Desire

8 months later

I am sitting in the middle of the bed. I have taken a shower—have scrubbed the dirt from city's monotony away. My hair is washed. The smell of citrus shampoo clings to each strand and if I turn my head just so, I can breathe deep, and remember sweet summer days from two years past. I have squeezed just the right amount of lotion onto my palms, rubbing it on my legs, my arms, my breasts at just the right pressure to produce a tingling longing. It is just the amount to make me want to run my hands up and down my legs again and again; that silky paradox that a woman is supposed to be only lasts for so long, and I want to touch and glide my fingers against it for as long as it clings to my skin. Idly, I stare at my drawn up knees, smoothing my check against them. Nothing more to do, but wait and wonder. Wait, for what, I do not know—but I sit here, naked, my silken body encased within a light blue over-washed sheet. It is, perhaps, an unconscious last attempt to retain some sort of modesty. But in this conscious world that I am bound to, I tell myself that I cling to it to ward off the chill.

I have been waiting long enough to have traced the outline of every piece of furniture in your room with my eyes as the pencil. I have painted this room, with its odd pieces of furniture and odd colors, onto the canvas that blankets my mind. Changes have been made on this canvas—colors deleted, shapes and lines added—shadows and light moving in and out of corners. I have even drawn myself. On this canvas, I am in a far different position than I am at this moment. Right now, I am in the middle of your bed, sitting with arms around drawn up legs, head resting on bended knees, eyes staring at the scarred wooden door across from the bed. But in my mind's painting—I am lying down on my back, legs spread wide, each ankle secured with rope to each corner of the bed. My hands are clutching the wrought iron bars on the headboard above my head—not tied, but still unable to move. My eyes are closed, lips parted.

No sheet hides my body in this painting. I am exposed, irrevocably and completely exposed. My breasts full and aching, slightly apart—nipples, so very light in color, are erect, waiting for your touch. A small brown mole adorns the middle of my stomach—its twin lies in the middle of my chest, above my breasts. If one took a paintbrush and painted a line from mole to mole, that line would be straight—almost as if these two moles were placed there for some purpose. Follow that line down further still, and the black curls which serve as a shield, come into view. Run your fingers through those curls, and you will find yet another small mole.

But—this is only in my mind, for here, in this moment, I sit—curled position, eyes pensively watching the doors. There is the fleeting thought of a wish to get into this position which has infiltrated my mind for you—because I know it would please you. A fleeting thought only because I pry it from my mind and cast it away somewhere in the deep recesses of the subconscious—or, at least, I try to. I am honest enough to partially admit my desire—and this is what scares me the most. So, I wait, but my body is not still—for the picture in my mind beckons, makes my body begin to react—and my imagination churns.

I imagine your hands on my shoulders firmly, but gently, massaging. I imagine your hand grasping my chin—forcing my eyes to meet yours, showing me the slight disapproval swimming in the brown depths of your eyes. Disapproval at how I am sitting—as if I were hiding. And maybe I am. I imagine wishing I were in the position that had washed over the canvas in my mind. But I am not in that position, and so you slowly pull my legs down, gently push me onto my back. And the whole time, you do not speak, showing your disapproval and disappointment only in your methodical movements. I do not trust you, you might think. But it is not that and I long to tell you so—though something tells me that maybe you know that, and maybe you know the real cause, which is even worse. You know me more than I know myself—you know all the parts that I long to hide from my vision. This is what scares me: you want me to know myself as you know me.

And I am thinking all of this as I wait—and on some level, it is a breakthrough, but one that I don't want to embrace.

I turn my head to look out the window. Night has taken over. The room is now full of shifting shadows and apparitions that beckon. A small candle is the only light, but it is a mere pinpoint. The landscape outside has turned to murky water, items no longer visible and concrete. It matches my feelings.

You still have not come—and now I worry. I hear you moving around in the other room, but you have not come for me, as you said you would. "Just wait." I can still hear your voice echoing inside this room when you led me in here. And so I have waited.

