Gift of Love

The box was plain white with a single strip of pink ribbon holding it closed. A single red rose, long stem and vased in a glass bubble, sat next to the box on my nightstand. There was no card, no certain way to identify the sender, but I knew. The ribbon came undone with ease and the top slipped off the box with a careful flick of my fingers. My eyes widen with excitement seeing it laying there, encased in pink tissue paper. I was almost afraid to wrap my fingers around it, to lift it from the safety of its wrappings.

I checked the bedroom door, making certain it was closed. My fingers twisted the rod to the blinds, closing off the view to and from the outside world. I slid open the top drawer of my dresser, watching the woman in the mirror. She looked nervous, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she lifted her nightgown from the drawer. Staring back at me she pushed the drawer closed with gentle force and turned away to the bed. I laid the gown on top of the comforter and slowly slipped out of the day's attire, my eyes wandering back to the white box on the nightstand.

The box called to me from the nightstand, but I resisted the temptation, slipping on my gown. I pulled back the sheets, rearranged the pillows and sat on the bed. It was just within reach, the box and the rose. A creak in the floor outside my room sent flutters through my stomach and my head snapped toward the door. I waited, hands sweating in my lap, breath shallow in my throat and blood pulsing in my ears. The house grew quiet and I grew calm. He was coming, but not yet.

My attention turned back to the box. It lifted from the stand with ease, the weight barely perceptible to my hand. The box rested in my lap, the contents cushioned like a precious jewel and my fingers brushed against its cool surface. Tenderly, I lifted it from the box and cradled it in my hands. I moved the box away, discarding it until later when I would return the gift to its pure confines and conceal it within the white obscurity.

The wood was smooth and polished, feeling like glass against my fingertips. I turned it upside down to examine its flat back and admired the handles curvature, ensuring a comfortable grip. A short length of rope, tied in a knot, penetrated a smooth hole on the end of the handle. The brush was meant to be hung in plain sight, an ordinary everyday item to the untrained eye. It was much more to me.

For the casual observation it was a simple bath brush. The bristles would never be doused in soapy water. They would never scrub dirt from my skin or scratch an unseen itch on my back. The smooth wood and flat back were the useful particulars which had caught my eye and his. It would attract no unwanted attention, no veiled comments or taunting teases from family, friends or guests. It was the perfect secret, concealed in plain sight with plain purpose to mislead all except those who knew, all but him and me.

I held its solid form in my hands. My eyes closed with pleasant, tantalizing dreams. My ears twitched imagining the sound it would make, whistling through the air. Muscles tensed, waiting for the inevitable smack against tender flesh. The warmth of safety, caring, and loving spread throughout my body. Fire burned like passion from my buttocks. Sweat beaded on my forehead. With rapid, shallow breaths I shuddered, completely consumed.

A knock on the door snapped my eyes open. The dream faded from view and the bedroom door solidified into reality. From the door, my eyes drifted back to the brush, still resting delicately in my hands. I took a single deep breath and caught a hint of rose in the air bringing a smile to my lips. Love was in the air and he was waiting just outside my door.