There were freshly washed and folded clothes on the bed. Bruno swept them to the floor and shoved Anna to the mattress without ceremony. Anna let down her hair and tossed the clip toward the nightstand, where it bounced and then slid right off. She reached for the waistband of her pantyhose, the back fastening of her bra—she was too aroused to decide which she’d take off first. Stop, Bruno commanded. I will undress you. Anna complied limply as Bruno unzipped his pants and pushed them along with his briefs down his legs.
God, he’s so fucking handsome. Anna allowed herself this swoon. I forgot how handsome he was. Even for a Swiss man Bruno was tall; at a slouch he stood six foot four. His eyes were hazel—yellow and brown like a tiger’s-eye jewel. His chest was broad and beautiful, silken and downy. The hair on his head, the hair on his body the rustic brown of fresh-turned soil. His forearms were veiny, strong like a carpenter’s. His nose, more Aryan than Alemannic, ran straight as a taut line of string from its bridge to its tip. His were the features of an aristocrat; he was the physical heir of another era. And his cock. Anna loved Bruno’s cock. Of all the cocks belonging to all her lovers past or present, Bruno’s was the largest. Erect, it was nearly as long as a dinner knife and as big around as the face of a man’s pocket watch. Uncut. Precision straight. It was obscene, aggressive, and in just a minute it would split her apart. Anna had never been able to slide more than half of it into her mouth. Her orgasms were painful, exquisite affairs.
Bruno spread her legs. Anna, still drunk, wanted nothing more than to lie there and let his will overpower her. Her knees fell open as Bruno climbed between them, entered her, then slammed his cock in and out of her as hard as he could. After two, three, four minutes of this he pulled out entirely and flipped Anna onto her stomach. He hitched her pelvis to the edge of the bed, knelt on the floor and pushed her legs each to their own side before burying his tongue inside her. Anna moaned, sighed, bucked her hips against his face. But she didn’t come. Bruno shoved her forward on the bed and forced her knees underneath her. Anna started to lift herself up onto her hands but Bruno barked No and with his left hand he pushed her shoulders down, even as with his right, he positioned his cock to enter her again. Anna allowed herself the ecstasy of powerlessness. Of all her men, it was only with Bruno that this could be fully accomplished. Of all her men, Bruno was the most threatening. Bruno pushed so deeply into her that Anna felt like she might split into halves. Anna growled. Bruno moved his left hand to the small of her back and reached his right around her and found her clit with his fingers. He twiddled it, flicked it, pinched it. “I’m gonna come,” Anna rasped and reached back with her own hand and pushed his away. Bruno took hold of her hips, fucked her harder than he had in years. Anna’s orgasm called forth Bruno’s. They stiffened, flushed, first called out each other’s names and then the name of God, before collapsing in a singular, satisfied cry.
When it was done, Bruno let the weight of his body press Anna between him and the bed. They remained that way until Bruno’s cock stopped pulsing and it softened enough to fall out on its own. When it did, Bruno rolled off her and onto his back. Anna turned her head to look at him. Bruno, empty of energy beside her, stretched his body out its full length and capped the motion with a shiver. By the light of the dim but undeniable moon, Anna saw what passed for a smile on Bruno’s face.
“Bruno,” she whispered. “What’s the purpose of pain?”
“This is pillow talk?” Bruno yawned. “Go to sleep, Anna.” Anna asked him again. She wanted to know. Bruno took several breaths before answering. Anna thought he’d fallen asleep. “Pain is the proof of life.” His voice was unguarded. “That’s its purpose.” It was a more satisfying answer than Doktor Messerli had given her.
“Bruno,” Anna pressed. “Do you love me?” He answered Anna’s question with a snore.
12
THE POSTANALYSIS LETDOWN IS OFTEN PALPABLE. AS IN THE aftermath of sex, you are tired, spent, and for the moment relieved it’s over. You leave the analyst’s office aware of your singularity and your solitude alike. It’s you who lives in the prison of your skin. No one gets the afterglow they want. Everyone dies alone. Analysis is a process. The process is a slow procession. It is a cortege.
Vhat are yooo sinking? Doktor Messerli had asked.
Anna shook her head. There was nothing she wanted to admit thinking of. The session was almost over. Anna stood, rubbed her neck, and stretched herself in several directions. “My back hurts. I’m tense. That’s all.” Anna bent to gather her things and leave.
Doktor Messerli rose and followed her to the office door. “Even the loveliest shoulders can bear but so much.”