A Meditation On Trust

"I don't want to fuck you."
Removing her blazer carefully, folded and
draped (just-so) over the back of my chair.

"Well, you weren't going to be fucked, so I suppose that's a
relief."

Silk blouse, a cautious blue, (mother-of-pearl) buttons
flashing under fingers
well manicured and clean,
hands soft and no longer so
utilitarian.
On top of the blazer.

The bra, beige and lace,
straps wide,
cups firm,
wire heavy.
On top of the blouse.

"I think you're getting ahead of yourself."

Her green eyes widen as she
loosens her hair, the chignon falling in
glorious wheat waves.

"Oh, no. I'm never ahead of myself. And I always get what I want."

A black skirt, above the knee, and beige pantyhose.
She slips out of her sensible black pumps and stands before me,
confident and full.
I know what she wants.
But she'll have
to ask.

"Tell me why you're here."

Hands on her hips, she's annoyed with the demand. But these
are my terms, and will hinder her
until she complies.

A long silence, an inward stare.
She smiles a sideways, looking-at-a-postcard smile.

"My father was a remarkable man. An artist, with
vision and talent and
grace (so much grace).
He left when I was eight, ran away with one of his models.
A redhead with a penchant for poker games, and losing.
Her name is Nora, she buried him nine years later in a plot
next to her only son.
We spoke seldom before he died,
he found me a roadblock on his way to creative success."

Carefully, close the cuffs and hear the click. Not too tight,
but no way out of them.

"My mother decided her liver was a small price to pay
for numbness. I rarely saw her
sober after that. She was a good woman, but she could be
harsh. When she died three years ago,
I went to the funeral and looked at this woman
in a casket, and couldn't remember what
color her eyes were.
We were not close."

She stands, cuffed, in the middle of the room. I cross to the other side and get
the riding crop, black-leather-smell.

"I realized when I was sixteen that I
liked girls. Unavoidable. Undeniable. Unchangeable.
When I told my brother, he slapped me across the face so hard
I fell to the kitchen floor. I stayed there, counting the little blue tiles.
He muttered, "Fucking dyke,"
then walked away.
I ran away that night, stayed with
my best friend's older brother, until I got a job and a place of my own."

A slow, thoughtful tracing of the outlines of her body. Feel the crop
graze against her arms,
her breasts,
her stomach,
and the fabric of her skirt
that covers her thigh.

"I put myself through college, working anywhere they'd have me.
Long hours, hard work, nothing was too much.
I got my degree and found my place in the corporate world, and
while I'm very good at what I do, I didn't get this far
from being nice and sweet.
You take what you want,
or it won't come to you.
Sometimes what you want really
belongs to someone else. Take it anyway."

She kneels down in front of me.
The leather caresses her neck, and I bring the riding crop to her chin, tilting her
face to meet my own.

"And with all of that, I learned; never trust anyone. They will all
let you down. No matter their intentions, no matter
the goodness of their hearts. With this fact I have come
to terms...

but sometimes, I need to trust. Someone. Anyone.
I need to believe someone will have my best interests
in mind.

I don't want to fuck you. I want to trust you."

Leaning down, I make our eyes level, and
one hand on her shoulder, I tell her the truth.

"You can."

She nods.

Straightening up, I circle behind her, and move her hair over her shoulder.
Carefully, softly, I slip the mask over her head. Rubber, black,
no eyes to see, but a mouth to breathe.

"Now. We shall begin."

Head bowed, eyes closed, she breathes a sigh. I think relief.



"Yes, Mistress."