The Window

by Steven Craig

He left with two large leather travel bags.

The were weighted down with the items and objects of which control blossoms in the remote places.

She had called him yet again. She was crying. The time without attention had grown too great. The desire overwhelming, the need past compelling, it was all now or death.

She cried, as he listened, he felt her between the lines on the phone. The love she had, the need to please, to give and give and endure and endure, just to see that momentary smile crease his lips, that flash of contentment in his eyes.

He was driving now. The miles spread out before him. Black asphalt broken by flashing white lines, marking the miles to cruise to her moment of surrender.

She was standing by window when she hung up. Her eyes still teared, and she pulled back the curtain just a few inches, and looked out into the sunlight. In her shadow, she would not venture there. He was coming to her. She looked at the street, empty, the space at the curbside, waiting. Open. For him. She looked at the far curb, as a blur of a red car drove past.

She could see the wheels spinning, rolling, carrying salvation. They rolled so quietly in her mind, so relentless, so endless. No, that was the feel of the whip that she needed. The wheels merely mocked the device. Her mind was preparing, saying the moment in her setting concrete of memory, that after months alone, he was coming. She needed to make ready.

His sunglasses reflected the strong light of the early afternoon, the motion was to the north and west, as the road ran before him, he ran with the wind. The music on the stereo was a relentless beat, a pounding reverberation of drums and guitar. A bass throbbed in his ears, in tune with his heart. His hands gripped the leather wheel of the car, firmly, but without tension. The car moved by his authority, in his control, the distance was but a few hills of sand to move. The motor ran with full gate, smooth and powerful, it pulled up hills and along the curves of the highway. Time was his to hold.

She showered, and shaved, to be the smooth and innocent girl again, to be bound, gagged, blindfolded, and whipped.. Yes, to be physically used again. The shower pulsed on her skin, like hands it moved over her, tapping and pounding, warm and life giving. She knew that soon, her space would be confined, positioned, given to simple tasks and orders, to obey and please, to give and sacrifice. He was coming for that, to take her supreme sacrifice. She washed her hair, and soothed it with the oils and scents of a slave. Her nails had been done, in the bright rose red of his house, the gardens, the color of her skin when she last saw him.

The road cut though the mountain, trees stretched over to see the car as it moved up the long road, and down along the other side of the mountain. The sun was stronger here, the light of its fire hot upon his forehead. He had told her between the begging, the tear filled sobs, it was going to be ok, he was going to be right here by her side. The shadow of the car moved in unison along the rock and posts of roadside, a companion in haste, hurrying to her side. It was going to be alright. He was going to see to it.

She dressed as he demanded, hose and garters and heels, black and smooth, clean and lustrous, prepared otherwise naked for his view, his pleasure, his attentions. She knew the feeling, the senses, the drama of the moment of first impact. Only then, only at that instant, she would finally relax. Only then, she would know, it was real, and not just another needed dream. Her garters were always trouble to get right. She would be punished if they popped loose at the wrong moment. As with everything she did for him, it had to be perfect.

Quickly she did the final attentions in her mirror, insuring that in her surrender, she would look her very best. No makeup, hair brushed, only allowed a single short spray of Chanel. Her soul stopped its fear of life at last. He was coming. He had told her, it was going to be alright, that he was going to be at her side all night.

She looked for the thousandth time at the clock. It could not hardly move any slower. Her eyes watched it, to insure the second hand was in motion, that the minutes would continue to pass. She willed it to go faster. But time is its only mistress, and moves to no womanÂ’s compelling needs. She looked at her hands, digging her finger nails into her palms. She flexed her fingers open and closed and went back to her window.

As the afternoon passed, the music never relented. The wheels were coolly in motion, nothing was to stop their arrival at the intended place, the necessary moment, the appointed hour. The bags sat in the truck, silent. Biding time. The whip never marked the miles. The cuffs never restrained the distance. The gag never silenced the wind. These were for another purpose. For the time of transit, the chains rested, the flogger relaxed. The leather collar was perhaps aware. That soon, it would be placed where control was needed most. She would be kneeling, naked, hands at her side, palms out, fingers extended, head bowed, when it was locked on this slaves throat.

In unison, both their minds felt the words, knew the feeling.

She was whispering it to the window.

He was quietly stating it to the windshield.

All night long. All night long. All night long.

Her city was ahead, the wheels knew their place. Rolling the road, never slowing, always forward, not with haste, but with purpose. He was the power behind them, the wheels obeyed. They carried him to her. Miles became feet and the feet inches.

Moles of matter moved about his machine as he pulled with intent to the space before her house. He bent over and looked out the side window, just in time to see the upstairs curtain suddenly move back to its vertical place. He knew, she was rushing to be kneeling at the door, head bowed, neck waiting. He smiled. He would give her just enough time.

He got out of the car, and opened the truck for the leather bags. Hefting them in his hands, he stood there before her door as evening was falling, lights coming on all about him. There he thought for a moment, that he must look the part of the priest in The Exorcist, about to encounter the wild animal lust of a slave woman on the edge of her personal insanity.

All night long.

The words were on the edge of his lips as he took the wall, the door ajar before him, the sight of a naked knee on the floor just visible thought the open slick of the oak.

In a moment, no one else would see that knee there, the door closing for the night.


Posted on 02/18/2008
Copyright © 2024 Steven Craig

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