You turn your full attention to me and suddenly I am terrified. My food, the other patrons, the entire coffeehouse freezes in time like Ancient Pompeii, instantly entombed in volcanic ash. Because I know that before the night is over I will have experienced the other part of the volcano, the molten lava that consumes flesh, engulfs it, absorbs it without a trace. My insides turns to water and before I can lower my eyes, tears spring to them, held in check, yes, but ready nonetheless.
No one notices - who could imagine what will pass between us this night? - And if they noticed they would assume they had seen incorrectly. But they would be wrong. I don’t want to leave and I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be led by the hand out to the car to have you, in the relative privacy of the parking lot, cup the little square or, more precisely, curve, probably, cup the little curve of flesh that has caught the attention of your devious mind this evening. Is that all this is for you, a mental exercise? Do you become so infatuated with your ideas of what you can do to some small part of me? I like to think, immodestly perhaps, that I could occupy that much of your thoughts.
Even before I learn the specific approach you will use this evening I know from experience what the result must ultimately be. My tension tells me I will fail in my resolution to accept it more easily this time. I have to ask myself what it is you want, why you must torture me? My tears reach their flood as you examine my least appealing aspects in the most minute detail. What perfection could stand up to such scrutiny? Can my body ever not resist you? Can my back ever not arch under the focus of your attentions, applied with a jeweler’s skill to break me down, past down, beyond down and then further?
Could it be just your way of allowing me to give myself so completely to you? In my heart I want that to be the reason. In my heart I want to submit to you entirely but if this is my chance to show my devotion why must you make it so difficult? Difficult I could accept - but why impossible? Why do you force me to resist you, beg of you, plead unheeded, and continue? Why can’t you allow that I show my devotion, do what you want, accept what you give me? Why must you always give me so much more than I can accept? Is it to show me how much further I have to go in my journey of making myself no more than some small part of you? Why can’t you bring me along slowly or demand that I not resist? You know I must resist, my body can do nothing else - you see to that. Don’t I show you how totally I dedicate myself to you? My mind tells me my heart is wrong, that this is not the reason why you must torture me.
Why are you not more demanding? When I am stripped, being led to the bathroom to empty a bladder made suddenly overfull by nothing more than your stare, knowing by now where if not how I must suffer this evening, you know that I will draw that part of myself away from you. My sacrificial flesh shrinks under your inquisition and shirks from its duty to serve you, even as I attempt to will it onward - it revolts against you and in doing so I revolt myself. Why do you allow this? Why don’t you make me offer it to you, present it to you, encourage you to use it as you will, instead of cowering away from you?
How can you be so understanding, so accepting of my fear and then proceed with what you intend to do to me? In a moment the strength of your fingers and the devil in your head will have my tears flowing freely - how can you accept reluctance in my submission?
What does my visible excitement make you think - that I don’t remember the last time? That I think this time will be that much different? What does this combination of hot skin and cold sweat say to you? That I don’t believe you?
Believe me, I believe you. When you lay me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed or coffee table, I believe you. Please God, mount me, straddle me, pin me with your body. If I didn’t have your body against mine my heart would break and I would die. Remember the time you straddled me, your calves and thighs against my ribs, my own knees under your arms? Did you know as I struggled how I loved being there with you? Do you know the caring I feel from you as you arrange me as if on your workbench to assure that you miss no opportunity to make the most of every bolt of pain you prepare for me?
Here is what I find myself questioning - why must I humiliate myself? Why do you deny me the least little help in submitting to you? Why do you let me resist you so when it would be so much easier to force me to submit? You see how disgraced I am by my struggles and my cries - why can’t I have the slightest help with them? You know I am shamed all the more as I beg, plead, over and over - knowing that you want me not to - as I ask for a strap for my mouth, or restraints for my legs, or arms, or waist, to help me submit to you. You know how I defile my submission when you have to struggle with me, when you must force an arm or a shoulder or your body between my legs to keep them apart, or pin my arm with your thigh, or when your grip is not enough to control my flailing limb. That I can’t hold my legs open or my arms down as I should, that I can’t force them to obey my heart and embrace the application of your agonizing desires? When my back rises from the table, when my hands drum and slap, as you ask me so quietly to hold myself still with that gentle cooing barely louder than the rushing in my head?
Do you see my abasement when my writhing leg finds a foothold and I release myself from you? The destruction of my dignity when you patiently reposition me, as calmly and tolerantly as if nothing had happened, and begin again with your ministrations that caused me to thrash and twist so in the first place? Do you know how humiliated I am to accept your little kisses while I am engulfed in tears, knowing the greater disgrace that is to come? When the excruciation you so love to render surpasses my strangled cries and I must resort to asking to defy your will and pleasure?
Do you know how pathetic I am at times like these? Not feel - am. How can you possibly keep me with you when you have seen me, shivering, sobbing, unable to offer myself, unable to hold back my demands that you stop? When will you just get up and walk away, leaving me to the eternal pit of emptiness I deserve? How can I expect you to stay when you reveal, display, parade the most unattractive and weakest aspects of my body, emotions, mind, heart? Must you watch my last traces of self-acceptance turn to abhorrence as you peer into the blackest abyss of my body and soul?
Is that what it is? Is it when I am at my best, when I think I may finally have something to offer you, when maybe I am starting to deserve you, that you have to show me? Show me that you accept me, even in this showcase of my weaknesses? Where the last vestiges of the little that might someday pass as pride is stripped and crushed and I am disgraced by its very existence, where the slightest token of what I had hoped was honor is twisted into a whip and used to torment the most tender traces of my ego? That you will still take me. Take me and keep me, even when I have shamed myself beyond shame; unworthy, more than unworthy, lower than words I can bring myself to say - that you can see me like this and still accept me? Is it to show me, tell me, reassure me, convince me that if you can accept me in hours such as these, that there will be no time when I am not a jewel in your jeweler’s hands? Is that why you must torture me?
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