I've held onto this piece for quite some time, never really quite knowing where it would lead. I added a second chapter sometime later, but it still sat tucked away in a folder on a hard drive. I've never attempted a multi-chapter story, and never really took the time to develop characters. It's a slow start, but I'm hoping that it will capture your attention enough to lead you to part 2.
I'd appreciate any feedback you might offer, positive or negative.
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I sat in the park, lost in my book as I often to do when fair weather comes around. The October sun warmed my back as I sat, head bent forward, reading and taking my notes. The voices of children and the barking of dogs had become background noise carried to me on a distant wind. My world, so far from that physical place where my body existed, was in my reading. I read, stopping now and again to jot notes in the margins or to stare into the water, pondering the writer's thoughts, and trying, sometimes in vain, to determine her ultimate meaning. As I delved deeper into the writer's world, I became lost in it. Time passed; the sun, slowly tracking across the afternoon sky, families coming and going, most ignoring me in the realization that I was sitting on that rock, but could not be further from the world in which they trod.
It wasn't until I felt a chill working its way through me that I began to realize that the afternoon was waning away. It wasn't quite dusk, and the children, the dogs, and the daily traffic that had, until now been so heavy, had begun to wane. I closed my book, stretched, and began looking for the sweater that I had tossed aside earlier. I donned the garment and lit a cigarette, pulling my legs underneath me to fight the chill. I sat, staring at the water, mesmerized as I always am, by its journey over the falls.
Another chill took me, though this was not caused by the temperature. I wasn't alone. I hadn't seen him before, but his sudden movement in my peripheral vision now caught my attention. He was sitting at the water's edge, just off to my right and down the hill a bit. When I turned to look at him, he slowly raised his head. Though his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, I was sure he was looking directly at me. He confirmed my thought with a slight, slow nod of greeting. I nodded back and gave him a friendly but discouraging smile. I began collecting my things to leave. The park was a long way from the big city of Boston, where being alone so close to dark would generally get a girl into trouble, but I still had that chill, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he had been watching me for longer than I had realized. There was something to that slow nod; a simple gesture in and of itself, but one which said, "I'm here for you. I'm waiting, patiently."
I strode toward the bridge where I could see a few young adults gathered. I chastised myself for the paranoid feelings wrenching my gut, but I figured I had better be safe. I leaned over the bridge, a few yards from where the kids were standing in a group. The water roared over the rocks below, and I found myself immediately relaxed by the steady pounding. I glanced toward the lower park where I had been seated just a few moments ago. He was there. He looked up at me, as though he had felt my glance upon him. I had the sudden thought that he knew that I would look for him. He slowly reached up and removed the dark glasses; his gaze met mine as I knew it would. His eyes never wavered. I was angry with myself for having run away from him. Had I not been so surprised by his presence, I'd have remained at my seat, letting him know that I didn't scare easily.
I returned his gaze now, in an attempt to remove any doubt from his mind as to my tough, city girl nature. I became nearly as mesmerized looking into his dark eyes, as I had when staring into the water earlier. Still, his gaze did not waver. A new chill spread throughout me, this one bringing with it a new feeling. I looked away. What I had seen in his eyes wasn't a desire to intimidate, it was a desire, raw and unadulterated, to own me. In my humble opinion, love at first sight is the stuff of fairy tales. Love can only be found in the knowing of a person, not in the reading of them through a chance meeting, a glance, or ones perceived ability to read another person by their outward appearance and body language. Lust at first sight however, was another story altogether. What I now felt, and what I saw in his eyes as we looked at one another, was something more powerful than mere lust. I leaned against the bridge railing, staring down into the water. My body trembled and I let it sag against the cold metal for support. I was not cold; in fact the heat I now felt was enough to dispel any previous chill I had felt from the cool, drawing of the day. I resisted the urge to look back to where he sat.
The group of kids on the bridge was getting louder by the moment, breaking into my reverie. I looked to where they were gathered, and smiled; remembering how much fun it was at that age. At that age, no one knew better than them. At that age, one's entire life lie ahead, a time span which seemed almost endless. I smiled at them, receiving in return, looks that questioned who I was, what I wanted, and what I was staring at anyway. I gave a little shake of my head and a chuckle, and turned to leave. He was there, standing at the end of the bridge, watching me. I froze for just a second before deciding to attempt a new approach. I cocked my head at him, gave a wry smile, and raised a single eyebrow in question. His face was as still as if it had been cast in marble. His unresponsiveness was rather an insult on my person, and my smile faded away as I walked toward the end of the bridge.
I met his eyes as I passed him, making it known that I would not be so easily intimidated. Just as I was considering a snide remark, he smiled at me. It was the smile of someone self-assured and intelligent. It radiated warmth, and yet I felt a chill overtake me. The contradiction was so strong that I nearly stopped to study his face in the hopes of better understanding the thought behind it. I must have looked quite the sight; stutter stepping, my mouth open as if words might actually be capable of pouring forth. His smile said so much that I felt a tad overwhelmed by it. He would, in fact, have me before all was said and done. He knew, and I knew as well, that something was destined to happen. It was all there, written on his face as plain as the bold headline of a Boston Globe edition.
It seemed that we stood there, staring, speechless at one another for an eternity; a conversation taking place between us with not a single audible word. My mind screamed at me to turn and walk away. Every nerve in my body tingled with fear, with anticipation, and most noticeably, with desire. I took a deep breath and lowered my eyes. Another moment of that gaze and I would be lost. I knew that much as sure as I knew that it was too late, even at this early juncture. It would happen. It was merely a question of when. I walked away, refusing to meet his eyes again, or to interrupt the silence with a word. My gut wrenched and ached as I strode toward Main Street. I wanted him, and I knew that I could have him. I also knew that the having would not be on my terms, but on his. It was with that knowledge that I found the strength to walk away.
In that few moments of time, I came to realize who, nay, what he was. He was a Dom. He was not a boy, playing at the role, but a man who, in every fiber of his being, was dominant. He knew that domination was not based upon physical strength, nor was it based upon force. It was the ability to create a desire in another to please. A true submissive can seldom find any pleasure in his or her life unless that pleasure is attained by their pleasing of another. Hadn't I read that somewhere?
With domination and submission, there are variations, as with anything. There are extremes of domination and submission wherein the submissive is truly, and completely, their master's slave. There are also those who find domination and submission only pleasurable in small doses, only in a sexual arena, or only when they feel the need to partake in either role. And then there are those like myself. I am a stereotypical, type A, Yankee Bitch. Where men are involved, I admire intelligence, strength, and self-assuredness. If a man has these qualities, I am attracted, and thus will generally enjoy his company and his attentions, both of us on relatively equal footing. If a man has these qualities and is aware of his dominant nature, I will sense it in a short amount of time, and will more often than not, fall into a submissive role in the relationship. I am no one's slave, by any means, but I will oft times follow his lead without argument, simply because that is who I am. This goes against everything that I have become in my life. My mind fights submission while a more instinctual part of me desires it. A true dominant will see through me, and will detect the conflict. For some, this leads to a parting of ways. For others, I become a conquest. For me, this leads to turmoil.
I arrived home to find my husband already there. We greeted each other with the usual niceties, inquired of each other as to their day, and fell into the comfort of our domestic roles. While telling him of my trip to the park, I mentioned the man I had seen there.
"He wasn't just looking at me." I said slowly, trying to describe the encounter. "He was looking into me."
At the sound of my voice, my husband brought his eyes up to meet mine. He was well used to the tone that my voice had taken, and knew what it meant.
