beside the others.

Genevieve pulled her handbag onto her lap and used it as a writing surface. Remy turned slightly away, took a second pen from his jacket pocket and rested his paper on the table, shielding it with one hand.

She stared at the blank strip.

The thing itself arrived immediately.

The sentence did not.

She began with I want, crossed it out and tried again without it. Halfway through the first word, she stopped and looked across at Remy.

He was already writing.

Not quickly, but steadily.

She looked down again.

The difficulty was not that he might misunderstand. It was the opposite. He would understand exactly.

Genevieve wrote one sentence, read it, then folded the paper before she could improve it into something safer.

Across from her, Remy placed his pen down and folded his note twice.

They exchanged them across the table.

His paper was warm from his hand.

Genevieve held it between two fingers. Her name was not written on the outside. Nothing was. His was a neat, folded square. Hers was a torn mess. Inside it was something her husband wanted from her and had never asked her to do.

Remy placed her note carefully inside his jacket pocket.

Genevieve slipped his into the small zipped compartment of her handbag.

Neither spoke.

The silence was not bad.

That almost made it stranger.

She folded the remaining paper over the last of her fish, though she was no longer hungry. Horus shifted under the table and rested his chin across the toe of her shoe.

Genevieve looked at Remy's hands while he tidied the wrappers.

They were familiar hands. She knew the light touch of his fingers at her waist when he passed behind her in the kitchen, the way he rested his palm against Horus's ribs while the dog slept. The strength he used and did not use.

Now there was a folded sentence against his chest.

Her sentence.

He glanced up and found her watching.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Still want to roll?"

She looked at the red die beside the empty cups.

For a moment she considered postponing it: returning to the apartment, putting on music, creating the right shape around whatever might happen.

That was not what she had wanted.

She reached for it.

"Who rolls?"

"Your game."

"Our rules."

Remy held out his hand.

She placed the die in it.

He closed his fingers around it and shook once. The movement was small, almost lazy. Then he released it across the middle of the table.

The die struck the Sprite bottle, changed direction and rolled over the handwritten list.

It stopped against the crumpled edge of her wrapper.

Four.

Genevieve stared at it.

Remy leaned forward slightly.

"Typical," he said.

She looked up at him.

His expression was guarded.

She knew what he meant. Of course her game had given her permission to hurt him on the first roll.

"Four," she said.

"Pain for me."

The words were quiet and entirely matter-of-fact.

Her body reacted before she found an answer: a tightening low in her belly, heat beneath the neckline of her dress.

She looked down at his lap, hidden by the table, then back at his face.

"You chose the rules," he said.

"We chose the rules."

"You choose what happens."

Genevieve picked up the die and placed it in her handbag beside his folded note.

"I know."

She stood.

The chair caught briefly against the pavement. Horus rose at once, winding the lead tighter around its leg.

"For God's sake."

Remy bent to free him.

Genevieve watched the suit pull across his shoulders as he crouched. The ordinary tenderness of his hand around the dog's chest.

He stood and offered her the lead.

She shook her head.

"You take him."

"Why?"

"I want my hands free."

Remy held her gaze for a moment, then wrapped the lead once around his wrist.

They started home.

The afternoon had cooled while they ate. Genevieve looped one hand through Remy's arm, her heels breaking the softer rhythm of his shoes. Horus moved ahead of them, stopping at every second tree with the deep concentration of important work.

Remy did not ask what she had chosen.

She sorted through possibilities as they walked. Some were too familiar. Some belonged under pleasure, according to his irritatingly accurate definition. Some she wanted for herself more than for him.

At the corner, Horus stopped abruptly.

Remy stopped with him.

Genevieve took two more steps before the absence beside her registered. She turned.

Horus was investigating the base of a fence. Remy stood under the thin shade of a street tree, looking at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"You wore that dress."

She looked down at herself.

"You chose it."

The heat returned beneath her skin.

Horus finished whatever calculation he had been making and continued forward. Remy followed.

As he reached her, Genevieve caught the open edge of his jacket and pulled him close enough to kiss.

It was brief. Closed mouth. Almost polite.

When she released him, his breathing had changed.

