She took her day job, teaching, very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that she often stayed after hours to prepare, pouring the best of herself into her work. And yet, she wasn’t particularly happy with her career. She loved the children–guiding them, sharing, being with them–but endless friction and disappointment with mediocre administrators often made her question whether or not to even stay in the profession.
She found great solace in her creative alter ego. It energized and renewed her spirit. Her drawings and poetry were to his eye–and at the risk of sounding arrogant, he was sure he had a discrimnating one–top notch. He adored the peaceful and simultaneously urgent glow that shone from her face when she was working feverishly on a new idea. He often wished she could spend her entire working life in these pursuits but, again, that was her choice to make and not his. His choice, his role, was merely to be there for her; to offer an objective eye and a joyful voice when she had things to share. When her creative conduit was blocked, as it apparently was now, he knew it took a heavy toll on her, and that made him sad. Yet, she had reached out to him in her own way, and he was determined to be up to the task.
When she got home, late and nearly exhausted, he immediately launched into his “looking after” mode. He enfolded her in his arms, guided her to the couch, massaged her neck and shoulders. He listened to her account of the events of the day and made her laugh while he wandered back and forth to the kitchen, tending to her favorite dinner. There had been a time, early in their relationship, when she was slightly uncomfortable with being tenderly cared for like this–it seemed to her self-indulgent; a little foreign to her experience and expectations–but she’d gotten over it, and learned to settle back and enjoy his loving ministrations.
After dinner they walked outside, hand in hand, drinking in the cool clean Autumn air, saying little. As darkness began to envelope them, they stopped and stood together quietly, lost in the peacefulness of the moment. She lay her head on his chest and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, brushing his fingers gently through her hair.
“I’m going to take a long, hot bath,” she whispered finally, and he responded with a gentle squeeze.
“Ok. Then we’ll talk.”
She looked up at him, her eyes radiating something between apprehension and anticipation.
“Oh, that’s ok. I’m over it. I’m ok. Really. We don’t need to…um…talk…anymore,” she purred.
He smiled to himself, silently wishing he could nominate her for a “Best Performance In A Transparent Attempt At Avoidance” Oscar. Instead, he shook his head, meeting her gaze with his best “No way, but nice try” smirk, then led her into the house.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said, settling easily onto the couch, his voice low and firm.
For a moment, she looked if she meant to argue, then quickly turned and walked upstairs.
He moved around the room, dimming lamps and lighting a few candles as he waited for her to bathe. There was no doubt about what would happen next. The phrase “We Need To Talk” was a code; one they both understood implicitly. They had been drawn together, initially, by a mutual interest; an exploration of what was, for lack of a better term, commonly called dominance and submission. But their perspectives on the subject had matured considerably and they had liberated themselves from the rigid, dogmatic aspects of the scene as the more important parts of their relationship–mutual respect, support, trust, humor and love–had grown.
Normally, their little preference manifested itself as sexual foreplay. They were, after all, independent, intelligent, capable individuals and neither of them had any real interest in totally surrendering their free will concerning decisions about life’s truly important choices to anyone–even a loving partner. Like “normal” couples, they sought each other’s counsel about a particular issue and, ideally, arrived at a course of action that was best for both of them.
As a result, they made it a point to confine their desires, strong as they were, to the bedroom–which both of them agreed was the proper arena. Only occasionally did they allow the line between fantasy and reality to blur a bit, and this was one of those occasions. While they both were acutely aware that what they were about to undertake wasn’t to be construed as a long term lifestyle choice, it was necessary that an illusion of absolute control be played out in the hope of freeing her from the grip of whatever feelings were causing her creative block.
“Misdirection,” he mused, “like in magic.”
Just then she began to descend the staircase. He purposefully turned his attention to the book he had picked up–knowing full well she would be watching his every move as she made her way down the carpeted steps to the livingroom.
She reached the bottom step and stopped. He looked up, slowly closing the book and setting it nonchalantly aside. Her face was still flushed from the warm bath, her hair still a little damp, and she was dressed only in a colorful silk robe which fell tantalizingly open, exposing the curves of her breasts. Her eyes were alive with excitement; her breathing was audibly shallow, labored. He looked at her for a long time, secretly enjoying the way she waited, silently, for him to speak.
“Strip,” he said, finally, “now.”
She gasped; the same breathless sound he had heard early that morning when she’d discovered his note. Her fingers trembled slightly as she slipped the robe over her alabaster shoulders, her eyes never leaving his, letting it slide easily to the floor. She stood there–naked and open before the one she loved–the perfect image of what she had once told him was, to her, the essence of dominance and submission.