Worry turns to irritation. Irritation turns to anger. Anger at you, or myself, I know not. Maybe you have decided to forgo tonight—maybe you are doling out some sort of punishment. You know I am not good at waiting, and I wonder what you want from me. It has been three months since I moved in, eight months since the first time my eyes moved over your face for the first time. And I have given you much, but I feel as if you are still trying to pull something out of me that should stay inside. "I started this," I want to shout. Or maybe you did—and maybe I helped. Is it time to finish it?

I close my eyes. A slow ache begins to throb inside my head, and I wish for wine. Wine would help to smooth the edge of this situation—but you must know that, and so you haven't left any wine. Tea! You have left tea! Half is gone and the glass sits on the night stand. I find myself overcome with a consuming desire to throw it at your head, should you open the door anytime soon.

I tear the sheet off my body and jump out of bed. You will find me standing! I walk back and forth across the room, counting the steps. It takes exactly ten steps from one wall to the other. I will leave, I decide, but that means looking for my clothes—and you took those. Well, so I'm naked. I will walk out anyway! But I don't have a car. Why did I let you pick me up?

I suddenly stop, breath coming in and out of my mouth in short puffs. No noise comes from beyond the door anymore. Have you fallen asleep? I put my hands on my hips and scowl, stalk towards the door. The door is locked.

All night, I have been quiet, I haven't said one word. I haven't called for you—but now I take my anger out on the door, yell your name. Ten minutes pass by, still I do not hear your footsteps, and I know you are not coming. I sink to the floor, pressing my head against its hardness, hoping that this impenetrable spirit of the door will somehow soak into my mind.

I do not know how long I stayed in that position, crouched by the door, hoping that I would hear your footsteps, knowing that if you entered the room that I would punch you. I slowly stand up, look at the bed. Images pervade my mind and I become lost in them. My gaze wonders up and down the bed, and it is only then that I see the ropes. Ropes. My lungs suddenly don't work. Air claws its way up my throat but it is unable to escape. Ropes. I step closer to the bed, run my hands over the covers. Ropes attached to the headboard and footboard. Suddenly, I've never been so thirsty. I pick up the glass of tea and take huge swallows. But it is not enough; dryness coats my mouth.

Pictures shoot through my head, pictures I have no desire to see. You know that I have resisted the use of ropes. You have gently pushed and prodded as to why, though you already know. You want me to know, to understand myself. So far, I have hidden those reasons away from myself. If I were to look, to examine, I know what I would find—on some level. My heart quakes at the thought of forcing myself to come face to face with my desires, my whole being. But I do not want to find this out. I do not want to admit to myself what you know of me.

My body folds and I sink to the floor. I wrap my arms around my legs. You ask too much. Too much. And, what? Are you going to keep me locked in here? Force me into looking inside myself? It won't work. It won't.

Have you gone to sleep, I wonder. It is late, but there are no clocks in this room. I lie down on the floor. I won't sleep in that bed. Your bed.

"And how do you know me?"

"I know you. I know what goes on inside that body of yours, inside that head. I know that you react to my every glance, my every movement. You want me to touch you." Your voice is like thick honey. I am captivated.

"You are wrong," but I am trembling.

"Do you think you can always hide?"

"I am not hiding," I clasp my hands, "I'm not. You should leave. This was a mistake."

"Leave? A mistake? There is no mistake. You have given your friendship to me, and I have given you mine. You knew what I wanted from the beginning, and you still continued to see me. There is no mistake."

"Yes, there is. It's too much—you're too much," I look towards the door.

"Too much? Too much is this talk we're having. Come here."

"I don't want to," but my body strains towards yours, and you see it.

"Really?" Your eyes sparkle, a small smile, and suddenly your arms are around me, your mouth invading mine, your hands------

My eyes open. Dreams have the capability to destroy or build. Memories have the ability to bind and torture. That kiss. I still remember the taste of your mouth on mine when you pulled me to you seven months ago.

Its is morning, and my body aches. I slowly stretch. I am warm, but I should be cold. I look down, and the blanket I gave you for Christmas lies over my body. You must have come in during the night. I look at the bed, hoping to see you there, but you are not. No one has slept in that bed. I throw the cover off, irritation and desire courses through my body at the same time—two conflicting emotions battling. And it makes me angry that you covered me up. Always, you are caring for me even as you reprimand me. And this is what you're doing now, isn't it? Reprimanding me? Somehow, this makes me even angrier, but I refuse to analyze why that is. Instead I bask in it, giving myself over to a tantrum.

