I Want You 11

Blindfolded, I inhale the scent of clean soap on the big hand that cups my face before it gently strokes one of my curly pony tails, like petting a lush puppy's ear to tell it goodnight.

Elvis Costello's "I Want You" played while you ate your dinner tonight and I ate scraps from your fingertips, kneeling blindly beside your chair. And now, the song plays in my head as the bed springs creak under your weight.

The house is cold at night and the dog basket is new and uncomfortable, preventing me from stretching out. Worse still, I miss your warm body.

I miss the privilege of cuddling against your back with my face nestled between your shoulder blades. I miss knowing that, sleeping in your arms, the Boogeyman can't get me.

The blindfold robs me of even the moonlight that I know filters through the curtains and lets me watch your sleeping profile once my eyes adjust to the dark.

I crawl from my dog basket, pacing like a restless bitch puppy, bumping into things accidentally as I try to ignore my full bladder.

Your hand dangles over the edge of the bed and I find it, even blindfolded, and nuzzle gently just to feel your warmth while I listen to your even breathing.

I adore you.

It's too cold in this house to be naked with no blanket and so I shiver. I try my dog basket again but it's awkward and, besides, I've needed to pee for hours.

I crawl toward the bathroom again, following the wall for direction, as I have half a dozen times tonight only to achieve the same result. My leash ends so close that I can just barely touch the bathroom door.

I knew, before you went to bed, that you'd shortened the leash -- not because you told me so, but because of the puppy door you'd installed in the bedroom, leading out to the back yard.

I would have asked you about it if I were allowed to speak human language, but instead I could only watch in animal silence.

I whimper softly, nuzzling your hand again, wanting you to save me, or at least to wake up and tell me with no ambiguity, that I have to go pee outside like a dog.

What if I'm supposed to wake you for the toilet and I peed in the backyard instead? I'd be so humiliated. I know you'd tease me. You might say, "Why didn't you wake me for your needs? You must love peeing in the yard, you sick little bitch. You'll do that from now on."

I need you to own this, I need you to tell me that's where I have to go, so you don't think I want it, too.

But I want you.

I ache for you.

You stir in your sleep, your breathing changing with the sound of you rolling over. I kiss your palm sweetly and your hand gently cups my face, so I know you are awake, but I dare not speak; I know better.

I whimper my need insistently, until your hand stops cupping and your fingers dig in, hurting me. I yelp with pain, cringing when the bed creaks as you sit up and then stand. I know, now, waking you was a big mistake.

"Bad bitch," you grumble, your voice thick with sleep. You drag me by the leash, across the room, and outside.

I start to sob silently but can't even tell you with human words that I'm so sorry. I know I fucked up again.

I love you.

I am sorry again.

The grass is dew dampened and cold under my hands and knees, the kind of wetness that I know is staining me green. My teeth chatter as much from the cool night as from fear of you. "Go potty, bitch," you command.

I've had to go for hours and yet now I can't do it. You jerk on my leash and I stumble on all fours, crying harder now, head tilted back to orient myself toward the last place I heard your voice, searching for you even though I cannot see.

I want to whisper, "Please..." I want to beg forgiveness, negotiate, make it up to you. I start to whimper pathetically only to feel a genuine dog bone shoved into my mouth to silence me.

It tastes awful and my heart breaks, knowing you would not kiss me now even if men kissed bitches. Not with a crumbly foul dog bone in my mouth.

You hiss at me, "Shut up and piss, bitch. You fucking got me up for this, you must want me to watch." Crying, not like a bitch, but like a baby, I pee in the grass, my legs spread wide to keep it from running down my thighs. Even blindfolded, I have to lower my head to hide my face, so deep is my shame. Why must I be such a bad, bad, bitch?

I love you.

I'm your sorry bitch.

This is the part where you usually comfort me, but tonight you're tired and I've woken you and you're really pissed off. I am a puppy because I was a bad girl and now I'm a bad puppy.

I yelp again as you drag me deeper into the yard, and shove me forward. "Get in there," you say and my heart breaks again at the continued displeasure in your voice.

I crawl, clumsy with the blindfold and I find myself on straw as I hear your footsteps retreating, leaving me alone in the doghouse.

I love you.

I need you.

I'm sorry.

I hear the door open, then close, and I cry, wanting to howl at the moon and share my pain with all the other bad bitches of the neighbourhood who are also left alone tonight in their doghouses.

The crickets are boisterous and I hope there are no spiders. They scare me and you aren't here.

Maybe tomorrow, I can do better and I'll be allowed back inside with you. Maybe, if I try really hard, by the end of the week I'll be allowed to walk or even talk again.

Maybe, if I obey like a good bitch, you'll let me be your proper little fuck and I'll be gifted with all of the human privileges you've taken away.

I understand now. I can see now that all I have is by your grace.

I love you.

I want you.

I'll be better.

I'll do anything.