Hush
Hush. I don’t want you to make any sound. None at all. If you do you will spoil this moment. This is not a time for noise, of any kind. Yes, I admit I normally like you to be making some sound. Whether it is your words of admiration, your scream of terror, your murmurs of delight, your shouted anger or moans of passion.
All the noises which you make for me are welcomed, so long as you coat them with your feelings. I do not care for bare comment, neutral and anodyne, that does nothing for me and may even harm me, but you won’t do that for me will you? You do not want to hurt me, ever, do you? You are not like that.
Your kind are not like that, you care and you love and you give. No, no, stay silent. You have no need to speak. Just lie there. Be still. I want to allow my eyes to roam over your naked form as you lie there next to me, exposed, vulnerable. I know you are looking at my eyes, I can sense it. My gaze is not meeting yours at the moment though as I am allowing my eyes to slowly move across you.
I regard your toes, pointing upwards, bare and free of varnish. You rarely apply such gloss to them but you do ensure they are clean, cut and presentable. I know you can see me looking at them. I know you are wondering whether I am going to lower my wonderful mouth to them and suck them or bite them. I am not going to do either of those things but you are uncertain.
I can tell that you are because your apprehension is flowing from you and I am drinking that in. That tiny shudder you just gave was not from the cool air that permeates this twilight space. No, that was indicative of the apprehension which has taken hold of you. I know you are stood at a fork in your mind. I know what you will be thinking. I know because I make you think this way, why else would I do it? I do it for control. I control everything about you.
You stand at that fork wondering whether I will lead you down the line to explosive pleasure or down the dark road towards hurt and pain. You have no idea which it will be because as you have come to learn these last few months, I am capable of both. Should you feel excited? Should you feel nervous? Which is to be? Hush now, do not speak. Oh I know that you want to speak, you cannot help yourself. You want to ask. Always the questioning isn’t it?
Ask, question, query, challenge and so forth. Not now. You want the answer but you are not getting that answer. Not yet. I make a gentle shushing sound. Is it a noise of reassurance, that which the doting mother provides to the new born offspring or is the noise of patronising chastisement, treating you like a child? You do not know. How I revel in your confusion.
I know you are looking at my face desperately looking for some kind of clue, some hint, some acknowledgement of what is going on in my delinquent mind. You are denied. My face is frozen, mouth set straight, brow neither raised or furrowed, eyebrows unyielding and then there are my eyes. You cannot see yourself anymore in them. I have stopped that for the time being.
Usually you get to see exactly what you want to see in them. Whether it is joy, hope, love, passion, excitement, intrigue and so much more. You are only seeing what I know you want to see because I reflect from these eyes what is showing in your eyes. You do not look upon me.
You look upon yourself. That has changed tonight. Now two impenetrable black orbs are all that you can see. The place where you usually lose yourself has become lost to you. You will find no succour for you there. You will find no reassurance or indication of what is about to happen. That is hidden from you now.
You make to issue a further sound and a shake of my head halts you. My fingers trace the red weal on your thigh, the pads of two of my fingers running either side of this mark. Another shudder and I can sense you are desperate to speak buy hush my dear, hush my love, this is not the time for speaking. I know you will wonder why my fingers trace this mark.
Am I soothing you or reflecting on its origin? You have no idea have you? I allow my fingers to move upwards across the tender flesh of your thigh. Is it now that it will happen or will I wait? You lift your left thigh in anticipation and I continue to allow my fingers to drift northwards. I hear your intake of breath and know that again you are making so as to speak.
My hand leaves your thigh and I place one finger against your lips. The gesture clear and unmistakable. The moment where you might have broken the silence passes and I wait and wait a while longer before I move my finger away. Your body beside me is ramrod straight as you are unable to relax, every nerve-ending alert and bracing itself for whatever comes next, whatever that might be.
