More Than Words

"You're unhappy," He said.

How astute of him to notice. The salad on my plate had grown warm and the lasagna cold. My fork picked at the congealed cheese and swept aside the limp green leaves as if a rearrangement could bring about new life. It was hopeless. We were hopeless and yet to look into his eyes, you would not know it. Maybe there was love still residing within, but love is not a thing of maybes.

"I'm tired," I said, meaning of him and of us, but knowing he would not understand.

"Are you?" He asked, his tone suggesting he believed something else.

With a sigh, I tossed my napkin from my lap on top of my plate and pushed myself up from the table. His eyes followed my every movement, but I no longer felt the thrill of capturing his attention. My hand reached across the table to collect his empty plate with the intention of clearing the table, but he grasped my wrist. My heart was tempted to pause in anticipation but hope had already left. I lifted my gaze to meet his and bitterness found its way to my tongue.

"Let go," I commanded, pulling away from him. His grip remained firm and again I said, "Let go."

"Talk to me," He said, his eyes pleading while his fingers remained tight around my wrist like an iron bracelet. I continued to pull against him.

"There is more to life than conversation," I said, the words spitting form my lips like a victim's accusation upon the guilty. His head tilted in confusion and I shook mine in disappointment. It was too much to hope he would glean understanding and folly to expect it.

"What would you have me do?" He asked.

"Let me go," I said and after the briefest of moments his fingers released me. I laughed and turned away from him. He would never learn.

But then, as I began to step away, his fingers wrapped around my arm and pulled me back. I gasped, flailing backward and would have fallen except he stood and steadied us both. Twisting around, I caught the glint in his eyes and I smiled, but not for him to see. He yanked me toward him again until I had no choice but to stand, body to body against him, my eyes daring to hope as they turned upward to glimpse his determination. I waited as a worm on the hook.

"Do you even know what you want?" He asked, his hot breath sifting through my hair and warming the top of my head. I basked in dizziness.

"Let go of me," I said, punching a fist into his breast, "you brute!"

Unfazed and laughing he said, "It won't make you happy."

"You wouldn't know how to make me happy," I said.

He shook his head and said, "You could have just asked."

"For you to have a heart, courage or a brain? I dare say it might be a bit too much to ask," I said.

"I know exactly what you need," He said.

I was tempted to believe, but there was a lack of proof leaving me in doubt. I said, "Could it be another conversation about the weather or perhaps we should talk of politics and religions until the wee hours of the night?"

"A conversation?" He said nodding his head as if lost in the details of a forgotten memory. "Yes, my father often called it that."

"More boring words from you or your father are not what I need or want," I said, hiding my smile in the folds of his shirt.

"Not all conversations go from mouth to ear," He said.

I looked up at him, his face suddenly masked in an unfamiliar sternness. It suited him well, but I feigned surprise and shock in his gaze. "Oh?" I said, as if I knew not what he meant.

"Some things are conversed better between palm and bottom," He said.

I gasped and tried to pull away once more. A smile tugged at the corners of lips and was fulfilled in the light dancing in his eyes. My skin tingled with welcome anticipation. The firm grip of his hand felt like a loving caress and my heart dared to continue beating. Hope burned within me like the light of a thousand candles beaming as happiness through my every pore.

"You wouldn't dare," I said.

The time for words had come to an end. He spun me around and his fingers unzipped the back of my dress. I might have liked to resist a little, but fear held me still. If there remained even the slightest doubt in his mind, he might stop and my heart could not bear the disappointment if he did. I shivered as his hands brushed aside the straps and the garment fell to a puddle around my feet. Slowly, lovingly, he stripped me naked for his eyes' pleasure and I basked in the attention. His hands explore every inch along the way and when all was done, he pulled me into him, greedily tasting my lips and breathing my breath. He pulled away leaving me hungry and lusting for more.

Adorned in nothing more than jewelry and heels, I walked with him to the couch. He lifted the leather swatter from the side table, a gift from his parents' travels, never used except as a trinket set out for display. It swished through the air between us, letting me know what he intended. I raised an eyebrow, but did not object.

"Sometimes the hand needs a little help," He said in explanation.

I knelt on the open end of the couch and waited. My body was exposed to his every whim and he took his time, drinking in the view with laughing eyes. He knew what I wanted, what I needed and he enjoyed making me wait. I would not beg for it, but I could not keep my body from doing it through the bumps of anticipation along my flesh, the shallowness of breath drawn through my lips, or the twitching of my buttocks. Gently, almost lazily, he slapped the leather against my bottom producing nothing more than screaming cries of frustration.

I turned toward him and wagged my finger in the space between us. He shrugged, his arms waving out beside him and said, "What?"

"If you're going to spank me, " I said wagging my finger, "you damn well better do it right."

He said, "Just remember, you asked for it," and the leather came swishing down leaving in its wake the beginnings of a warm sting and a warmer glow.

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.