I stand up. You have a pair of scissors somewhere in this room, I know. I walk towards the desk, blanket in hand. There, right beneath your papers in the second drawer of your desk. There lies the scissors. I pick them up, and it is satisfying to feel the cold hard metal in my hands, to slowly put the blanket in between the two blades, to feel the resistance of the blanket shows before succumbing to the blades. I cut two large slices into the blanket, and then drop the scissors on the floor. Something fiendish, violent, overcomes me, and I tear at the blanket. My body delights in this destruction—heart racing, eyes wide as if they cannot shut, mouth open in delight. It is terrifying, yet thrilling. And I keep tearing, and ripping, tearing and ripping, the sounds echoing in my ears. But suddenly, your face comes into my mind—and I stop. The pieces of the destroyed blanket fall to the floor. Your eyes—they are piercing into my heart. I begin to shake and the tattered remains of my anger mock me.

Tears fall down my face, a silent rainfall. And I find myself craving to have your arms around me, holding me tightly, protecting me—even from myself. But you are not here—and I am lost.

Anger has disappeared, almost as though it were a fire put out suddenly by a bucket of water. Once there, the next moment nothing but ashes. I slowly pick up the pieces of blanket and discard them into the trashcan that sits next to your desk. The scissors are once more in my hand, but now they feel like only a pair of scissors. My body feels heavy, as if two large hands were pulling me down, pulling...pulling.

The pain in my head begins again, and I realize I'm hungry. But you have left no food for me. I crawl back to my spot on the floor and lie down, eyes closed, a sigh forcing its way out of my body. I hear movement beyond the door, but I am too tired to even wonder at it. I even hear the door open, but I am unable to care. Somehow, I know it is you—no one else but you. It is as if the body recognizes its captor even as the mind does not wish to. But I keep my eyes closed—I do not want to see your eyes. Your eyes hold the power to strip me, physically, emotionally, and mentally. My defenses, the wall around that which does not and should not be disturbed...I cling to those now.

There is no thought of leaving this room anymore, even though I try to think such thoughts. Perhaps you know this. Perhaps you know the power you wield over me; you would not stop me if I got up and walked away. You would only wait until I came back, and the fact that you know I would come back scares me. No, you might not stop me, but your eyes would, your body would. It would call to mine, and my mine would answer. And I know all this, and so if I keep my eyes closed, and I lie here quietly, I might just be able to resist.

I hear you moving around the room. I know the moment you see the remains of your Christmas present because there is a sudden quiet which invades the room. I expect you to say something, but you don't—and I find that silence even harder to bear.

You are closer to me now, and I know you are looking at me. Suddenly I feel your hands upon my bare skin. I have always loved your hands—big, strong, rough and gentle. Somehow your hands can be both loving and cruel. Not cruel in the sense of physical pain, but cruel just the same, because with those hands I become something other than myself, something that scares me, something which you want me to face. And yet, I love your hands.

You pull me up, and then I am weightless in your arms. I keep my eyes tightly shut, face buried in your chest. You put me on the bed in a sitting position, almost daring me with your body to move. It is a dare which I dare not take. You sit behind me, pulling me between your legs. The contact is too much, and I jerk away automatically, even as I wish to be closer. But you do not allow this. You pull me closer, resting your head atop mine. It is only now that I open my eyes, for you are behind me, and your eyes cannot reach into mine. You place a tray loaded with food on my lap. Then I hear your voice—and my body reacts. "Eat," is all you say. It is a command, and I cannot refuse. One of your hands settle on my stomach, the other takes the fork full of food from my hand that I have just picked up, and guides it to my open mouth. I do not taste the food; I do not even see the food. I eat slowly, loving the feel of your body against my back.

Soon I am finished. You pick up the glass of orange juice and bring it to my lips.

