Mistakes – SFD #4

“What were you going to say?”  His voice is gentle, one hip is cocked against the counter top, his arms are folded loosely over his chest, all outwardly relaxed, casual.  She feels her breath catch in her chest and her eyes widen.

“I’m sorry.”

He tilts his head slightly.  “Oh?  Are you apologizing or was the end of that sentence really going to be ‘because I’m too…I’m sorry’?”

She feels her skin wash with a flush of heat, followed by a chill.  Her heart is thumping wildly, high in her chest.  Her tongue flickers over her lips, and her eyes skitter over his chest, unable to find a safe place to land.

“Sorry…” She whispers it this time, her breath coming in short sips.

He reaches toward her, still gentle.  She flinches as his finger grazes her skin lightly, lifting the wire of her collar away from her neck.

“Tell me what this means.”  He has dropped the facade of casual interest.  His voice is still soft, but now the lines of his body are firmer, his gaze fixed intently on her face.

She feels herself crumple, fighting tears.  “I am yours.”

“What part of you?”

“All of me.”

“Oh,” he frowns as if considering this.  “Your body?”

She nods, letting her chin drop, her gaze fall to the floor.  He gently nudges her chin up, and she drags her eyes up to meet his.

“Your words?”

She nods again, faintly.  His fingers are still firmly holding her chin up, but she can’t hold his stare.

“Thoughts?”  Another nod.  “Say it,” his lips press into a line.

“Yes, Sir.”

“But you deny me when I ask?  Is that how we work, girl?”

She shakes her head quickly.  “No, Sir, I’m sorry, Sir.”

His hand moves suddenly to the back of her neck and firm pressure guides her to turn to the counter, and then over it.  In the strange way the mind fixates in moments like these, she suddenly notices the faint pattern of texture in the Formica before the air cracks with the sounds of two swats, so quick in succession her brain processes the sound before the sensation, and his hand is firmly in her hair by the time she hisses and grits her teeth against the sharp pain.

He draws her head back and she closes her eyes.  His lips are close to her ear, her hands on the cool, textured top of the counter.

“Are you afraid of me?” he whispers.

She shakes her head slightly, feeling the pull on her hair heighten with every move.

“Are you afraid of punishment?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment, searching herself, this answer is more difficult, complex, but she finds, in the tangle of feelings, nothing strong enough to call fear, not as he means it.

“No, Sir.”

He shifts his left hand from her hair to her forehead, his other arm circling her waist, he pulls her back, into his body.  “I am not disappointed when you make a mistake.”

Those words are like a current to a nerve and she jerks suddenly with a sob.  He holds her tighter.

“You are mine.  We solve things together.  We share our mistakes.  Even when they hurt.”

She doesn’t answer, only shudders with silent, dry sobs.

“Am I clear to you?”

She nods, still shaking, breath hitching.

He presses his lips to her shoulder for a moment, then raises his head.

“Shall we try again?”

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