The hard beat of heels on concrete punctuated the softness of the dusky days end. It drowned out the sound of the soft rain falling. It announced her coming, and prefaced her passing by.
Not that there was anyone else out on the street to hear her.
At this hour, people were inside, cozied up to their giant plasma’s, done with dinner, contemplating a dish of ice cream while they watched the spin of a wheel, the latest hollywood gossip, or some made-to-resemble-life movie.
She pulled her hood up to protect her hair, her face from the rain. She wanted to be perfect when she arrived. She tried to view the spitting rain as an annoyance only, attempted to ignore it, just as she ignored the stoops and entries of the houses and little shops, most closed for the night. Sunday night at the edge of the city, rainy to boot, meant a quiet walk.
Quiet but for the beat of her stilettos on the pavement. After a few minutes, she glanced up at a building, squinting a bit to read the number beside the mailbox.
Not yet. Her hose made a soft, feminine swish- swish as she strode along. Her skirt fluttered in the breeze she created as she moved purposefully.
Her destination was a brick house with wide, arching windows on either side of the double front door. A set of brick steps rose up to an open patio, with black wrought-iron benches on each side, and large urns planted with a riot of colorful flowers.
“Classy, yet welcoming,” she thought. Some how she’d pictured something more rough around the edges, less polished.
She climbed the steps and rang the bell. She heard the carolling of chimes from deep inside the house.
She stood, head cocked, listening to the sound crescendo, then fade away, the glorious notes of Bach leaving a smile in her soul, even as a renegade drop of rain plopped hard on her head.
The intensity of the rain was beginning to pick up, yet she stood stock still, waiting. She breathed in the wet, chilly air, wondering if she dared to press the button again.
Somehow, she thought not.
Mentally she replayed the Bach trill in her head, breathing slowly and deeply, refusing to let Him ruffle her. If this was a test, she was determined to pass it.
The rain began to drum against her hood, dripping in large drops around her shoes, dampening her feet, her hose, and making her want to fidget. She thought of the words of the song of His bell, words she’d learned long before when she sang in her choir, before she withdrew from her church, though she still carried her faith with her:
Through the way where hope is guiding
Hark, what peaceful music rings
Where the flock, in Thee confiding
Drink of joy from deathless springs
Theirs is beauty’s fairest pleasure
Theirs is wisdom’s holiest treasure
Thou dost ever lead Thine own
In the love of joys unknown
It seemed that those words, taken within the context of what she had discovered about herself, had new meaning. The love of joys unknown, indeed, she mused silently. This new thing, this submission, was largely unexplored and unknown. He had led her, slowly, gently, carefully, never rushing, but always pressing her steadily forward.
Isn’t that why she stood here, on this rainy stoop, waiting? To find those joys unknown? She savored the anticipation of the door opening, of bringing her in, of their coming together, at last. As if in answer to an unspoken wish, the door opened slowly.
Her Master stood there, one hand holding the door open, the other reaching out, for her.
Taking her hand, He tugged her gently forward.
His voice was magnificent in person. On the phone it was wonderful but here in the flesh, it was mesmerizing. Warm, rich, strong.
With a smile, and a nod, she left the rain behind, and found the sun.
i started this months ago, and in fits and starts kept at it. It’s not sexual really…it’s more about that place that we get to inside of us when we decide to take that leap of faith and do something about the cravings we’ve found inside ourselves.
of course this could story could continue, we can chronicle their adventures, their romps in and out of the bedroom and dungeon. but this story isn’t about *that* part.
tonight i’m feeling pensive, thinking about my own leap two years ago this month. Of e-meeting my Master, the flirtation, the sharing, the conversations. He was interested in me. i was interested in Him.
i was so new to this…so…vanilla…scared, and yet knowing that *something* was missing for me, and was i crazy?
sometimes i still wonder that, btw
*laughs* still, i am content with my life. There is no “perfect life”…we all make what we will of what we have been given. Sometimes we can make it better, and sometimes we need to adapt. Those of us living a secret D/s life have either got ginormous cajones to do this…or we’re terrible people, cheating on our spouses this way.
sometimes i think that, too.
either way, i’m leaving the story sexless, just a story of the leap. Or maybe *this* part, this afterward is the real story. Questions, feelings, doubts and assurances….all part of the whole story of ‘the leap’…
and yet for all it sounds like above, the dichotomy of emotions,….i do not regret the leap… there is sorrow that the choice became for me, a necessity, but when i decided to jump, it was with my eyes wide open…
no regrets that my vanilla life delivered me into the hands of the man who is now my Master. no regrets that i took that leap, trusting that He would keep His word, and catch me. no regrets on making a lifestyle change that changed me so deeply that it seems to have happened at the molecular level.
i am who and what i am because of….faith…fate..fetlife…and an unbending unwillingness to just ‘exist’, anymore.
i’m not ‘existing’ anymore.
i’m finally completely, fully, wonderfully alive.