What She Wants

This is an original piece, (c)2005 Josh Cohen. May not be reprinted except for personal use.

***

What She Wants

There was blond hair covering the pillow as if it were a silken net. There were royal-blue sheets and pillowcases covering the bed, notable more for their softness than anything else; there is nothing in this world better for sleeping upon than a cotton sheet washed an uncountable amount of times, until it is softer than kid-leather. There was a blanket, on the facing side a deep, wine-dark burgundy, with a striped and crosshatched pattern peeking out from underneath the upturned edge. Underneath that edge, barely showing, was a pale, small foot with a golden anklet encircling it, glinting occasionally in the moonlight coming in from outside.

Above the top of the blanket, there was a head. The blond hair upon the pillow belonged to it, as did the white, almost-translucent skin, slightly pouted lips, ears on the delicate half-shell, and high cheekbones that were too rounded to be called aristocratic and too smooth to be called anything but touchable.

And then there were the eyes. Underneath eyelids framed with delicate blond lashes, they moved back and forth rapidly, the undeniable evidence of a dream beneath them. Eyes that the casual observer, even in the case of this sleeping woman, would never hide from anyone their true feelings, but would have a way of camouflaging them so effectively that the eyes themselves glowed with the effort.

There was the breathing, quick and frantic, faster than usual. Her chest, covered by the thick blanket which did nothing to disguise the curves of a body that had known development at eleven, that had been the envy of most women and the objet d\'desire of most men, rose and fell irregularly. Occasionally, an arm shifted under the blanket, and when one came out from underneath it in an unexplainable gyration of sleep, it possessed slender wrists, and a clean, unbroken form that was adorned by two rings upon the index finger, rings which accentuated the slimness and strength of the fingers, the gentle shape of the hand, and which drew the eye upward to her small-structured, almost delicate collarbone and shoulders. Those, in turn, drew the eye upward, along the slender, graceful neck, past the slightly-parted lips, the perfect cheekbones, and back to the eyes.

The eyes that were now open. The eyes that were a clear shade of powder-blue, glistening with stress and unshed tears of wonderment. The eyes that, even now, just having come out of sleep, knew what they wanted.

There was no question anymore. She had lit upon what she wanted, after twenty years of waiting, of feverish dreams, of wondering whether or not her visions would coalesce enough to be understandable.

She knew now what she wanted.

*

Precisely forty-six minutes later, she tapped gently, discreetly on a green-painted door set into a white, concrete-block facade underneath an alcove in which sat another door, identical but for the numbers embossed upon it.

The door opened slowly. The room behind it was dark, except for the glinting of cloud-reflected moonlight and the single bulb above the alcove reflecting upon the security chain. An eye appeared, blinking sleep furiously away, strands of brown hair lying across its forehead in disarray, a red terrycloth robe open at the chest to show skin that, even unsunned, was naturally darker than hers when she was tanned.

She slipped her hand into the small opening of the doorway and touched his cheek. He pressed it into her soft hand, and made a small sound of contentment.

\"Do you remember?\" she asked him softly, so as not to wake anyone else in the building. \"Do you remember what you told me?\"

\"Tell me,\" he said, equally as quiet, his deep voice slightly thick with sleep, but still even and unwavering, with silver threads of suggestion woven into it alongside iron threads of command.

Her eyes slipped downward, now focused upon the kick-stop in front of the door instead of upon his. \"When I knew what I wanted,\" she whispered, her silken-soft voice, slightly rough in normal speech now more so by a thousandfold. \"You told me to come when I knew what I wanted.\"

\"And now you know?\" It almost wasn\'t a question, kind of a declarative that allowed no response, save one.

\"I know.\"

The door closed to a centimeter-wide crack, and after a brief, harsh jingle, it opened again, far enough to admit her to whatever lay beyond in the darkness that was thick, black, and velvet with its silence.

She took a deep breath and waited.

*

There was a soft click, swallowed in the acoustics of the room, as the front door closed, and a sliding sound as the bolts closed above the latch. She stood in the dark room, the lack of light pressing on her eyelids, her pulse whispering through her throat, into her mouth. She heard a sliver of movement, and turned her head toward it.

A hand met the side of her face, very gently, and turned it back to face the same direction as her body. She had no idea what she was looking at, and only a vague idea of where she was. The same hand closed upon the back of her neck, and another found the small of her back through the long yet light trench-cloak she wore. The hands silently guided her through the darkness, their owner moving unerringly, not touching anything but her body. Finally, the hands were removed and she stood, stock-still, as the door behind her clicked shut.

There was a different quality to the air in this room. It was the same smell, but different, with more of an animalistic undertone. It was warmer, as if it were realer, and was more difficult to breathe. Or maybe that was her heart, her heart that now threatened to explode within her chest if the tensions that had been created were not released.

