Moving

"Don't move," she said.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's it. That's it, exactly. Don't move."

"Right now?" Smiling.

She returned my smile. "Right now. But get comfortable first."

"Isn't that sort of counterproductive?"

She tapped the tip of my nose. "Comedian. Don't worry, you'll get an experience."

"But not a moving one, eh?"

The smile stayed, but her words were serious: "Great experiences are always moving -- but not vice versa. Not at all."

At least Sylvia's basement was warm ... no, not basement. Dungeon: that was it, though I still couldn't think of it that way. "Dungeon"-- that was bricks, rats, iron bars, and the Man in the Iron Mask. Who was in that, anyway Lon Chaney? Errol Flynn? Jose Ferrer? I'll have to look it up later.

"Dungeon" certainly wasn't a basement rec room in the Avenues, the perpetually foggy ocean side of San Francisco. No bricks, no iron bars, no rats, at least not as far as I could see. But that's what Sybil called it, so that's what I should probably call it, too.

Golden-yellow, close-cropped, shag carpeting. A heavy table covered in black leather. A pine chest with a latch and padlock -- closed and locked. It certainly wasn't anything Lon Chaney, Errol Flynn or Jose Ferrer would have been scared of.

But I wasn't Lon or Errol or Jose, or even Brendan Fraser, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least nervous. It wasn't that I didn't trust Sybil, but this was more than a bit new to me. For me, sex had always been about a cock (mine), tits and pussies. Not whips, chains and "Yes, Mistress." But that's what it was for Sybil. At least she understood my trepidation, thus the padlock on her war chest.

What am I doing here?

It wasn't the first time I thought that, walking in the door to her place. The response was the same as it had always been: because this was part of her life, and I wanted to be part of her life, too.

But there was something else -- bing! -- right in front of my face. Sure I wanted to stay in good graces with Sybil, but there was something else as well. Face it, I told myself, you just want see why this isn't a rec room but a dungeon. You want to get it.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Rip roarin' -- to do absolutely nothing that is," I said, smiling as always.

"Get comfy -- you don't want to cramp up," she said. In a bow to my nervousness she wasn't wearing any of her S and M gear, the leather and latex she'd showed me in the dark depths of her closet, but rather a comfy yellow bathrobe. She still was damned sexy--a beautifully full, round woman with deep night hair and flickering amber eyes--and, looking at her, the last thing I wanted to do was play her game. It took a huge effort not to just part that robe, cup her breasts, run a thumb over her nipples. But a promise was a promise.

It was also hard -- or rather I should say "I" was also hard, because I definitely was that -- because she'd asked me to strip down, and I had. I hopped up onto the table, my cock slapping back and forth against my thighs, and tried to work myself into a comfortable position.

After a few minutes I thought I'd found it. "Okay," I said. "I'm all set -- to do nothing."

"You said that," she said, tightening the flannel sash around her waist. "Now look me in the eyes."

"Yes, Mistress," I said, curbing the mischief I felt ticking my voice.

She frowned, and I felt suddenly, deeply sad. "Don't say that unless you mean it. I'm serious."

"Sorry," I said, opening my hands in supplication.

She looked at me for a moment. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "You do the same, a couple of deep slow breaths: in, out, in, out. Think about your body, the position you're sitting in. If it doesn't feel good then move."

I breathed in time with her, feeling my chest rise and fall. I moved my leg a bit, then my right arm.

"When it feels good, when it feels right, then nod and we'll start. It's a really simple game: just don't move. Try and keep the same position as long as you can."

"Hum .... how do I win?"

"Win? Sweetie this isn't a win/lose kind of game." She kissed the tip of my nose and I smiled, despite myself. Then she looked thoughtful for a long minute. "But you know, there might very well be a way to win, but I'm not going to tell you. You've got to figure that out for yourself. Now, you ready?"

What the hell was that about

? I thought. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Good. Now start: don't say anything, don't nod -- don't move."

I didn't say anything, I didn't nod, and I didn't move. We started.

