My scene finished with NHF, I again found my head on his knee. We both relaxed by the wall, he in his chair and me on the floor, coming down from the high of our intense interaction.
As I rested there next to him, by chance I had looked over in the corner nearest us and had begun watching an intense impact scene.
Noticing my locked stare, NHF leaned down and whispered in my ear.
“That’s Roughinamorato. I love to watch him play.”
I had never heard of Roughinamorato before, could not recall ever seeing his face, let alone watching him play. And yet as I sat there, gripping NHF’s knee, I was mesmerized.
And even as NHF walked away, I stayed.
I pulled out my notebook and began jotting down bullet points from our scene, my way of processing the play and solidifying the memories for later.
Yet as I wanted to write, absolutely needed to write, I found myself often stopping to watch Roughinamorato beat on a beautiful woman.
His target was the body of a gorgeous young lady with long brown hair, her arms secured behind her back in a chest harness. They played in a empty corner, just a sheet underneath them.
My gaze was first drawn to them because of a loud pop! that cracked throughout the dungeon. Rough was using long clown balloons in some odd fashion.
At first I was upset by the noise, annoyed even; I was, after all, coming down from an intense scene. But then again because of the noise I had looked over and saw them, saw him, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.
As I watched him, he mercilessly punched the woman’s chest. He kneed her ass. He pulled her this way and that, using the chest harness to toss her around, pick her up and throw her down. His hand around her neck, he squeezed, even as his lips teased her, so close to her mouth.
As I sat watching, a burning urge grew inside me. I wanted to see them kiss. Wanted to see his lips on hers. Even as he held back her breath, his mouth never quite touching hers, I wanted to see that release.
It was obvious I had begun to watch their scene more than half way in. Still, I pulled my eyes away, quickly lowered my head, and walked myself step-by-step through the flashes of my scene in my mind. I worried if I watched Rough for too long, I would begin to loose bits and pieces of my own play. When I looked up again, the woman was folding up the sheet; their scene was over.
I was grateful for the now lack of distraction, yet sad that I’d only gotten a taste of seeing Rough’s work. Soon after they departed, I walked upstairs to finish my writing, wanting no other scenes to draw my eye or mind away from my notes.
Saturday night, however, was not the only time I saw Roughinamorato play.
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