Bolero

The sun goes down. The gathering gloom gathers. I light a single candle and place it near the edge of the fireplace mantle. The gathering gloom gathers. The darkness falls.

I wait for you.

Come to me, thou dear one of my heart. I wait for you. In the gathered gloom of night, in the dark of anticipation, I wait.

I lie on the fur rug, in front of the dark fireplace. The single candle flickers in the draft from the slightly raised window. The gathered gloom begins to gather heat. Heat.

Heat. Why don’t the icicles melt and fall?

I close my eyes, waiting. There is no time, there is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I open my eyes, still waiting.

You are sprawled on the sofa, tired beyond endurance, and your body screams for rest.

I can hear the silent screaming. It raises me from the furry respite and brings me to your side.

Shhhhhhh. Don’t speak. Don’t move. The sputtering candle begins to gutter, and drops of wax fall onto the mantle. There is no time, there is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I turn from you and go to the fireplace. I light a fire; it throws shafts of gold on the walls, and on the fur, and on your face as you look questioningly at me. This is not my usual role.

Shhhhhh. Don’t speak. Don’t move. The darkness is complete. Not a single star breaks the velvet bolt that spreads across the sky. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

The flames begin to die. The logs begin to glow. Heat.

Heat. Why don’t the icicles melt and fall?

You sigh the sigh of the weary and confused. You rub your temples and try to speak.

Shhhhhhh. Heat. The glowing logs and the heat. Glowing heat.

I go to you. Your eyes are puzzled and pleading.

Slowly, slowly, I remove my shoes. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I remove my shoes. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t move.

I reach for your hand and you give it to me. I pull you up and push you down, down, down on the fireplace furry softness and there is heat, so much heat, you try to speak and I will not allow it. Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

Slowly, slowly, I remove your shoes. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I remove your shoes. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Don’t move.

With long sharp scissors I begin to cut away your clothing, up, up, up one leg to the waist, and up, up, up the other leg to the waist, and snip, snip, snip and your clothing is wadded up in my hands and thrown into the coals, into the live, glowing coals. The room darkens and then explodes into shafts of golden light and then darkens again. You shiver.

Heat. Heat.

With my foot, I remove the chain from your neck. I wrap my toes around the chain and gently lift it over your head. I put it around my neck. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I put your chain around my neck. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

With my teeth, I begin to bite the buttons off your shirt. I start in the middle, and work my way down, and then up again. I bite slowly, slowly, and you watch me, and I bite each button slowly and I spit it into the coals, into the live coals, and together we watch as each little button melts. Slowly, slowly the buttons are removed and put far beyond your reach, and far beyond their own reclamation.

With long sharp scissors I begin to cut away your clothing, down, down, down one arm to the wrist, and down, down, down the other arm to the wrist, and snip, snip, snip and your clothing is wadded up in my hand and thrown into the coals, into the live, glowing coals. The room darkens and then explodes into shafts of golden light and then darkens again. You shiver. You are not cold, but you shiver.

Shhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

DON’T MOVE.

Lie quietly, acquiescently, on the fur, and let me help you. Let me help you become more you. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I dance my fingers over your left leg. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on your left leg. Don’t speak. Don’t move. There is heat, there is immense and incredible heat. The live coals glow and send their heat into the room, over the fur rug and us, and there is heat.

We send our own heat back into the coals.

Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

I dance my fingers over your right leg. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on your right leg. Don’t speak. Don’t move. There is heat.

Lie quietly, acquiescently, on the fur, and let me help you. Let me help you become more you. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

My fingers lightly dance across your face. I do not touch your skin. I play you like a Ouija Board, my fingertips make you feel, think, be, anything I want, anything you want, I control my own fate with my fingertips on your face, on the soft hairs of your face. I do not touch your skin. Ask a question in your mind, I will answer it with my fingers on the planchette of your body, but neither of us will speak. Do not move. Do not speak.

Lie quietly and let my fingers dance just above your skin. I will not touch your skin. You will want me to, but I will not touch your skin.

I can make you scream without ever touching your skin. I will want to touch you, but I will not. I want to, but I don’t have to.

My fingertips dance across your face. I trace the outline of each eyebrow, and I flick the tips of your eyelashes, and my fingers dance lightly on the soft hairs of your face, and on your chin, and your cheeks, and around and around and around your lips. Shhh, don’t speak. Don’t move. Such blazing heat.

I dance my fingers on the back of your neck. Don’t move; I will move you. Lie quietly and let my fingers dance across the back of your neck. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on the back of your neck. You want to scream but I do not allow it. Time goes by, but there is no time. Hours? Minutes? Days? Ecstasy knows no measurements.

You want to move but I do not allow it. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I lift your arms. I dance my fingers on your left armpit, and then your right. I dance my fingers on the soft hairs of your armpits and I do not allow you to move, or speak. Do not react; just lie quietly and acquiescently on the fur and let me help you. Shhhhh, do not speak. Do not move.