There were rules. For something that wasn't a game, it seemed to have a lot of them: breathing was okay, blinking was okay, involuntary movement was okay, but anything like a conscious twitch or jerk was right out -- game over, thank you for playing, here's your complimentary Turtle Wax and a copy of the home game. Thinking of that, the game almost ended before it began: an image dancing through my mind of a 2.5 kid nuclear family sitting down around a Parker Brothers game of S & M, spinning the punishment wheel. "Oh, oh, Bobby, you drew the golden showers card..." But I fought down a smirk, locking down my face.

Sylvia, meanwhile, sat down on the chest and watched me. She was quite simply exquisite, old bathrobe and all. Looking at her, watching her watch me, a thought flickered through my mind. With a view like this, who cares about moving? Distantly, I was aware that my cock still hadn't gone down. It was still gently throbbing, and the sight of Sylvia seemed to increase its tempo.

I blinked.

Then I wondered, still looking at my lover, what am I supposed to do now? The rules of the game were easy enough, but what was the damned point? Was I supposed to make her feel good, by obeying her? "Yes, Mistress; no, Mistress; right away, Mistress." That could make anyone feel good, having a humble little slave -- but what the hell do I get out of it, aside from a nasty cramp?

When I agreed to play Sylvia's game I knew it could be weird, but, hell, I loved her -- or at least I thought I did. But this part of her life was something that baffled me, and after a minute of immobility, it still did. But something was also niggling at the back of my stock-still noggin. I didn't want to be a pet, a slave, a subservient little twit who'd follow her around, wipe her ass, or who knew what. That pissed me off.

I wanted to move, to say "fuck this" and get up and walk away. I wanted to break her spell, smash it up and get the hell out of there. It wasn't something I'd thought of when I'd agreed to play Sylvia's game but sitting there, frozen, it made my face burn: I'm not one of those "top dog" kind of guys, but I sure as shit didn't want to be a whipped one.

Then I thought of something else and I fought to keep a sneer down again: one finger. I wanted to lift just one finger on the hand she couldn't see. She wouldn't know, but I would. There was something juicy in that: a little victory in our battle of "play". When the game was over she'd think she'd had a victory when I'd really won, and I'd get to smile my secret little smile as she came out the big, bad, Mistress.

I felt my hand, behind me on the warm leather. I was sitting on the edge of the table, one hand at my sides, one where she could see it, the other behind me. That one. The one behind. My left. Maybe the first finger, perhaps the second? The birdie digit I decided was too rude, too harsh for my subtle little gesture of defiance.

Have you ever thought about moving a part of your body before you actually move it? It's weird, putting consciousness into something you don't often even think about. I felt a tension in my hand, my finger (the first one, if you're curious), the muscles, tendons, tissues and all that wet, squishy stuff changing from not moving to start-to-move. The will was there, definitely, and my body was prepared, absolutely, but then something really interesting happened.

Nothing -- that's what happened. Or didn't happen. I didn't know. But I do know that I didn't move, not at all, not even my finger. The room, which previously felt warm if not hot, was suddenly chilly and a parade of goosebumps ran up and down my spine, arms and thighs. I remained frozen, still, immobile.

Why? Thoughts in my head, thumping together around like idea bumper cars, weird feelings, odd impressions -- and something else. Have you ever suddenly realized that your body was doing something you

didn't

ask it to do -- some part of yourself that normally you have to tell to perform, all of a sudden acts on it's own? Because that's what happened.

My cock, you see, was still hard -- rock hard, steel hard, very damned hard. I was angry, or had just been angry, and the one thing that doesn't happen to me when I get angry is to get hard. I shrink, shrivel, deflate -- you name it, that's what normally happened, or didn't happen. Negative erection. But then, frozen for Sylvia, my cock was still hard -- no that's not quite right. I'd been hard before (my dick pulsed against my thigh) but, still not moving, I was incredibly hard. My whole groin ached, swollen, tingling, huge. The one thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to sink my wonderfully hard dick deep into Sylvia. I didn't move though, didn't let the slightest grimace of pain or desire show on my face.

