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  • charlimacwrites

The Quiet

I’m awkward, in those first few moments. The space

between the last time and now yawns between us.

I remember your smell, but the air that carries it is

cold. Your smile is warm, and those hands are as

beautiful as I remember, but the feel of your touch

is an echo of a memory. Too faint to even be a whisper

on my skin. I bubble words that are too noisy, too

crowded in the quiet air as you calmly and methodically

lay out the tool for our play today. The vampire gloves

come out. They’re new, still in the packaging, and

I’m oh so curious. But also, I spot an opportunity.

You put them on the table. I put them back in the bag.

On the table. In the bag. You raise an eyebrow but

you also smile. On the table, in the bag. The next thing

to come out of the bag makes my eyes widen. You bring

the vampire gloves out next, and on the table they stay.

“Take off your clothes.” I disrobe, that thunder kicking

up in my chest. I look at you, but you’re concentrating

on laying out all the delicious ways you’re going to

torture me. That’s worse. I feel cut off, like a spider

whose skein of silk thread has been sliced by a hand.

I feel disconnected and more naked than simply

removing clothes should allow. “Inspection pose.”

There is it, that connection that pulls us together.

Head up, back straight, legs slightly apart. Hands

behind my head. You approach, eyes running over

my body more tangibly than a touch. Circle round

me, closing off that empty space that made me feel

so small. Your mouth goes to my shoulder, you hand

into my hear. Clench. Grip. Pull. Your other arm

goes around my middle and I am contained.

Finally… the quiet.

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