Moonlight

Something forbidden, or out of reach. To me, that is what so much of domination and submission is all about. Struggling for the unavailable, striving even though you know it's futile. An expression of insuperable desire. Snap.

Can you even see that that's what you do to me? I spend half the day sometimes, holding my head and my hair in my hand, wondering if you know. The trouble in my eyes, the doubt and the darkness, and the hunger. Especially the hunger. Because you mirror the tension in my chest, and I ache to see it, ache from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. But you keep it veiled, behind a shield of worsted wool, or silk, or soft cool cotton. Somedays it feels like I will never see it bare.

You, you, you: I am so desperate for you! You keep me in a free fall, never moving outward fast enough to avoid your seductive gravity. Hours and even days might go by in a happy whirl and my life gains the illusion of strength, but it can all come crashing down when you curl your delicate finger and I fall slowly but ineluctably to your feet, crawling for your bitter touch and the wicked power you hold over my mouth, my lungs, my life.

Or maybe it's all in my imagination. Probably for real I will only ever hear your voice, dropping by and pouring itself into my head like poison while you tell me, as all gentle women do, how your day has gone. And the angel in my bed, taking my wrists in her brutal hands and taking me to an hairsbreadth of panic, is that really not you? Just a matter of projection? CIA conspiracies? The impalpable pressure of moonlight?

Oh yes, the moon: it's madness, I tell you, utter madness! But to be cured--that would be thrice over madness. You must not take you away. I'll say it again, lest you forget--you must not take you away.