The ache in my legs is because I have been here since dawn. Kneeled, naked, collared and cuffed, waiting for when the patch of sun will land on her face and waken her to the day that began for me hours ago. The cold shrinks my muscles and the rugs do little to comfort the blood spots on knees spent too long waiting. But this is a life of privilege that I have fallen into.
In the dustlight of the bright morning her clothes are set out on a trestle table. Pressed smooth and free from flecks of lint and cinders that hang in the air throughout the mansion. Through the quiet I can hear the gathering bustle, hearths being cleared and fires lit. If a house is a machine for living, then this is the sound of its engine turning over.
I’m woken from my reveries by the creak of the door and sudden entrance of Miss, a silk gown loosely clinging to her opalescent flesh. Without looking down she simply stands in the centre of the room and waits for me to address her couture. I stand as quickly and quietly as cramped legs will allow, and wait behind her, head bowed, for the signal. An almost imperceptible nod of the head is my cue to nimbly lift the silken Mantua and drape it across the chaise longue, and my trial begins.
Her brassiere feels fine to the touch as I lift it; my fingers thrilled to stroke its silken cups and capacious crevices; she raises her arms to accommodate the straps I slip gingerly onto her shoulders. The background cleaning seems to retreat as all I can now hear is the hammering of my heartbeat in my ears and the squall of my breathing in this tiny room that she seems to fill with her frame. I drag down the cups and draw them up to capture the full weight of her breasts, their soft milky corpulence frozen in that moment in my mind forever. Lift, cover and pull back on the strap – it takes less than a heartbeat, but in that split second we are the only two alive.
The hook catches its eye, the elastic snap brings me back and I kneel, instinctively. The smell of her sex as I bend to attend her, placing the matching panties on the ground to step into. The pause is short but it is there, that lifted leg to let me draw in the warm draft of her like a tincture. She lets me pull up the garment, feel the drag of her downy skin under my own coarse palms as it stretches, fills and floats like a balloon around her hips and belly, so close to my swollen self standing behind I pray no weeping strands of gossamer goo are left as a trace on her flesh.
Ours is a fleeting Arcadia, an unspoken Eden. She will never say what I know she feels, what I read in the flinching of her shoulders and shortness of breath, as my fingers winch and hold her and I’m shaking, my legs are sand, subsiding under the weight of the room, her body, my desire and the steps in the journey that brought me here to her.