"Keep walking," she said.

He did.

They crossed at the lights and turned into their street.

Genevieve slipped her hand into Remy's empty one.

His fingers closed around hers.

Neither mentioned the note.

She could feel its existence anyway. His in her handbag. Hers against his chest. Two possible versions of the evening walking home beside them, unread.

But they had rolled four.

Four was enough.

By the time they reached the building, she knew what she wanted to do.

Remy held the front door while Horus entered first. Genevieve passed close to him, the front of her dress brushing his hand.

They crossed the lobby and waited for the lift. The mirrored doors returned them to themselves: Remy immaculate except for the open collar, Genevieve too formally dressed for the paper bag of leftovers in her hand, Horus sitting between them with his tongue out.

She looked at Remy in the reflection.

He looked back.

The lift arrived.

Inside, Genevieve pressed their floor. Remy stood beside her, one hand holding the lead, the other loose at his side.

She took that hand, turned it palm-up and ran her thumb once across the centre. She released him before the doors opened.

Horus pulled them down the hallway.

At the apartment, Remy unlocked the door and stepped aside for her.

Genevieve entered first.

The familiar air met her: their shoes by the wall, Horus's toys in the basket, the faint trace of the candle she had burned the night before.

Remy closed the door behind them.

The lock clicked.

"Go to the bedroom and undress. Lie on the floor," she said.

He disappeared.

She took Horus into the kitchen, pulled his dinner from the fridge and placed it inside the crate. He followed it in, tail wagging. She closed the door behind him.

She pressed two fingers against the curve of her neck and took three long breaths.

"Right."

Remy lay naked on the bedroom floor, arms at his sides. He was already hard.

"Don't speak unless I ask a direct question."

She crossed the room slowly, exaggerating the movement of her hips. She could feel him watching as she set the die on the bedside table. She took his folded note from her handbag and placed it beside the die more carefully.

She took her time removing her heels, extending each leg as she did so, then opened her bedside drawer for the purple bottle of lube.

As she poured some into her hands, she noticed her own scrap of paper propped against his lamp. Her cheeks warmed.

"So!"

She let the straps of her dress slip from her shoulders.

She moved over to him. Flat on his back, one arm extended from his side, he let her position his hand. She settled her pelvis over his wrist, then leaned across his chest until her breasts hung directly above his face. She watched him, waiting. Waiting. As his eyes flashed down, she spoke suddenly.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

His head snapped back to her face. She opened the bottle again, applying an excessive amount of liquid to him, and reached over, her right hand gripping him firmly around the shaft.

"Now, listen carefully. I expect you to get this in one go."

His body adjusted involuntarily, his eyes trying to stay on hers. Her hand started slowly moving up and down. She rocked her own hips back and forth, very slowly.

"You are going to do a wall sit. A proper one, with good form, the kind we do at our PT class. Back flat against the wall, thighs parallel and no supporting yourself with your hands."

She reached with her left hand, cupping his balls gently and increasing the speed of her strokes.

She yawned.

"While you maintain it with proper form, you'll receive a wonderful, loving, affectionate, tender wank. When you break the form, the game is over, and we roll again. You win if you orgasm before the form breaks."

On the word orgasm, she sped up suddenly, then resumed a more normal pace.

"Now, repeat that back to me once, so I know you understand. Do you understand?"

Her grip around his balls tightened slightly.

"Wall sit. Proper form. When it breaks, I lose."

She continued for a few moments, watching his jaw. As it tensed, she stopped suddenly. She fanned herself as though she were hot, then wiped her hands on her own breasts.

"You should really appreciate how generous I am. Go sit."

He obeyed immediately, sitting up before moving to the bedroom wall.

She didn't watch him. She applied more lube to her hands.

"Stand against the wall. Hands behind your head."

He did so, adjusting himself, his hips awkward with his erection.

He had lowered himself against the wall, but not far enough.

"Lower."

He slid down slightly.

She pressed one hand against the top of his thigh.

"A proper sit. This is supposed to hurt."

Remy lowered himself again. His thighs settled parallel to the floor, his back flat against the wall. He linked his fingers behind his head and looked at her.