But they were not released. Instead, there was a nearly-silent whispering sound, and her mind was so concentrated upon listening that it barely felt the cloak slip from around her shoulders to pool around her feet. The hands danced across her chest, down past her stomach, not flat enough to feel ribs along its sides, but still enticingly slim. They gently tugged at the hem of the shirt, lifting it out from where it was tucked into her skirt, and she raised her hands unconsciously to let the soft fabric slip over her arms and away from her body. The hands found her hair, now tousled by its passage through the shirt, and smoothed it back.

Her breathing quickened. Her eyes widened, but that was an imperceptible occurrence in the heavy darkness. She felt a breeze of cool air against the side of her neck, and then the hands upon her shoulders. They began to knead the muscles there, working out the kinks that had come with her dream. Her head slowly fell forward, her hair curtaining her face, creating a silkily-protective envelope about her face.

As his hands worked her skin like the clay from which she had come, they began moving downward. Without a thought, the pressure on her breasts was released as he deftly slipped her bra off her torso, not stopping the motion of his other hand.

And then there was a cessation of motion, and a warm presence pressed against her back. A voice, in her ear.

\"Relaxed?\" It almost sounded light, much airier than suited this dark room. She tried to nod, but her head would not move. \"I do expect an answer, my dear.\" The silver threads wound about the iron and ignited a response, a primal response deep inside her soul\'s core.

\"Yes, sir.\"

Without warning, the presence disappeared. She felt the warm, powerful hands caressing their way up her ankles, the muscles of her calves, her smooth, slender thighs, and up onto her curved hips. They gently tugged at the wisp of nearly-invisible fabric there, sliding it back down the way his hands had come, and then, as her left leg lifted of its own accord, off and out of the way. The hands unbuckled the skirt, and unwrapped it from her waist, leaving her only in the short boots she had worn to protect her feet.

And then there was another sudden sensation, but this one was not so sensual or gentle. A pressure increased on the backs of her knees, and she fell forward, catching herself with her hands, but his goal had been accomplished.

\"You know what is required of you now,\" he cautioned, his voice dopplering away as she heard him pad across the room. She nodded, barely, even though he could not see, and straightened her posture, clasping her hands at the base of her spine and tilting her head downward.

There was an imperceptible change in the room\'s atmosphere. A lamp, mounted on the ceiling directly above her head, began to glow, ever so softly, like the last sunlight before the night or the first glimpse of light before morning actually begins. It bathed her, soothed her, pushed the thickness of the air and darkness away from her kneeling figure.

She could not see him. She could see a bed in front of her, a table to one side of it, and a print above it. There was the edge of a desk, draped with a dust sheet, and a dresser with knickknacks displayed upon it.

And then she saw it, directly upon the floor in front of her. Black as the darkness from which she had just been saved, not a large item, but one that nonetheless conveyed an air of gentle menace, one that said, \"you are mine. Your body is mine.\"

Her body, she realized, was all it needed. He already had her heart and her soul.

*

She knelt there for an uncountable number of long moments, measured only by the beating of her heart, alternately soft and thundered as she pondered her situation. She felt the weight of his gaze sweeping over her body, and a slight flush spread through her cheeks. She forced it away; there was no need for her to feel shame or embarrassment, and she knew that he knew it. She knew she was beautiful, and she knew he felt the same way.

The air shifted, and she felt him walk closer, slowly, genteely, as if there was nothing in the world remaining but for the two of them. He sat down in front of her, and with her eyes down as she had been commanded in unspoken words, she saw his powerful legs clothed in dark, soft-looking pants, and the tails of the red robe. She knew that he commanded power, commanded respect, commanded obedience, regardless of his attire.

He sat down in front of her, and his fingertip caressed her cheek before tilting her chin upward to face him. The robe framed his chest, muscular without being overbearing, taking away any menace that might have inadvertently appeared, softening the already gentle lines of his face and body, his black hair swept behind his ears, with only a few disobedient strands curling across one cheek.

He caught her eyes with his, the blue that was nearly identical to her own holding the mirrors of her soul in their grasp, reading deep within her, to the center of her very being, testing the resilience within her. A smile touched his lips, a smile mirrored by hers, and accompanied by a relieved sigh escaping from deep within her, as she realized that he had found what he had expected.

She knew what she wanted. She was ready.

*

He scooped the black, supple threat up from the blue carpet in front of her, and slipped it into a pocket. From the other pocket of his robe, he withdrew two long, leatherlike straps, straps with loops at each end. She didn\'t watch what he was doing; she knew what it would be. He would be affixing the straps to loops mounted in the corners of wall and ceiling. He would be bringing them behind her. He would lift her to her feet, as he was doing now, and enclose her wrists within the leather, letting the soft lining inside it caress her wrists as they were drawn upward and away, until her hands were above her head and the muscles in her back and shoulders were taut and tense.

And then he would walk up behind her, and place his hands on her shoulders. And he would ask her if she remembered the words.

\"Yes, sir, I remember the words.\"

There was a gentle touch to her left cheek, and with a start, she realized the warm memory left there was of his lips as he had kissed her. The memory kept her mind from focusing until she heard the rifle-like crack of leather meeting skin.