Your body is in a frenzy now; you want to scream and you want to writhe and I will not allow you to do either. Do not speak. Do not move. I will do the moving. Lie still.

Your boxers are now far too tight for comfort. With long, sharp scissors I cut away the fabric. I slash and cut without seeming regard for the treasures within and you want to pull away in fear and I do not allow it. I bend over you and with my teeth, I remove the rags of cloth and I drop them into my hand and I wad them up and throw them into the live coals, and the rooms darkens for a moment and then bursts into shafts of light and then darkens once more. Shafts of light.

Shafts of light.

Shaft of light.

My fingers dance just above your skin, dancing, flitting, lightly, not touching your skin but you can feel me, you can feel me, playing your body like a planchette, and predicting the future with my fingertips. You want to explode but I do not allow it, not yet, not yet.

I flip you over, still on the white fur, still on the white fur before the glowing coals, still heat, still hot with heat, the dying coals throw such heat into the room.

With my foot, I trace patterns on your back. I do not touch your skin. You want me to but I will not.

I sit on your back and I play your legs with my fingertips like a Ouija planchette. I can predict the future, I know what the immediate future holds, but not yet, not yet, I will not allow it yet.

Your body is in a frenzy of not writhing, and not talking, and not reacting. You are explosive but not yet. I will not allow it, not yet.

There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Heat. Heat.

White fur. Fingertips, dancing across your body, not touching your skin, wanting to but not touching, and you want me to, but I do not touch. Every crease, every fold, every hair, every pore, every part of you, explored but never touched, my fingertips dancing lightly.

I knead your body with my feet. You sigh the sigh of the truly happy.

I can make you scream without exploding. I can spend you like a dollar. I can exhaust you just by removing my shoes. I can make you scream in anticipation. Anticipation.

Using only my fingertips and my feet, I can make you scream, and I can make you smile. Without touching you, I can make you scream and smile.

It is a preview.

The music ends.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats, Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heave

Sweat, filth, burning strips of red where the crop had alit. I’m a pig she thought, a whore; make me crawl, tremulous. Her gaze was fixed on a far corner of the room where a soft glow throbbed against the darkness, daring not to look into his eyes or even anywhere near him lest he let loose with another lash, now is not the time, flesh too tender yet for another. Yet another came, blinding, quick and searing, like the brush of a branding iron across her back, pain rising and igniting into a blaze of ecstasy radiating throughout her. Exquisite, a rippled shiver that raced to her edges and then back, inwards, within, to the resonating and trembling core. Everything but those ripples had been ripped from her so that what was left was that singular, comprehensive sensation winnowing away in time.

As the ripples diminished, sound and smell and taste and vision all bled back to her from the sleeve where they’d hid, silent and still. Music returned disjointed and dissonant as it washed back over her (The Dwarves, an odd choice, she’d thought) but then settled, in time, rhythmic and expansive, dulcet and clear. The air seemed cooler, sweeter, shimmering, more fragrant. Everything illuminated by the glow in the corner, clearer. Still, she held her gaze on the glow, not looking into his eyes.

A pie tin he’d poured a beer into, dinged up and dirty. Lick it like a dog, he said, snarled, lap it up, you love it. Obediently she drank, dark, foamy beer, hair on her lips, his and hers. He moved his foot into the tin, toes submerged, stepping on her tongue. Drink it all, he said, every last drop.

With almost everything gone in the pan but the tip of his foot, she began licking between his toes, around his instep and heel, her tongue firm and flat against his skin, lips just brushing the top of his foot. Not pausing, her mouth continued rising on him, to his ankle, shin, each kiss on him, taste of his skin, timorous, tentative, intuitive. Continue, he whispered, his breathing more forceful, deeper, his muscles taut, head tilted back with his eyes almost shut.

She wrapped her wrists around the ropes, arms outstretched, writhing, twisting her frustrations out on bonds coiled around the bedpost. Inside her, the heel of the riding crop rubbed hard against her forward wall, the weave of the leather hilt thrust rough, its texture and shape grinding against the folds and bumps just inside her opening.

Suddenly he pulled it out of her, drops of her arousal splashing on the inside of her thighs, soft and warm like remnants of a Jamaican wave. Legs spread and shuddering, expecting the inevitable, more strikes of the crop – the back of her thighs, her ass, her shoulders – and then his cock slammed into her. You’ll fuck anything, he says, you dirty slut, you worthless cunt, take this, take this….

The riding crop stings but at least the pain is real; “slut” and “whore” and “filthy cunt” roll off the back with immeasurable affect – just functions of the psycho drama. The grip of hair as the last thrust is made and semen pulses into her throat, pump after pump, throbbing hard and insistent - that's real, as well. As real as the glow in the corner.

Help Me Rhonda. . . .

I'm not saying that I'm feeling down lately, but I'm starting to envy the dead.