"Drink." I open my mouth, and you tip the glass. I am so thirsty, but not for this, for you. You pull the glass away and put it on the tray. Then, you push the tray away. I begin to pull away, afraid that you will push me away. But you growl and pull me tighter against you. You put your hands on my legs, bend my knees, and pull my legs apart. You are not gentle but you do not hurt me; there is a tension in your body that I feel. For a moment, I resist. My breathing quickens, reacting to your touch, to the picture I must make, but I resist. Your hand squeezes my leg in warning. You pull my legs wider and position each leg over each of yours. With your legs, you hold mine apart. One hand returns to my stomach and you pull me against you hard. I feel your breath on my neck and I begin to wish you would gently bite the point where shoulder meets neck.

Your other hand slides lower, covering my cunt. You cup me tightly, hold me against you, letting me feel the tension in your body, the strength you hold in check—and like this, you keep me—no other movement. I am breathing faster, moans forming in the back of my throat, even though you have not done anything else. We sit like this for what seems to me like days, though it's probably only a few minutes. But it is enough for me to realize what you are doing, and my mind protests, but my body...my body submits. I push against your hand, begging for your movement. You begin, and I sigh in relief. I expect you to slowly begin, and close my eyes, letting out a deep sigh. But you are forceful, and my eyes open wide. You shove three fingers deep inside me, and pull out quickly, only to shove them back in deep and hard. I have been wet since you walked into the room, but I am unprepared for this. I strain against your hand, trying to pull away, but you force me to remain plastered against your body. You slowly withdraw your fingers, and then quickly shove them deeper inside me, over and over again. I am panting, my body on fire. My breasts are heavy with wanting, nipples hard and begging for attention. You are pushing me over the edge forcefully and too quickly. Before I know what's happening, I begin to come, deep spasms holding my body in captivity. I cry out and hold my hand against yours, at once trying to push your hand deeper and to pull it away. I become limp against you, but your fingers do not stop. I moan and writhe against your hold, and beg you to stop, but you do not listen. Your other hand slides down to find my clit, and again you roughly force me into another orgasm—one hand flicking my clitoris, the other driving deep into my cunt. I almost scream this time, but instead I moan your name, clutch your arms, come hard. Still, you do not relent, and push me over the edge again.

My body is drained—completely limp against yours. Your hands stop, but your fingers stay deep inside me. I am unable to move, and it is then that you bend your head to my neck. Your tongue flicks the place where my pulse beats rapidly. A moan forces its way out of me, and you sink your teeth into my flesh, sucking against my neck, and at the same time your fingers begin to move inside me. I try to say, "no more," but it comes out as a loud moan. Your mouth bites and licks at my neck, and soon I am writhing against you, begging you to stop, begging you to not stop. Your legs push my legs even wider.

I open my eyes, and gasp. You have been watching my every movement in the mirror across the room. Your eyes catch mine in the mirror as you bite down hard. You shove your fingers deep and I am unable to look away. I begin to come again, my eyes captured by yours, and I know that you see everything. I try to close my eyes against yours but you bite harder in warning and I force myself to keep them open. My orgasm flows over your hand and you lick where you have bitten me. I see you smile in the mirror and all of a sudden I want to cover myself. I try to push your hands away, to move away from your body that seems to control mine. Your eyes have not let mine go. You grab my hands in one of yours, and force me against you even tighter. You bring your other hand from my cunt to my mouth.

"Open."

I shake my head, my eyes going wild.

You trace my lips with your finger. I feel my wetness.

"Open."

I cannot refuse and slowly my mouth opens. You push your fingers in my mouth and I begin to suck, moaning against them, tasting myself from your fingers. Your eyes hold mine still.

"You are mine." I am helpless to resist. I nod my head. You pull your fingers from my mouth. You turn me towards you, putting my legs on either side of you, and I feel your hardness, and I want to press against it. But you hold me away. I am looking down, not looking into your eyes. You grab my chin with one hand, and with the other, ensnare your fingers in my hair, pulling hard. And I drown in your eyes, breathing fast.

"Mine," you repeat. Your mouth comes down on mine, invading, seeking. It is a kiss like no other we've had yet. Penetrating, dominating, demanding submission. I gasp against your mouth, but you only take me deeper into the storm.