Sylvia, watching, smiled and winked at me.

I don't think I'd ever been as hard as that, but I certainly hoped I'd be again. It felt like a deep part of myself, somewhere down below my belly button, my guts, my soul even, was happy at this situation. Very, very happy.

But that was deep down, cock-response deep, but at the top of it all, in my brain, something else was ringing loud and long: why?

I still didn't know Sylvia's "why"-- not really -- I'd guessed but I didn't know, but that wasn't what was bugging me. Why didn't I move? Why didn't I get up and leave?

Because that's what you've always done

, I heard a voice say, clear in my mind, down there in my guts, somewhere near my soul.

Goosebumps. Big, obvious, goosebumps. I didn't care so much that I was thinking to myself in a new voice, that I'd possibly had a psychotic break, or that I'd been telepathically contacted by beings Not Of This Earth but rather that what that voice said was right. It wasn't something I'd considered before, but hearing it said as I tried to stay as still as possible, it was frightening.

Because it was true.

I liked to laugh. Not because I was jolly, or good spirited, but because everything to me seemed laughable. I giggled and guffawed at the world, seeing the billions and billions that lived on earth -- or ever lived for that matter -- as suckers, idiots. I didn't believe in anything, and even when I did I always gave it just enough to get through it. More than that and I was just another rat in a maze, moron on a treadmill.

Lifting a finger, cheating at my lover's game: that was so like me. Anything serious, deep, possibly meaningful was a joke -- a joke on everyone.

A joke on you

. Was that me, was that beyond me, was that somewhere to the left of my soul? I didn't move, but I did, inside, dropping through layers of mind and memory. Pieces of myself floating by my consciousness: birthday traumas, schoolyard pain, moments of clarity and what I thought to be understanding. I won't go through them all, not that they're too intimate but rather that thinking about them now they're just too damned dull.

I wanted to laugh, but not like I had before. I felt the muscles of my face start to pull and stretch me into a grin but I stopped them cold. No movement. None at all. Paralysis. But inside I moved a lot. Looking back at it all, looking down and through myself, I realized that I didn't have anything. I was good at things, but never very good at anything. I moved towards things -- work, avocations, even love -- but I never got close. I stopped just short of so much but never stepped beyond. Doing anything with all of me would mean that I'd stepped out beyond my smirking safety zone.

My leg cramped but I tried to ignore it. Pain flared there, a pulsing new kind of discomfort but I tried to push it away, keeping the tightened muscles from becoming knots. It was important, very important that I not move, not at all, not even a little bit.

My eyes were dry but I didn't want to blink. Blinking was movement and movement would mean losing the game. Then I remembered the game allowed that kind of thing, so I carefully, slowly, blinked. It felt good, but I vowed not to do it again -- or at least not often.

What had I done? In my life? I could have done so much more, I realized, but I hadn't. My life suddenly seemed shallow. What had I ever done except laugh a lot? I remember hearing that a friend of mine in college had written a novel, and for some reason that struck me as pathetic: that he'd spent nights and nights working on something that would probably never see the light of day, or if it did it'd vanish from the stands in a week or two. A friend from high school had been all around the world, visiting the Dalai Lama, being there when the wall came down in Berlin and I giggled that she'd spent all that money, used up all that time, and she came away with nothing but memories and some snapshots.

My lower back started to ache. It felt like a slug of heavy metal had been slapped against my spine. I so wanted to sit up tall, stretch, listen to the music of my bones realigning themselves. But I didn't. I didn't move. I was frozen. In bondage. I was in bondage and so couldn't, wouldn't move.

What have you done? What have you accomplished?

I'd had girlfriends, women I thought I might -- kinda, sorta -- love, but they hadn't lasted. They'd wanted to talk, to think about the future. I'd just wanted to have fun. How many had had there been? One of them, a fun little redhead named Cheryl, had gotten married, and I remember laughing that she was so ridiculous to stand up there in front of the world and say that she was doing it, when -- more than likely -- she and her husband would be talking to divorce sharks in a year or two.

