Fear and desire — an endless replay

— a session observed and recorded by Meredith Talbot, @meredithsgaze

It’s early in the morning, and the sun streams in through the large windows, illuminating a pristine and beautiful hotel room. Cléo and J sit side by side on the couch. Cléo slumps casually in the couch, her arms outstretched to either side with a to go cup of coffee in one hand. She is wearing a white muscle tee cinched with a belt, paired with stunning, shiny black PVC pants and calf-length boots. She looks the part of Dominatrix-off-duty, as if a hot girl who didn’t feel the need to try too hard. “J this is my friend, Meredith. Meredith, this is J.” She introduces. I say hello and take off my bags, shoes, coat. “Why don’t you come over? We’re just hanging out.” 

We chat casually – the news, Instagram memes, tutoring, until Cléo heads to the bathroom. When she returns, she announces her plan: she wants to bully him. 

“Well, while you were in the bathroom, she swore she would protect me,” J taunts, gesturing towards me. Cléo perks up, her eyes starting to shimmer. “Oh, is that right? You two have a little agreement going, hmmm? You’re going to work together?” 

He starts to shrink. “Y-y-yes, Mistress.” 

She’s standing directly over him, and he’s sliding down into the couch. She turns to me: “Is this true?” 

“Of course,” I offer. 

“Well then!” she exclaims, lunging for his hair and tugging it upwards with her fist. “Let’s see what she does to protect you.”

“Oh no!” I exclaim, “my leg’s asleep!” He flashes a glare my way but she immediately brings him back by dropping down onto his lap. The light reflects the curves of her ass spectacularly as she leans forward to whisper in his ear. The forceful sensuality of her pose and her pants stand comically opposed to his own nerdy boyishness. Everyone now to their positions. 

“Look into my eyes,” she instructs. “They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Shall we see about that?” He’s dropping rapidly, like an elevator in freefall. His voice is higher now, his moans sound like an eleven-year-old girl who’s only just discovered porn and has decided to try out the sounds in front of her baby pink mirror. His eyes are puppy eyes, eying her eagerly, pathetically. A whimper. “Why don’t you try to get up, hmm?” she taunts. So begins the silly game. “I think I’m stuck” he whimpers. Her hands on her hips: a schoolyard scene, a classic fantasy between the hot bully and the nerdy boy. “What are you going to do now?” she asks in a childish tone. He struggles again and tries to push himself up. He grunts futilely, trying to lift himself again and again, luxuriating in each failure. “Brother,” she says, “I weigh 105 pounds. I’m the same weight as two bags of rice.” His eyes dart downwards. Shame. Wanting. She senses it. “Do you have a hard on?” 

He shakes his head, opening his mouth to protest but before he can, she commands him: “Stand up!”

There was no doubt about it. His erection bulged from within his pants, admitting his own pleasure through a series of faint, stretched lines. “Is that a hard on?” she asks me. 

“In my professional opinion,” I assess, “yes.”

She lifts his shirt. While all she holds is his arm, his body seems trapped, like a damsel tangled in weeds. The sun illuminates them strikingly, a statuesque vision of PVC, draping black hair down her back, shimmering red hair framed by his hands up over his head, and his cartoonish face of lady-in-pleasure shuddering in front of me. “You know what I’m going to do right?” she taunts, crawling her fingers slowly up his torso from his waist. 

 “P-p-please, Mistress,” he pleads meekly, “please let me go.” In response she shoves him back and into the wall. He faces me directly now, eyes rolling and eyebrows squeezing. She starts to twist his nipples (I deduce), and his moans are now anime moans, reverberating, unabashed and uninhibited. His moans fuel her, animate her. 

Her knee slams into his groin. “Does this turn you on?!” she interrogates. “Just this? Nothing else?!” He is beyond words, his head flung back into the wall, he responds only in whimpers, moans, squeals a cacophony of pleasure. 

“Let’s show my friend your recording” she suggests, slowing down. “Do you want to show her?” She flips around to face me, gyrating her ass gently into his groin. Her arm is raised, clutching his hair behind her, her face bearing the satisfied smile of someone who knows how to make a man melt. Her eyes lock onto mine and they don’t move. “Do you want to show her?” she repeats. He is lost. Whimpering quietly still into the strands of her hair covering her face. “Tell me, do you want to?” 

“If you want to,” he at last concedes. An exaggerated, twisted smile spreads across her face. Slowly she mouths, “Okay.” She leaves him against the wall to fetch his phone. He does not know what to do with himself, his limbs now jello. She starts the recording and returns to her post. Crushing her body into his, forcing his wrists against the wall, her mouth inches from his hear, her nail delicately, deliberately encircling his nipple. Suddenly his moans – his very same moans – emanate from her phone. She laughs at him now, him then. A chorus begins, the four of them bouncing off each other. She demands he repeat what he hears. 

“I’m sorry I’m a weakling” 

“I’m sorry I’m a weakling”

“I’m sowwy I’m a weakling”

“I’m sowwy I’m a weakling” 

Her laughs echo time and space, she seems to be everywhere. A moan, a moan. Laughter. A whisper. “Oh, so your boner is a liar then?” we hear her jeer from her phone. “Yeah,” this Cléo says, “is that right? Is your boner a liar?” She waves her finger at it, disapprovingly.

J then and J now moan together in perfect harmony: “It just feels so good.” Uncanny.

The audio is a meditation on repetition. It displaces us from this moment from the now, transporting us to an eternal time where his desire, her dominance, their dance replay endlessly. There is no way to stay in any fixed time. Her laughter, his moans are too slippery, we slide to elsewhere. We are somewhere else, endlessly. In stunning contrast to the fullness of these sounds their bodies are so still. They appear lodged in goo, moving only minimally, a thrust here, a gyration there, a shudder, a deep breath. Her nail circles, the tiniest of movements, but then how does it feel like so much? “Only this???!” J and I gasp, together. The only quick movements can be found in his knees and elbows, which tremble desperately, quivering with fear and desire.