Her skin.

Her mouth opened, and a keening wail started, low in pitch and volume, and as the fire blossomed across her well-formed buttocks, rose higher.

But she had enough presence of mind to speak one word.

\"One.\"

*

She was shocked, not at the violent blow itself, but at its ferocity, at the strength with which the leather strap kissed her body. He circled around her, the strap held in his hands, as she shivered in a delicious, exquisite pain.

He made his way around to where he\'d started. This time, she had the presence of mind to clench her teeth as she heard the whistle of leather moving air out of its way in the journey to its eventual target.

Another crack, and another explosion of ice-hot pain, this time higher, just below the base of her spine. She yelped out in shock, but remembered to whisper the number two between clenched teeth.

*

And so it continued. After each searing stroke, he would walk around her body, hanging helpless, bound, vulnerably naked, sometimes caressing her cheek or the side of her breast, bringing forth a gasp or a low growl from the depths of her throat.

But each time, he would end up where he started. Each time, she would try her best to prepare herself for the inevitable.

She could not. She could only beg for it to come more quickly, beg silently within her own head, as she heard the moan of the air end in a truncated crack, and heard her own moans, or cries, or wails replace it as the strap landed upon her body.

*

She had gasped an eight out through clenched teeth and quivering lips. Tears were running openly down her cheeks, and her body was trembling with an agony so pleasurable it nearly brought her to the edge of orgasm as the heat blossomed outward.

The strap had fallen across eight different places across the back of her body. Her shoulders, her thighs, and her buttocks all told the tale, lined with reddish stripe-welts that were nearly parallel, and never touched each other, no matter how close they got.

There was one place left, she knew, one place where he had not kissed her yet. She was dreading it, but knew that once the kiss came, it would end. Her mind clicked like a metronome between the dread and anticipation of the pain and the equally warm anticipation of the release it would bring.

He had nearly finished his circuit now. His fingers had run across the welt along her shoulder blades. She heard him pull the strap backward, and whispered something very softly.

\"Sir.\"

It was the first word she\'d said since it began that was not a number. And he knew what it meant. She heard him move a bit to the left, and then the scream of air, the explosion of sound as the leather touched the line at the bottom of her buttocks, where her thighs began, and finally, the conflagration of stinging, white-hot pain that erupted underneath the welt that she knew now existed.

Fresh tears fell from her eyes, and as she sobbed and rocked from side to side in the bonds, she knew that her cheeks were not anywhere near being as wet as the warm, throbbing place between her thighs.

He did something with the straps, and they fell away from her wrists. She toppled forward, into his arms, and her own arms encircled his chest, begging for comfort. Her face buried itself into the bottom of his neck, her tears wetting his skin, their heat more magnified now than it had ever been.

He held her to him, weaving with words and touches a quilt of protection to keep her safe. Somewhere along the way, his clothing had gone the way of hers, and it was his unadorned, warm body that helped create her sanctuary.

Carefully, so as not to jostle her or cause her any more pain than she had asked for, he led her to the bed. In a contortion that would have seemed impossible had he not done it, she found herself upon him in the bed, his body between hers and the sheets, the sheets which were the same washed cotton as hers. He did not draw the blanket over them, instead letting the cool air that was no longer as thick as it had been wash over the heat waves bathing her back, bottom, and thighs. She kissed the side of his neck, and pillowed her head on his shoulder.

\"Thank you.\"

He turned to look at her tear-stained face. \"It was what you wanted. I can only be honored that you asked it of me.\"

\"You\'ve always done that for me,\" she remarked, more to herself than to him. One of his eyebrows quirked upward, and she bit her lower lip gently before responding.

\"Whenever anything\'s gone wrong, whenever my life has been ashambles, it\'s been you who\'s been there for me. Whenever I need to talk, it\'s you I talk to. When I cry, it\'s you who holds me.\"

\"And,\" he whispered, kissing her cheek, \"when you know what you want, it\'s me you come to.\"

She smiled into his eyes, and even in the dim light that he\'d never bothered to turn off, she could see him smiling back. \"Let me give you something in return,\" she whispered, and slowly began sliding down the length of his body.

But his arms reached beneath hers and gently but firmly pulled her up to where she\'d been cradled before. A fingertip on her lips kept her from speaking as he shook his head. \"It was your gift,\" he said softly. \"No payment needed.\"

She smiled now, and a fresh tear welled in her eye as she cradled her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. \"You\'ve always done that for me,\" she whispered, her voice losing focus as her body slipped the bondage of consciousness and began its trek into the gossamer worlds of sleep.

His last words stayed with her. \"How could I refuse?\"

But she could not devote any time to them. Despite the still-powerful heat coming from the savaged parts of her skin, she had already fallen prey to sleep, and it began, without her knowledge but with her consent, to knit the raveled sleeve of care that she had not felt for so long.

He watched her sleep, her face still smiling in contentment and joy.

\"How could I refuse?\"

***

Fin.