Better.

Genevieve crouched in front of him. With her right hand, she moved behind his testicles and pressed upward into the soft tissue there. A surprised laugh escaped him, followed by a long breath.

"Good," she said. "Don't give up. I believe in you."

She wrapped her left hand around him and resumed pleasuring him.

At first, Remy looked irritatingly comfortable.

His eyes moved between her face, her exposed breasts and her hands. His breathing was deeper than usual, but controlled. There was even the faint beginning of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Genevieve smiled back.

He thought he could do it.

She wasn't sure what she wanted, exactly.

She kept the pace steady, watching his thighs as closely as she watched his face.

Nothing yet.

His back remained flat. His knees stayed still. His hands rested neatly behind his head.

She increased the speed slightly. Remy breathed in through his nose. His stomach tightened, but his legs did not move.

His left thigh trembled.

Small. Almost invisible.

Genevieve's smile widened.

"Well, would you look at that."

Remy's eyes moved down towards his legs, as though he had forgotten they were there.

"Congratulations," she said. "You've finally reached the fun part."

His attention returned to her. The faint smile had disappeared.

The tremble stopped. For several seconds, his form returned to perfect stillness. Genevieve felt an unexpected flicker of pride.

Then the muscle jumped again, this time spreading through both legs.

"Oh, Remy, my love. The burn just means it's working."

He exhaled sharply. His eyes narrowed at her.

She gave him her most encouraging smile, her voice taking on an exaggerated falsetto.

"You're doing wonderfully."

A thin sheen of sweat had appeared across his forehead. His breathing was no longer controlled.

His back shifted against the wall. He corrected it before she could say anything.

The movement pleased her more than it should have. He had noticed his own form slipping and chosen to sink back into the pain.

For her.

She watched his thighs shake and felt a rush of affection so strong it almost disrupted what she was doing. Beneath it sat something darker. Something pleased by the strain in his face and the effort required to remain in place.

She did not particularly want to examine that part yet.

"Still confident?"

His jaw tightened.

"That's what I thought."

Remy's elbows had begun drifting forward. His hips rose a fraction as his legs attempted to escape the angle.

Genevieve slowed.

He noticed immediately.

His hips lowered again.

She restored the reward.

There it was.

She could control his form without touching his legs at all.

She slowed again, just enough to make the loss apparent.

Remy forced himself lower.

"See?" she said. "Perfectly fair."

He made a strained sound through his nose.

"You sit properly. Your wife gets on her knees with her tits out, nice and wet, and takes care of you. Everyone wins."

His thighs shook harder.

He was getting close.

She could see it now in the way his attention narrowed. He was no longer looking at her body. No longer following her hands. His gaze had fixed on her face as though she were the only stable object in the room.

She wanted him to make it.

She wanted his legs to fail.

Remy's right knee shifted inward.

He corrected it.

His left foot moved.

He corrected that too.

Then his hips rose.

Not slightly this time. His thighs lost their line with the floor, his back sliding several centimetres up the wall.

The form was broken.

Genevieve stopped.

Remy stayed where he was, breathing heavily. His face was flushed. His hands remained behind his head, though his fingers had come apart.

He looked at her.

Waiting.

The game was over. Those had been the rules.

Genevieve looked at his shaking legs. Then at his face.

She had expected to feel satisfied.

Instead, she wanted more. She felt a deep hunger in her belly.

"I've changed my mind," she said, trying to sound flippant.

Remy's eyes sharpened.

"I'll keep going as long as you keep going."

"You can stand up now. We roll again."

"Or... you can sit back down, and this time it ends when you give up."

The room seemed suddenly quiet.

Genevieve waited.

She would let him stand. She meant that. The die was on the bedside table, his folded square beside it. If he straightened his legs, she would kiss him, give him time and roll again when he was ready.

Remy watched her.

She remained completely still.

Then, without looking away, he lowered himself.

Slowly.

His back flattened against the wall. His thighs returned to parallel. His hands lifted and linked behind his head.

Genevieve felt something open inside her.

The affection came first, enormous and almost painful.

The cruelty arrived directly beneath it. She could feel her own wetness between her thighs.

