Midnight Fantasy 2

FOR M.H. (with hope)

A room without light, heavy damask drapes over towering windows, refusing entry to the moon.

You.

Me. Summoned by He who controls; by He who is loved above all, just inside the doorway, knowing that it is locked behind me. Blind in the dark, blindness compounded by the black silk tied over my eyes, a condition of the invitation. I wear what You sent: long, heavy burgundy gown of velvet, slit up the side to reveal half my right thigh. Heels. Stockings. No panties, no bra. Silk white opera gloves covering each delicate finger and sheathing me to my elbows, dulling my tactile ability.

The room smells faintly of lilac and ginger. My body is prepared for You. Soft, freshly bathed and without scent, my hair down in wandering currents of curls, my lips adorned with nothing more than a wet glossing from my nervous tongue. The neckline of the gown plunges into my cleavage, leaving the silver brand You put about my throat to stand out against my skin. It feels heavy. Precious.

“Forward” You say.

Shivering at the sound of the voice I love, I take tiny steps into a room I do not know, into a blackness I cannot penetrate, seeking He who is more than Master to me. Silent, steps hesitant, wondering behind the blindfold if there is some wild cliff halfway to You, where I will be left in utter ruin and alone.

Step. Step. Step. Like a desperate child, hands outstretching now, seeking the air for some point of reference, but none exist here. Only the knowledge of You. I know the floor is wood. I know the window is open behind the curtains; I feel a stifled breeze and hear the play of the hem of the drapes dancing on the floor. I close my eyes behind the double darkness, feeling somehow more sure then.

“Stop.”

I obey. Always. Joyfully.

“Relax.”

Am I able? A moment of panic, wondering if I can obey, then letting my hands rest full against my sides, breathing a long breath in through my nose, and out.

You wait an intolerably long time to move, but when You do it is quick. I hear a sound; I know it is You, walking without shoes upon the wood floor. Then the drapes on smooth gliding metal mechanisms sliding hard, and the breeze is free. It comes to me, rushing cool and delighted with the arms of night to encircle me, dancing with me upon the floor while I do nothing but stand waiting, smiling at its greeting. Grateful for its cool breath down the cleavage and up the slitted skirt of the gown giving relief, I shift almost unconsciously to allow its fingers to play between my thighs.

I can almost feel You smile.

You move again. This time I can find you in the dark, pinning your place in my mind. You are to my left and in front. Now you are walking, further to the left, and I stand motionless while you circle. Taking an eternity to make one revolution, remaking my universe while I stand, considering what it means to be here.

To be Yours.

You start another revolution, moving counter clockwise, something unexpected for someone as generally predictable as You are. I like the surprises I have found in You. Gifts for me to open, hope when I least expect it. When I need it.

I wonder why you chose someone as dull as me.

Your revolution stops halfway round; You are behind me, somewhere, for I realize that in that split second of self-derision You have disappeared from my mind’s blank slate and now I do not know where to draw You in. I breath harder, feel the silver brand move serpentine and cool above my breasts. I want to speak; to scream for You.

You are behind me. RIGHT behind me, walking on silent cat feet like the fog. Making me shudder as your fingertips lift my hair, exposing my shoulders. You hold it up without tension so that I do not know if You are breathing into it, or caressing it, or simply testing the weight, then a shift and You have one hand free, the other holding my hair away from my shoulders.

You kiss my nape, and I moan. Do You know how I long for Your mouth? Your love? I think You know, and I think such knowledge gives You power a woman cannot otherwise bestow on a man, except to let Him chain her heart. I think in knowing You have joy, and if I give joy by giving You something as simple and coarse as my heart, I would give it over and over again.

As I have done. Am doing. Will do.

Sometimes I wonder and it is all a mystery. Sometimes I am sure. Always, I am a child. A lover. A slave, willingly captivated in chains I forged myself in love and gave to You in trust.

You open Your mouth against my throat and the sound You make is like a moan and an animal growl--soft, and dominant. It makes me fear and it makes me relax in the darkness, giving...always giving. Your fist wraps in my hair, tugging back my head only enough to expose my throat so that You can taste as You wish. Your mouth on my skin makes me shiver and long to touch. I fist my hands into the skirt of the dress, wishing for Your body.

