He had no idea how long he had sat there holding her hand. Time was gone. She lay so still. She looked so tiny. How often had he admired her body before and never noticed how small she really was? He closed his eyes and remembered her bound and squirming with anticipation, the sheen of arousal on her skin, her heady scent. All that was now masked by the hospital smells, the bandages, and the machines.
He had been angry at her early. He had been surprised to arrive home and not find her waiting. At first he counted the minutes, imagining her distress as she saw the time, knowing the punishment would increase for every five minutes she was late. At an hour late, he began to plan a suitable punishment. He was surprised by a knock on the door.
Grateful he was still dressed in his work clothes and not his leather clothing he answered the door. He was surprised to see a pair of police officers. The tall black officer looked uncomfortable to be there. His partner, a petite Hispanic woman did all the talking, "Are you William Henderson?"
"Yes," he kept his voice level and polite, his mind trying to find a reason for the officers at his door, "Can I help you."
The woman consulted her small pad of paper, "You are married to Marie Henderson?"
Coldness gripped at him deep inside, "Yes. Is there a problem?"
The black officer looked away, studying the street, unwilling or unable to make eye contact. The female officer had a sympathetic look on her face, "Perhaps we should come inside?"
And see the toys laid out? "No, please just tell me whatever it is you need to tell me." Will knew his voice was cold, but it did not matter.
The woman looked at the man. He shrugged and continued his study of the neighborhood.
"Mr. Henderson, this afternoon, your wife was involved in a vehicular collision. A drunk driver hit her car. She was flown by helicopter to the trauma center downtown."
"Is--" he couldn't say it. He couldn't ask.
"She is in intensive care, Sir. Do you have a friend you can call?"
The ride to the hospital was a blur of streets, sympathetic comments from his friend, nurses and doctors. The sight of his precious Marie lying so still caused him a pain that had not left since.
He had grabbed her hand and whispered to her, "Don't you dare leave me! Don't leave me!" over and over.
An odd numbness mingled with the pain and it filled him now. How could he imagine life without her? When did the pleasure of her submission to him, become a total love on his part for her? He could not imagine not having her snuggled next to him at night, nor her childlike delight at simple things. Her joy and pleasure were life to him.
"Don't leave me...."
He did not bother to blink back the tears, as he held her hand, his thumb caressing her hand. When was the last time he had told her in words that he loved her? This morning? Last night? Had it been days? Why hadn't he told her more often?
She often said it to him. She would be lying in his arms, still trembling from their play, her body glistening and marked from the lash, and she would look at him with that softness that melted him and whisper, "I love you."
"Don't leave me...."
Somewhere out there, a driver was looking at his car and wondering if the dent could be fixed, could they hide their hit and run. He wanted to hunt down this person and hurt them. But he could not leave her, his pet, his love, his wife.
He remembered the first time he saw her. She had been moving into the apartment above his on a hot June day. She wore a white tank top and jean shorts. Was it the way she moved or the irritated look she gave him as he blocked the hall? He couldn't remember now, but he did know that he loved her in the same moment. He could still see her, the soft curve of her breasts pushing against the thin tank top. He tried not to stare at the clearly outlined shape of her nipples.
"Do you plan to move or stand and stare all day with your mouth hanging open?" she stood with her hands on her hips, her head cocked in a way that belied the tone of her words.
His friends had teased him that the Don Juan has been snared. He would have given up the lifestyle for her, but it turned out he had not needed to do so. She had surprised him. He thought he had hidden the books and toys well, but somehow she had known. He thought he was just coming over for dinner. The living room was dim, lit only by what seemed to be hundreds of candles. On the coffee table was a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Make yourself comfortable," she had called from the kitchen, "I'll bring the food out in a moment.
He had opened the wine and poured, settling on the leather sofa completely unaware of her plan.
She came out of the kitchen carrying a plate. He stared at her in amazement and delight. She was completely naked. Her flawless skin shone in the candlelight. Soft shadows hid the cleft between her legs, teasing him more than any lingerie. Her breasts were perfect and the dark nipples were hard, showing her eagerness.
With a playful smile, she knelt with a dancer's grace and offered up the plate, "Your food." It was statement and invitation.
He felt the Dom in him rise to the occasion and he lifted his eyebrows, "You don't always entertain this way, do you?"
"Only for you," there was no shy lowering of her eyes or any play at false submission.
"And your reason for this?" he couldn't jump to conclusions.
"You didn't seem to take the other hints, so I offer myself to you this way, naked, open, willing to serve you," she looked at him with deep feeling.
"To serve me?" he wanted her to say it.