The outside of my hand brushes your soft cheek, your impressive complexion noticeable even in this half-light. A cheek that sometimes glows red from the consequences of my endeavours. Is it the glow of shame which will coat your cheek? Is it the surge of a passionate flush that will linger there? Or something else?
Now I look at your eyes and this is when I begin to derive the true benefit from this enforced silence. My eyes convey nothing. Yours tell me everything. They flit back and forth, scrutinising my face for some kind of signal, some kind of sign.
I am not transmitting. I am only set to receive and receive I do as I drink in the earnest anxiety flooding from your eyes. I see the attempt to mollify me as you allow those beautiful, expressive eyes to reach out to me. I see the look of apprehension cut through the attempt as the nervousness returns.
You are obedient now. Remaining silent, my repeated exhortations, soft and low, for you to remain silent have been heeded. Now you are trying to speak to me using your eyes and you are doing so magnificently. The lack of noise, the absence of speech, now makes the emotions in your eyes a hundred times more intense. I absorb those feelings which flood from your eyes.
I drink them in, consuming them for my own benefit. This is why it works so well. Complete control of you as you lie there, still, unmoving on the bed, slight and occasional tremble from your limbs as you wait in conflicting anticipation for what may come. What will it be this time? How will I deal with you? There can be no spoken protestation, no elucidated request for confirmation, only this continuing silence, punctuated from time to time by my hushing you.
My eyes remain locked on yours as my left hand once again begins to glide about your body. The lightest of touches which glides from throat, to breast and to stomach. Back and forth moves my hand, like some wizard commencing the gesticulations for his spell-casting. My spell is already working as you remain frozen, barely daring to move, only allowing your chest to rise with your breathing and your eyes to dart left and right, still probing, still seeking those answers.
Hush my darling, hush my dear, hush my love.
My hand rises and then clamps over your mouth.
Your eyes widen. Fear and excitement fighting against one another and all the while giving me what I need.
Hush.
4 thoughts on “Hush”
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An empaths response:
During some of our intimate encounters, I don’t get any feedback from you, and that’s ok. Well, it’s not ok, but I accept it. If I was whole and healthy and an emotionally balanced individual, this relationship wouldn’t work for me. If I were a healthy and whole individual, I would be able to transmit my desires and needs to you, and I would expect you to respond with love in a responsible and mature way. If I were a healthy and whole individual, I would be uncomfortable with the level of control you have, and I would walk away. But I’m not healthy, not in the way that most people are healthy. I’m disordered as compared to most.
But that’s what attracted me to you, isn’t it? You believe you understand my disorder, because you believe that you’re the one who damaged me. And you did, and you have, but the root of dysfunction was already there as a result of how I was forged. The tiny hints of a true and real individual emerge now and then from me, despite the best efforts of the stony hands of the original blacksmith to bend me entirely to her will and for her purposes. You saw the tiny flares of a true self emanate from me. You saw how weak and fleeting they were, barely a flicker, but there was something there. There was something of charm and humor and intelligence there that you could work with and perhaps mold, and that’s why you picked me. You saw the occasional microscopic glints of gold and, like a miner, could read where those little tiny hints of glittering individuality would lead to a thicker vein and then to the ultimate prize of the motherlode. And that’s why you picked me. I am THE ONE, because you can return again and again, mining my true personality easily and with little effort. You tap the already established vein resulting in an easy almost effortless payout. You think you have complete control in that you can come and go, extracting what you need from me at will, and walking away after you’re satisfied.
Sometimes I realize this, and I attempt an assault on you. “You can’t just take…,” I begin to protest. “Pathetic!” you rejoinder. That notion is absurd to you. The notion that I have any control over our dynamic is absurd, and you dismiss it out of hand. I hear you laugh condescendingly at me with derision as you give me a consoling hug after landing another blow, bruising an already tender wound. “I’m joking, my little muffin,” you say, your ego revived from my crestfallen expression. So you pull my small frame yet again into the muscle and flesh and unique scent of your mysterious being, and I respond by going limp, and silent. You see me as I am, and you know you’ve struck that wound again, and the delight you feel gives you power. Weak? You see me. Lacking self-control or any creative initiative? You think you’re powerful and I’m weak. You think so, and I think that I allow you to think so. But in reality, it’s neither of those things and we actually both have it wrong. I’m not weak or frivolous or dim. And you’re not a bully. I’m a lightning rod and you’re the storm.