Do You have wishes? I wish that You could be in my mind for a moment, when I am most vulnerable; when I am at Your feet.

Do You know the cost of loving You? Do You hear the scream of my pride bending to its knees, all in love for You, or feel the tension of self control snapping thread by thread one day after another, while I walk this path You put before me? I wish, oh god, how I wish You knew!

Your mouth slides out to the top of my shoulder, washing me in warm pleasure. The fierce possession of Your hand in my hair leashes me; reminds me that my thoughts are only selfish pride and must not interfere. That You control, and I must obey. Simple.

So simple.

Your hand cups my hip, caressing. Your body presses into me from behind; I can feel the heat through the dress. You wear trousers but no shirt, and the need for you is like night needing its black cloak, or the sun needing its gold light. I have never been more afraid, nor more sure, nor closer to pain and pleasure than I am now.

I think again. While Your hands move. Thoughts, and hands.

How can You esteem me? Your hand, fingers wide, on my waist.

How can You break my heart every day? Your hand, sliding up to hold my breast.

How can I live without You? Your hand, in full possession of my heart.

I close my eyes in the dark and pleasure burns, and worry torments and delight mystifies, and I am desperately gathering up in meager hands any bit of anything that will please You. Words. Smiles. Sighs. Whispers. Love. Anything.

You whisper to me. Words of pride, not love, and to me they are the same. Your breath is hot on my throat; in my ear. Your hand slides into the slit, onto my thigh, while you murmur pride and I cannot imagine any finer pleasure than this. Your avid mouth is on my exposed throat, and I give myself to be taken, meager treasure for a King worthy of greater wealth.

Your mouth presses kisses and vibrates moans into my skin. Your hand slides up the outer curve of my thigh, leaving trails of scalding pleasure. I try to be still; to be patient, compliant, but I need too much; want to badly, and my lips part, and a little cry escapes me. You only murmur approval on my flesh, and suck at my shoulder, making me tremble. Your hips move against me, or is it me, pushing back into your hardness? I feel the imprint of you, hampered by damned cloth, and see stars beyond the black You wrap me in.

In this, I forget. All the moments and hours and days and weeks and months of waiting. All the doubt, and fear. All the insecurities. They run for their darker corners when You speak; when You love. When You approve. How can I regret any pain, when there is this? How can I feel any doubt, when there is a single whisper of a kiss, or a shadow of Your smile upon me?

I live for an hour among hundreds when You call me to You. For that one moment, when all is right and I am Yours. The hours burn between.

But now I burn, the flesh meant to protect me now living fire beneath your hand, making me moan softly. Your lips brush my cheek; my heart melts and all that is within me softens and liquefies. The soft place between my thighs burns for You, as does my mind. We have not become One, yet we have always been One. The first night I knew, You murmured me to sleep. There was something in the shadows on the ceiling and the timbre of Your voice. Your sweet patience with me; Your desire. I did not think that it was truly for me, but for some fantasy all men seek.

I am only flesh. Heart. Mind. Faults. And yet I feel blessed more than all, for I belong to You.

Releasing the world and all its confinements, I lean back into Your body, You murmuring approval and allowing my head to rest back on Your shoulder. Supporting me; letting me bend away from my thoughts and into You. Seducing me away from my thoughts, tangled as they are, and into a place where all is simple, for all is under Your hand.

Without releasing Your hold on my hair you stalk around me, keeping me balanced by the mere assurance of Your presence, coming to stand before me and then Your mouth is on my skin again, on the other shoulder; the opposite side of my throat and along the descending path of my cleavage. Warm. So warm, and utterly possessive, and in that I struggle still to forget those things in me that are lacking. I have Your kiss upon my skin, what else in life could I need? I curl my fingers into fists, the need to touch You is so great, and as if You know my need You whisper, ‘Put your arms around Me, sweetheart’.

I obey You with a little sound of need and pleasure and in the dark the silver brand of Your possession snaps and slips from my throat, slithering to the ground and into the pitch. Desperate and afraid in the dark, I make a sound of pain. Holding me You murmur, ‘Trust Me,’ and I wonder...do You not know that this is what I have done since the first moment?

The dream snaps in that moment of pain, and with the breaking of the chain sleep breaks and I wake in darkness, aching, cheeks wet with tears for You.

Hope is a perilous thing.