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One day in the second month of your life, he calls you into his office. and has you lay face down on a massage table. He ties you to it and tapes your mouth. Strips of cloth hold your wrists together under the table, they bind your elbows, your waist and ankles. You had been afraid of him, but now you are terrified. Your heart is pounding in your chest, in your temples. He is going to break his word end the covenant between you: he will do the things you know he resists doing.
He moves behind you. You can hear him. He moves back. A soft line of warmth swells along your spine. A hand follows, stirs the warmth like a painter mixing colors. The fingers press and move. They move up to your shoulders. They bracket your neck and knead the backs of your legs, shifting the tides of your flesh.
He tells you he could do anything he wants to you and you wouldn’t be able to stop. This is what he wants to do. He is tired of you flinching when he moves. Your cringing is pointless and unpleasant.
The warmth is renewed. The hands, with iron rods for fingers, take each foot and press in imparting all the relief in the world. He presses your toes until each of them pops like a knuckle�"the way you didn’t know could happen to toes and then he works his way up again.
When he has finished. He rolls the chair from behind his desk and brings it to the head of the table and sits down on it. You look at him, into his eyes, as he reaches out his hand and puts it on your cheek. His thumb moves in slow, circuits just below your left eye and asks you if you intend to keep your word to him.
You nod.
He smiles and you see that feeling in his eyes, the deep unnamed ocean, and then, you see the feeling shift and writhe inside him. It becomes brittle. Will you try to escape?! You shake your head and shake it. The tape keeps the words, “I swear” inside you. The feeling shifts again. Good. So long as that is true, you have no reason to fear him.
He will be good to you. Nothing will happen to you.
Then and there, on that table, on that day, in the second month of your life, he stands, walks to the middle of the table. You turn your head to watch him. Knowledge brings Infinite relief; there is another part of the bargain: You will never escape, he will never harm you. Never.
The middle of the table? Yes, where the mid-point of your body happens to be.
Two fingers. Your heartbeat takes on a different emphasis.
The fingers have lost something. They want to find it.
Your vagina fascinates him. You know this because he has just told you.
The fingers are determined to recover what they have lost. They are thorough, deliberate, brave brothers come to seek their inheritance. They find a dome that they cannot enter.
Your body admires them.
Every inch. Every millimeter. Between the dome and the wall...
(So far.)
You try to drown them, but they hold their breath. They go on searching.
Your hips move to help them, but they only become impatient, they search faster and then faster. They want to go into the dome.
You can’t move out of their way. You can’t stop yourself from moaning. They batter the walls and hammer the dome and you know what they want. You can’t hide it from them anymore, because you can’t stand the hammering. You can’t stand it. The hammering makes you writhe and scream. It forces your eyes up inside your head. It doesn’t stop. It continues to not stop.
The moment.
Shuddering completion.
You are tied face down to a massage table. Your mouth is taped. The front of your legs are are slick from your hips to knees. You smell sex.
You have until the count of the count of ten, at most twenty, before the fingers begin again.
Before he is done with you, long and long before you rise from the table, your body comes to an agreement with him: What will happen will happen. When he turns to face you, it, your body, relaxes and becomes languidly still.
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