I don’t know your origins, any more than a lightning rod knows from where the wind comes. It just senses and awaits, and so it is with you and me. I don’t know you any more than an inanimate object knows the secret beginnings of the building energy of the storm. I only know how to abide, remain, mitigate, manage, and survive the inevitable chaos approaching. And so I prepare my inner being, knowing that my purpose will soon be fulfilled.
You see, I was forged to attract you, the storm. I was created to not only reflect back the will and desires and needs of another, but to actually transmit my ability to fulfill them. Like a lightning rod set to draw down disparate energy into one millisecond of raw charge, and to receive and absorb the magnificent and tremendous instantaneous joining of millions of random and chaotic needs into one mighty flash of power and release, I was forged and set to read the desires and needs of someone else, and send out a tiny, imperceptible, flash of matching energy that signals that I will fulfill that need. I won’t satisfy you artificially, or superficially, or temporarily. I will actually complete the circuit. I was built to transmit the wisp of energy to match whatever is in the ether of your soul, regardless of how dangerous. Whatever is necessary to draw down and absorb. I have no self. I have no self. I was forbidden from forming a self, and I was forbidden from even desiring to have a self.
You see, when I was even still only a baby, I was physically trained, and then developed, and then actually forged to transmit. The metal rod that was forcibly pounded into my soul was tapped down with such force and repetition that I have yet to find the depth into which the jolt of energy which I receive from you is expelled. There have been occurrences where I have glimpsed into that cavernous emptiness, as it is momentarily illuminated with the flash of familiar abuse. The light from it contrasts with the absolute darkness and causes me to realize how utterly dark and empty that space is. That space that was created within me to absorb the byproduct of your need. It is an immense cavern into which your relentless and chaotic energy is sent, and it is confined there within me until it dissipates. This comes at tremendous cost to my true identity, this cavern which I am doomed to contain, and into which rage, furor, anger, resentment, pride, and your need for power is channeled. But I was forged this way. I was forged for this purpose.
You think you created me, but you’re wrong. That glittering rod of submission and compliance, so easy for you to access and strike endlessly, was formed in the deep recesses of my soul long before we ever met. It was formed before I can remember. It was formed from the very moments of my existence. You see, I wasn’t allowed my own thoughts. I wasn’t allowed my own feelings. I wasn’t allowed my own interests. I was taken, and tapped, and mined, and smelt, and poured out, and formed, and pounded into submission in the forge of childhood sexual abuse, from which products emerge unalterable and the marks upon them are indellible. I was forged for you, a taker, a generator of sheer force, one who is a bottomless pit of the need for control. And striking me gives you that control. I was forged, unable to define and transmit my own needs and desires. I was forged, unable to feel functional or fulfilled during times of peace and contentment. Perhaps that explains my addiction? Maybe one more strike from you to illuminate that familiar cavern of emptiness and I will be able to see clearly and comprehend my own need. But, wait, that’s about me, not you. I was forged for you. I was forged to transmit to you that here, within me, there is no me except when you allow it. There is only a place where your pent up emptiness can find release from the cycle of the endlessly building chaos and panic that resides within one such as you. I was forged for you, the storm.
I’d love to read to continuation from this.
Impressively eloquent as always HG, however, naggingly it feels like a Mills & Boon novel.
No genuine substance, merely a pre adolescent predator being a menace, believing he is a lotherio
Lothario.
Indeed for some narcissists such as description would be applicable.