He never sits unless I invite him, and that night, like many recent nights, I didn’t invite him.
I enjoy sitting and feeling small and feminine in his unnaturally large shadow. I like watching him shift his weight as he grows restless on his feet, seeing the muscles in his arms tense and release under the skin as he moves absent-mindedly. I prefer him standing and a little uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with his big puppy hands without the comfort of his lap to rest them in. I certainly enjoy his company and his friendship, but I’ve also grown fond of watching his posture towards me change, little by little, as we’ve gotten to know each other better.
Towards the end of the evening, when we usually part ways after a few drinks and good conversation, his silence made me a little nervous. He seemed different. Although I’ve suspected that he’s interested, he’s never been anything but friendly and respectful, and so I decided to wait out the silence for a little while to avoid an awkward exit.
After quietly staring at his feet for a long time, he asked in a small voice, “What does a man have to do to be with you, Miss?”
I froze. He never called me “Miss” before, and that night, his posture and his means of address flipped some switch in my brain. Part of me was flattered and part of me was annoyed that he would overstep our unspoken boundary. All of me wanted to back him into a corner and express my disappointment that he would risk ruining our friendship this way.
I took a deep breath and relaxed–after all, the friendship was probably over anyway and at least it wasn’t my fault. I smiled a little, thinking of my current interests and his total unawareness. With all the grace and confidence that a few glasses of red wine afford, I responded smoothly, “I require submission and obedience.”
While I half expected him to laugh and let the subject drop, I was still surprised at the words as they escaped my mouth. I’ve never really said something like that out loud.
He paused for a moment and lifted his eyes to meet mine. Without breaking eye contact, he raised his muscular forearms to my waist level, elbows bent, palms upturned, and seemed to offer me the tender insides of his wrists. He paused, lowered his eyes again, and said, “The blood is just below the surface. It’s yours if you want it.”
Oh my. That isn’t what I expected.