The Spur Ch 19

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,

I am no more with life and death,

My heart upon his warm heart lies,

My breath is mixed into his breath.

--W.B. Yeats, "The Heart of the Woman"

Coming out of the bathroom, I could see his face in profile as he sat on the couch. I noticed, as if for the first time, a weariness that I had sensed before only on the outer edges of awareness. Always, after dancing, there had been a glow, a faint buzz of excitement and pleasurable fatigue. Now, he just looked tired. As I came nearer, he looked up at me and smiled, and I saw the beginnings of crow's feet around his eyes. How had I missed those? My submissive's eyes had always been on him, and I'd thought they had seen him steadily and whole. What eyes were looking at him now?

Although he was 12 years older than me, people had always assumed we were much closer in age; good health and a background hum of vibrant energy had always knocked time off peoples' estimation of his age. For the first time, I doubted people would make the same assumption now.

He held out his right hand to me, palm up. I knelt on the floor before him and took both his hands in mine, laying my elbows on his knees, looking up at him with a tenderness unlike anything I had felt before; or, rather, that I had felt hovering around the margins of my feeling for him, but which, on that night, came out of the wings and took center stage. I had always wanted to serve him and please him; now, I wanted it almost painfully.

"Tell me to do something for you," I said.

Only his eyes betrayed his surprise--first, by a flare of deep inner response, then by a bright surface glistening. He smiled almost sadly, took his right hand from my left, and caressed my cheek. He didn't speak for some moments, mastering his emotions to keep them out of his voice.

"Take off your dress," he said huskily. Still kneeling, I pulled my dress off over my head, folded it, and placed it on the coffee table behind me. He looked at my body with all the hunger he'd always shown, taking the same pleasure in my slim nakedness as he always had, and though I felt the familiar tingle of self-conscious pleasure in giving the sight of myself to him, it felt, for the first time, as though I were somehow beyond his reach. 'This is my body,' I thought; 'I give it to you.'

"In the vanity under the bathroom sink, there is a blue, rectangular plastic tub. Fill it halfway with warm water and bring it here."

I found the tub, and held my hand under the tap until the water began to steam. Even only half full, the tub was heavy, and the water sloshed back and forth as I carried it to the couch and set it down at his feet.

"Go to the linen closet, and get a washcloth, two hand towels, and a bottle of lotion," he said.

Returning, I didn't wait for his next instructions. Always, I had waited for him to tell me what to do, but just now, I understood it would be easier for him if I took the initiative and acted on what I knew he wanted.

I untied and slipped off his right shoe, then the sock, placing it inside the shoe and setting it aside. Then I did the same with his left. I rolled up both of his pant cuffs, and placing my hands on his ropey calves, lifted his feet and lowered them into the warm water. My hands still on his legs, I could feel the warm waves of pleasure roll over his entire body; then, like the water in the tub as I'd carried it, the pleasure rolled back into my hands and up my arms. I had to catch my breath as I felt the intensity of his feeling pour into me.

I laid out one of the hand towels between the tub and the couch, lifted his left foot from the tub, took up the washcloth and ran it over the top from ankle to toes, and around the outside in the opposite direction, then across the arch to the instep; I guided the cloth around the heel, then up the middle of the arch to his toes. I dipped the cloth in the tub, squeezed it, and did the top of his foot.

Laying the washcloth on the edge of the tub, I picked up the other hand towel, dried his foot, kissed it, and set it on the first towel. I repeated the process with his right foot, and, without looking up, reached for the lotion.

My hand halfway to the bottle, I paused.

"Wait just a minute, okay?" I asked. Without opening his eyes, he nodded dreamily.

Because commercial aftershave made his skin break out, Steve made his own by adding sandalwood oil to rubbing alcohol. I went into the bathroom and found the bottle of essential oil, unscrewed the lid, and let an extravagant amount of the pricey, fragrant stuff drip onto my hand. I replaced the lid, and brought the bottle back to the living room with me.

Rubbing my palms together, I knelt by the tub again, and squeezed some of the unscented lotion onto my hands, spreading it around with my fingertips until the rich aroma of sandalwood was blended in. Then I picked up his left foot, and began to massage the scented lotion into the sole. He sighed with such intense pleasure that I was momentarily lightheaded, and felt a flush on my face and breasts.