What have I done? The answer was not hard -- not hard in that I didn't want to say it, to think it, because it came up as zero. Nothing. I laughed a lot, and that was all. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry like I'd never wanted to cry before. Self pity surged through me, like a hot compress of shame. I wanted Sybil -- who was still looking at me with her deep amber eyes -- to hold me, to hold me while my sorrow came out. I wanted her to make it all better, because I realized that she was right there in front of me, filling my vision, and that I loved her.

But I didn't cry. Crying would mean moving, would mean that some part of my body would move and I would have failed. I didn't want to screw this up. I wanted to make this happen, to win this game. I wanted to feel good and, right along with that, I wanted Sylvia to feel good about me. I wanted her to know that I could and would do this small, impossible thing that she had asked.

Because

she had asked.

My body was a knot. Pain rolled up and through my muscles, tendons and even -- I swear -- my bones. My cock was still like a rock. In fact it hadn't changed at all during my inward moving. I thought about it as I sat there in bondage: how I wanted to touch it, to wrap my hand around it and enjoy its very-hardness. I wanted Sylvia to see it, to admire it. I wanted to share it with her -- to make love to her as we had before -- but I also wanted her to see what had happened to me, for her to see that for the first time in my entire life, I was trying. I was trying my best.

My best. My best. I'm trying my best. I will not move. I will not move. I will do this. I want to feel that I've done something special here today, I want to feel pride in this accomplishment, and I want Sylvia to understand that.

She was still sitting quietly, her eyes moving over my unmoving body. I could feel her gaze like a physical touch, a warm caress that soothed, for a moment, the pains in my cramped limbs. There was a question in her eyes, and though I couldn't quite put it into words, I knew the answer. Yes. Yes, Sylvia, yes my love, whatever you require of me, whatever you desire, I'll do my best to give that to you. To give my self to you.

Did she feel me? Did she hear my silent answer? Her thoughtful half-smile never wavered, but once again I felt a ghost of her touch. My cock throbbed in time with my heart. But I didn't allow it to move.

My legs ached. My back ached. My hand felt like it would never move again. Minutes? No, it felt like hours of immobility. I wanted to blink again, but didn't. My eyes were dry, they burned. I held my breath, because breathing was movement. It was okay, according to the rules, but not according to my rules. I didn't want to win by the rules, I wanted to do better than the rules. For her.

My head started to swim and for a heart-pounding minute I thought I'd moved, that my head had to tipped forward and I felt a surge of panic and shame. But then I realized that I was still where I'd been. Still frozen in place.

My cheeks felt strange. Had I moved? I had I failed? I didn't want to -- I wanted to rise up, to move beyond what and where I'd been before. My cheeks felt strange. I hoped I hadn't moved. I hoped, prayed that I hadn't moved.

Sylvia got up, walked towards me , the expression on her face new, unusual. I hadn't see her like this before. I'd seen her laugh, cry, orgasm, sigh, be angry, but this was new. Was this disappointment? Deep sorrow that I'd failed her. I hoped not. I really, honestly hoped not.

I didn't move.

Her hand went up to my face, my cheek. The touch of her fingers on my skin was like an electric shock and I felt like my whole body would jump at the contact. But I didn't. I felt the come boiling up into my dick, ready to explode. I didn't move. Not an inch, not a little bit, not at all. I didn't move.

"Sweetheart," she said, bending down to look at my eyes. "Sweetheart," she said again. "Thank you, thank you so much. You've done what I wanted and more."

That look on her face, and there in her eyes. Something new, something I wanted more and more of. Something I'd been missing for all those years, something I'd given up. Respect.

It was more than I'd ever hoped for, better than any orgasm. I slipped off the bench and into her arms, trembling all over.

"Thank you, Mistress," I said, the tears now pouring down my cheeks. "Thank you."