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RemoteUser -> The Great Plan (6/29/2011 6:22:44 PM)
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He would let her lead the way, take him to her home. She would unlock the door, open it for him, ask him inside.
Once inside, she would turn away from him, removing her shoes and placing them neatly together. She would hang her coat, turn gracefully to face him, and wait.
He would let her take five long, slow breaths before nodding, and upon that signal she would walk behind him, slipping his jacket from his shoulders and hanging it above her own, on the same hanger. She would kneel and remove his shoes one by one, placing them beside her own shoes, equally neat. She would stand again and lean towards him without taking a step, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently. The reach would force her into a half-bow and she would look up into his eyes, and smile.
Escorting him across the small antechamber that led to the living room, she would turn right down a narrow corridor, pausing at the end in front of a crooked, black wooden door. She would let go of his hand, waiting.
When he touched her left shoulder, she would open the door and reach inside, pulling a thin chain to bring life to a red light. The glow would dance over her white skin, transforming her as she stepped in ahead of him.
She would invite him into the bedroom, willing.
Then he would begin.
At least, these were his plans. It was his meticulous plans that helped him achieve superior grades, make the right contacts, build his financial empire. Chance laid her in his path, and she consumed him. His resources became his crutch as he studied every detail of her - her childhood, her career, her every choice. A wall was enshrined with images of her. Each photograph was notated with thin, scrawling black ink. Dates, times, locations were etched there.
She knew nothing of him. He would make her aware when and as he wished. They would meet in the manner of his choosing; where and how he expected. The right words would prompt her course of thought, lead her down the path he so feverishly mapped out. But things came and went; unanticipated options presented themselves and he would have to rework his careful plans. The empire dwindled. A raging flame became glowing coals, and then ash that blew along the winds of time.
One morning he woke to an unforgiving mirror and saw the shades of gray on his brow. Shadows had colored his skin, darkened it. His fortune was gone, and soon he would be forced to leave his home, never to return. Trembling hands, weighted with hesitations and years, took a sun-stained sheet of paper from his desk and he scribbled several words on it with the last of his black ink. He locked the door behind him, dropping the key in the trash bin outside, and made his way to the park. He walked briskly. She would be at the fountain, pausing in her jog for no more than three minutes. He would meet her, hand her the paper, and she would understand.
As the fountain drew closer, a deep pain lashed through his chest. The breath was stolen from him, but he could not pause. He would be late. Each step amplified the pain until it was agony to step.
He did not falter. He reached the fountain, two minutes early, legs and chest aching, mind reeling. He slumped sideway to rest on the fountain's raised stone edge, and the world spun before him.
There was no sound. He could not breathe. There was only a cloudy sky overhead. He would not make the appointment, after all.
Then someone leaned over him. His vision was blurring, but he knew. A wheeze escaped his lips. He knew what to say and could not force it out. She looked down on him, fearful, and a shaking hand offered up the paper. She glanced at it and one hand closed over his.
He smiled.
* * * * * * * * * *
Was he a slave of passion? An overly articulate Dominant? Maybe he was just a man. I know that feeling very well.
Please discuss amongst yourselves at your leisure. There is ample fodder in the story line. Make of it what you will. I just write it. Translation is always outsourced.
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