I ran my thumbs along the fascia that runs from the heel to the center of the sole, and felt the knot of tension where it divides into five on its way to the toes. Moving my thumbs in little circles around the spot made him moan with pleasure, and again I felt briefly dizzy and even more deeply flushed. His eyes were closed, but I knew he could feel my response through my hands, through the ether, through some subtle pheromone signature. I attended to the ball of the foot, then playfully kissed each toe in turn. I would have done it all a thousand times to see the serene happiness on his face.

After massaging each toe, I reapplied the sandalwood oil and lotion to my hands, and worked the fragrant mixture into the top of the foot all the way back to the ankle. Returning the foot gently to the towel, I kissed his left knee, and lay my head on his lap for a moment. He ran his fingers through my hair so tenderly, I thought I might cry. Then I did it all again to the right foot, until the water in the tub was cold and the whole room redolent of sandalwood.

After I dumped the water in the bathroom sink, replaced the tub, dropped the towels and washcloth in the hamper, and put away the lotion, I returned to the living room, knelt at his feet again, and put my head back in his lap. He ran his hands over my shoulders and neck; he lifted up my head and kissed me, gently, sweetly. He took my face in his hands and looked at me hard, his brow knit in thought; he seemed to be searching for something, and I thought I knew what.

"At the back of my underwear-and-sock drawer," he said at last, "there is a small, wooden box. Bring it here, please."

I found the box and brought it to him, and before I could kneel again, he caught my arm and guided me to sit beside him on the couch. He turned the box so the hinges were toward him, and opened it, displaying its contents.

It held two small keys on a silver chain, with a copy of my collaring pledge folded underneath.

"I can't do it anymore, Grasshopper," he said, his voice like water drawn clear and cold from a deep well of sadness. "And I can't ask you to, either. You know everything now."

I closed the box and set it aside, and, taking both his hands in mine, looked deeply into his eyes. And looking, I saw--pasts, real and imagined; presents, overt and hidden; futures possible and impossible. As though my whole life had led up to this moment, this seeing.

I saw him through my eyelids on our first date, watching me with delight as I obeyed his every command, devouring me with his eyes;

I saw him leading Laura's students in a dance until they forgot to be self-conscious and simply played like children;

I saw the picture of our lives turned upside-down so its true colors shone;

I saw myself, prostrate at his feet in Child's Pose;

I saw myself, screaming and soiling the hospital bed, laboring to bring forth a new life;

I saw him, weeping and soiling the nursing home bed, laboring to bring forth a new life;

I saw him thrashing against his bonds, begging Laura not to tickle him anymore, loving her with a love as strong as the running tide;

I saw evenings and mornings, the scuttling of clouds across the sky outside his window, sunrises and sunsets, shining light and enfolding dark, days slipping away as we sat;

I saw myself handing him a cup of spiced and foaming wine;

I saw him giving me his collar, the light of love pouring from his eyes, flooding the room;

I saw everyone in the whole world feasting from my naked body,

I saw him laying me on my back in the forest, his left hand beneath my head, his right arm surrounding me;

I saw him curled into a rigid fetal position as I sat by his deathbed;

I saw Anaïs dancing at our wedding reception in a costume of forest green;

I saw his contracted form parked in a wheelchair in front of a TV with a dozen other dying people;

I saw him struggling to speak to me and giving up in frustration as the hot tears poured down;

I saw him, carrying me over the glimmering lake behind the opera house;

I saw myself, carrying him back.

I saw his hands, his mouth adoring every inch of my body, worshipping me, giving back in a different form all the power I had surrendered to him;

I saw myself meeting someone else, drawn to the pain and loss deep in his eyes as he was drawn to them in mine;

I saw him weaving a bridal dress of scarlet rope on my trembling flesh;

I saw him playing the piano;

I saw us making shish barak;

I saw myself dancing for him on his 50th birthday;

I saw his toes coming off in my hands as I rubbed his feet;

I saw the fierce welts of his riding crop on my backside, and my whole being swelling with pride;

I saw myself pulling against my bonds as climax after climax wracked my tough, tender frame;

I saw him holding, caressing, cherishing me;

I saw our silver anniversary party.

Beneath it all, Eduardo sang to Violetta: Ah, amore misterioso, altero, croce e delizia al cor.

Over it all, Jamila, whirling like a dervish, poured her benediction of brilliant white flame over everyone and everything.

I lay the box on top of my folded dress, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom.

THE END