Jewelry
You hand me the velvet-covered box - it’s a deep cobalt blue - your piercing gaze refusing to relinquish my own. I’ve always been captivated by your eyes and the love and adoration I see there, reflecting what must show in my own.
I take the box from you, lifting my chin a bit. I will not allow my hands to tremble.
I know what this is. We have not talked about this for weeks, which means we may as well have exchanged essays on the subject for a year. I love that we communicate so well without words.
Your hands cover my own, around the box - it’s roughly 6 x 8 inches - how can something so small be so significant? Your thumb caresses the back of my hand, diverting my attention from your stormy eyes to those beautiful, capable, and oh-so-talented hands. My mind wanders to all the pleasure they’ve provided me.
Gently, you squeeze my hands, and I refocus on your gaze. Now I see a question there. It won’t be possible to go back after this is done. I shiver; the candlelight gives your familiar eyes a surreal quality, and for just a moment, you look like a stranger.
I nod, but your expression tells me you need more. You have a cautious nature, so it makes sense that you would make very sure I understand what I am doing. Or perhaps you need reassurance too? I know what you’re asking of me - the full import - and this time I find a few words for you, although they emerge more croak than the intended whisper: “Yes. I am yours, now and always.”
You nod, seemingly satisfied, and open the box. The jewelry inside gleams in the candlelight. It is a necklace, a choker really, forged from twisted metals - silver, copper, bronze, maybe gold - it looks hand-crafted and evokes memories of Celtic knots I may have seen before, in this or some other lifetime.
“It’s exquisite,” I whisper and berate myself for not having adequate words to describe the beauty before me.
“It’s mine,” you reply, “and if you wear it, you will be mine also.”
This all-consuming need to belong to you floods my entire being. If there was a time that I didn’t need you, I have no memory of it.
“Do you see how it’s made?” You turn the choker around, and in addition to the standard clasp in back, you show me there is also a hasp for a lock.
This is a collar. An elegant one, but a collar nonetheless. Words like “ownership,” “obedience”, “subservience” come to mind, driving every other thought away.
You place the collar on your flat palm and extend it to me. “It has to be your choice.”
I take a deep breath; I am ready for this, for you. I lightly brush my lips across yours, before I take it from you and fit it around my neck. It feels a little heavy, which I decide is good because I would not want to grow accustomed to it - I want to always be aware of its presence.
I fasten the clasp in back myself and then turn away from you so you can finish this.
Your hand comes to the nape of my neck, keeping my short hair out of your way. I hear the click - deafening, final - as you secure the lock in place.
My heart leaps in panic for a moment, and I feel suddenly claustrophobic. Then your arms encircle me from behind. I sigh deeply, and lean back into your embrace. This is where I belong; in your arms only, I feel safe. Your lips brush my temple, and your hand smoothes my hair for long moments.
You turn me to face you, our bodies aligned and still pressed together. Your right hand closes around my throat tightly, not quite cutting off all oxygen, but you have my attention.
“Little one, you belong to me now. I will always take care of you. This collar does not come off unless I decide to take it off.” You shift a bit, and I feel you tuck something in your pocket. It must be the key.
I kiss you, fiercely trying to convey my love and dedication to you, wanting to be a part of you but unable to get close enough. From the very first, we could never get close enough.
Eventually, we need to breathe and I surface, shaking off the languor I’ve fallen into. Your words come back to me. “This collar does not come off unless I decide to take it off.”
So that’s the way it goes? I think, and I smile inwardly.
I begin plotting how to lay hands on that damnable key and toss it down the first sewer grate I find.
6/4/09 The Daily Grill on Huntington Ave
Written at Over Pear Martinis