A game of submission |
Wrists in your hands, caught by the arbitrary whims of speech and silence they are shackles deployed masterfully, gilded to be sure, but shackles all the same, forged of burning metal and slavish devotion; they anchor me to a vanishing coast minutes before the tide rolls in. We hover in the moment, uncertain. I submit. The restraints are actually built of love and indifference, yours and mine, stronger than steel, padded to hide their brutal purpose binding me, an immovable object, to the unstoppable force of this inevitable betrayal, doubly hurtful for being expected. Self-respect demanded that I at least attempt an escape For the chains of obsession have lashed me to the bedpost more securely than the tools of your trade: The belt of Italian leather that nevertheless buckles with the strain of struggle countless fruitless efforts that succeed only in rattling the headboard And fluttering the curtains in the wake of your departure; The tie of handspun Japanese silk, hot from the beating of your chest carrying the scent of cologne and man, wound tightly across my eyes so though you walked out of the room the scent lingered in the air sharpening the sense of civilized menace these bedroom games implied; The cotton handkerchief to wipe your hands afterwards. I sob softly at the realization that with strong hands and a wicked heart you had seduced my fears into quiescence for long enough That the door closes quietly behind you. |