She resumed.

She used both hands this time, gripping firmly around his penis, going up and down, making a twisting motion, each hand moving in the opposite direction.

Remy's reaction was immediate. His head struck the wall lightly. His legs began shaking almost at once, all the recovery he had gained during the pause disappearing.

Genevieve did not build slowly this time.

She licked the tip of his penis, leaning her breasts against his thighs and speeding up suddenly.

His eyes widened.

"That's right," she said. "You agreed to the new rules."

His hands came away from behind his head and pressed flat against the wall. His hips rose.

"No, no. Don't worry about the form anymore."

A choking sound escaped him.

"We both know you already lost."

She pressed closer, her dress gathering around her thighs.

"This is just to find out how badly."

Remy looked towards the ceiling, his whole body shaking.

Genevieve watched him with a fascination that frightened her slightly. She had never seen him look so stripped of composure. Her beautiful, careful husband, who folded his jacket before putting it down and carried two pens in case one failed, was trembling against their bedroom wall because she had asked him to stay there.

Because she had made staying worth the pain.

The thought almost overwhelmed her.

She answered it by becoming crueller.

She cupped his balls and rolled them gently within her palm.

"You're a little pussy," she said.

The words affected him. She saw it immediately.

Her mouth opened in surprise, then curved into a smile.

"Oh, you liked that."

Remy shut his eyes.

"You're getting beaten by a wall."

His hands pressed harder against it, fingers spread.

"And you're still trying because your wife has her breasts out."

A broken sound left him, something between a laugh and a groan.

Genevieve's own composure nearly went with it.

She kept going.

His position no longer resembled a proper wall sit. His hips had risen, his knees shook uncontrollably and both hands braced against the wall. Still, he did not stand. He did not slide down. He remained caught in the ruined version of the position, taking everything she gave him.

Genevieve watched his face.

She recognised the tightening through his abdomen and hips. Perhaps close enough. Another few seconds and he might actually reach orgasm.

She intensified again.

Remy's eyes flew open.

He looked at her.

The panic was immediate and unguarded.

He shook his head, unable to speak.

Genevieve stopped.

Her hands left him immediately.

Remy released the wall and slid down it. His body folded onto the floor, back against the plaster, legs stretched awkwardly in front of him.

Genevieve stepped back, breathing almost as hard as he was.

She looked at him.

Sweat had broken across his forehead and chest. His hair had finally come loose at the front. His thighs still trembled in small, involuntary movements.

The image struck her with such force that her eyes filled.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she whispered.

She knelt beside him and kissed the back of his neck. Then she held his face between both hands, pressing her forehead briefly against his temple.

"My beautiful idiot."

Her voice broke slightly on the last word.

She lay down beside him, half covering his body with hers. Remy turned into her immediately, pressing his face against her breasts.

For a while, neither spoke.

Genevieve stroked his shoulder. The affection inside her felt absurd, almost embarrassing. She wanted to squeeze him, kiss every part of his face, soothe every shaking muscle, undo the pain she had deliberately caused and then do it all again. Somehow, each impulse belonged to the same feeling.

Remy finally breathed out.

"Oh God, I was close. I thought I could make it."

"I know."

She kissed the top of his head.

"You were so close. It was very upsetting for me."

A tired laugh moved through his body.

"Upsetting for you?" he said, baffled.

Genevieve held him tighter.

When his breathing had settled, she lifted herself onto one elbow.

"Ready?"

Remy looked at her.

She tilted her head towards the bedside table.

He followed her gaze.

The red die sat beside the lamp. Beside it, her torn scrap of paper leaned against the base. His folded square remained exactly where she had placed it.

Remy looked back at her.

"Again?"

"If you want."

He stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded.

Genevieve stood and crossed to the table. As she reached for the die, her fingers brushed the edge of his note.

Five or six.

Her stomach tightened.

She picked up the die and returned to him.

Remy pushed himself upright, still leaning against the wall. Genevieve settled beside him and placed the die in his palm. She kissed him on the wrist where she had sat on him.

He closed his fingers around the die.

Shook once.

Then let it fall.

The die struck the floor between them and rolled.