That’s the ultimate cliché of melodramatic literature. And yet...
It really is a dark and stormy night.
Another flash of lightning illuminates the dreary night sky and a crash of thunder follows suit moments later, shaking the ground beneath my feet.
As the relentless wind whips viciously - angry lashes against my delicate skin, born from passion, unthinking, uninhibited, in the heat of the moment - I firmly brush aside the wet hair that is plastered to my face.
And I am perfection.
I make no mistakes. I am flawless. Not because I want to be. But because you need me to be.
There is simply no room for error. And precision is the first key. So I double check. As I always do.
Holding my thumb down firmly, I power off my iPhone before tucking it into a concealed compartment towards the back.
I have no need for a phone. And neither do you.
In fact, they’re strictly forbidden. As is any contact with the outside world. Our time together must not be disturbed. In any fashion. Ever.
Carefully lowering the cold metal lid, I snap the closures shut with nimble fingers and glance over at the door. Raising a hand, I run the pad of my thumb across the surface and smile knowingly. It’s perfectly smooth. As they always are. Every single last one. However...
You’re one of those. You’ve gone the extra mile. And put in the extra effort. To hide yourself from me.
The scent of fresh paint teases my nostrils and betrays your desperation in a split second. You need me. They all need me. But you desperately need me.
And because of this, you will no doubt resist me. Much more than any of the others did. The realization overwhelms me with sadness. My heart aches for you. But I won’t allow it to cloud my judgment. This isn’t about me, after all.
This is about you.
Up until recently - very recently - I know that this door was riddled with marks and scars etched deep throughout its wooden surface. You sanded it down the best that you could - feeling nervous, humiliated, angry - and I’m well aware of the self-loathing that coursed through your icy veins when you were unable to reach any higher. When your best just wasn’t good enough. As it never seems to be.
Limitations hurt you. Deeply. Unbearably. And because of that, there is no doubt in my mind that you will lash out at me. Violently. Time and time again. But it's okay. Because that’s exactly who you are.
You’re no different than the others. In any way at all. You think that you are. You still cling desperately - ignorantly, foolishly and hopelessly - to the concept of individuality. The elusive fantasy of a unique identity. They always do. You’re exactly the same as the rest. And soon you’ll come to realize it too.
Soon you will come to worship it. The ordinary. The normal. Even the mediocre.
You will crave it. Your bones will ache for it. You will wake up gasping for it. Like the air that you breathe. And you will thank me.
But we have much work to do before this can happen...
I don’t need visual confirmation. I’ve been counting the beats. They strum like clockwork against the wall of my chest - calm, steady, dependable - and their accuracy is unquestionable.
My heart is never wrong. I know exactly what time it is.
12:00 A.M. Midnight.
Rising gracefully, I turn to stand squarely in front of the perfect red door. Scarlet red. Blood red. Chuckling at your ridiculous color choice, I tap the sharp, pointed toe of my black, leather boot near the bottom. Three times. Evenly. Quietly. There’s no need to knock any harder. I have no doubt that you’re right on the other side. Waiting anxiously for my arrival. You have been for hours...
And yet - as they always do - you make me wait. Deliberately. Methodically. With your hand tightly gripping the doorknob. It’s already unlocked. Your knuckles are blanched. You believe that I’m holding my breath. But in reality, it’s you who is holding yours.
At last, the door swings open - calm and controlled - and I’m hardly able to curb the smile that tickles my lips.
Your strong and masculine jawline is twitching ever-so-slightly. You shouldn’t clench your teeth. But you can’t help it.
You’re handsome. Incredibly handsome.
Thick blonde locks curl gently against your forehead. A generous helping of long lashes frame a pair of ferocious hazel eyes. You’re already on the defense. Of course, you’ve misled yourself into believing otherwise. But that’s to be expected.
Groomed to perfection, every square inch of you has been strategically manipulated and yes, you are indeed the picture of confidence. You know full well that it’s merely a facade built on doubt and fear. But you’ve successfully fooled everyone else, so you wrongfully assume that I’m none the wiser.
Your physique makes a crucial confession to me. In a secretive murmur. It whispers how you painfully obsess over everything in your control. How you absolutely despise everything else. Every waking moment. Of every single day.
A simple black t-shirt hugs your perfectly chiseled upper body. Every rippling muscle is visible even in the dim amber glow of crackling fire, which serves as your only backlight. I leisurely trail down your torso, drinking in every last gorgeous drop of you.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re challenging me. Daring me to do it. But I refuse to comply and this confuses you. It irritates you beyond belief. You can’t begin to understand why...
My eyes never once drift below your waistline. Not yet. And they won’t for a long time. I’m okay with that. Patience is a virtue of mine. One of many. And besides...
I don’t need to look any lower. I already know. I know that you’re sitting comfortably in a sleek black wheelchair custom fit to your lifeless lower half. All black. You would never entertain the thought of any other color. You like black. Or rather, it likes you. Later, you’ll claim that black indicates strength. It’s doesn’t. It’s safe. Inconspicuous.
I’m also willing to bet that you’re wearing dark washed jeans that are heavily distressed in an attempt to appear casual and aloof. And yet...
They’re expensive… a designer brand… hmm… perhaps... True Religions… no… you’d opt for something edgier… and less mainstream than that… hmm... Diesels… yes… Diesel jeans… most likely ripped across one knee… an intentional and blatant display of your shame…
You’re headstrong. Rebellious. Stubborn. To a fault. As a matter of fact, you’re downright belligerent. You still have an image to uphold. And something to prove. To the world. But more importantly…
“Come in,” you say levelly, your voice low and steady, the epitome of coolness. You’ve purposefully neglected the “please”, which is yet another telling sign. The laughable irony is that the more you attempt to hide, the more you bare your tattered soul to me...
I pretend to stumble as I step over the threshold and you react instinctively, just as I knew you would. As your heroic arm sweeps out and wraps around my waist, I don’t fall into your lap as you anticipate. Instead, I clumsily lean into you - the tip of my nose grazes your brow bone - but stop my descent with a hand spread flat against your solid chest. Lingering in silence for an extended moment, I relish the rapid pulse of your heart beneath my palm.
My nails dip slightly to caress your flesh in a manner that is barely detectable. You notice though and you’re taken off-guard by my intimate gesture but much to your credit, you never once let it show.
You’ll be my most difficult case. But you will crack.
When I’m convinced that you’ve reached your breaking point, I slowly straighten up and shyly tuck a silky strand of ebony hair behind my ear. My voice is soft and seductively timid when I finally whisper...
“Thank you, master.”