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Rich man's lady is coerced into pleasuring the handyman.
This one is magenta, a color I taught him to associate with harmony and balance. In our relationship, I taught him this color means him, the specific him of 'Us'.
"Dearest Teacher, I realize this should be the color that means the 'Me' that is not part of our relationship, as I believe I, and I alone, have put that relationship in danger with my foolish question. I could pretend it was phrased improperly, but to attempt to explicate myself from this sorrowful situation would be to denigrate your feelings, and I beg you to understand that I feel them deeply. If that is because I still feel so close to you, a feeling I do not deserve in any way, I apologize. In this communication, I do beg your forgiveness and offer anything in my power in exchange for the tiniest bit of relief to your anger and hurt. If I could take it all away with the deepest loss to myself I would do so without hesitation."
He has pricked his finger and left a dot of blood on this card. This is our symbol to one another that is available to exchange for anything. It is the currency of our relationship. In return for this dot of blood, so tiny, he would act at my direction in a way that I know he would find opposite to the values and morals I know he cherishes. He would do the thing that would destroy us, but he would do it.
The clarinet begins again. He plays a song we heard the first night we dined together in a public place. At my direction, he'd worn my panties, bra, and garters with stockings beneath his clothing. I wanted him to learn early how certain things men like are uncomfortable and impractical. I explained to him that I didn't teach him this to ask him not to enjoy such things, but to understand the magnitude of what women were willing to do to please men as part of a relationship.
He'd spent hours learning these two songs. Hours, away from me, thinking of me.
Finally, he spoke through the door.
"Please, Teacher, you must forgive me. I do so honor and respect you and your pain is mine. I tremble before you and ..." I can sense the tears on his face but I will not let him off.
"I really should send you away." My tone is even, businesslike, without a hint of emotion. It's as if we had just met - the night he first visited and kissed me for the first time. The night he had me in the way men have women. He would have thought it was intimate, that first night. He knows better, now. I've taught him real intimacy in our lessons, since. My tone also reminds him what he's almost thrown away with a careless word. I know him well - he treasures our feelings, our 'Us'.
Just as I do, by the way.
"I agree. I understand. Just tell me and I'll leave." I hear a muffled sob. He's trying not to let me hear since he thinks I wouldn't respect such a blatant attempt to sway me.
I open the door.
"If we're going to cry, we have to cry together."
We're instantly in one another's arms. Real tears wet one another's backs. Our hands caress and cherish and soon kisses find necks and...
We break and look into each other's eyes. Unprofessionally, I feel closer to him. He looks all red and wrinkly, but real joy shows in his eyes that I've forgiven him. Real joy.
"I wish to fix my face, but at my dressing table, so that you can watch. We won't use this bath again, ever."
"Thank you, Teacher."
"It will remind us of the power of a careless word."
"It will remind me of what I really cherish."
"...about our relationship?"
"...about you, Teacher."
I leave this be, but I smile at him. We move up to the bedroom we've shared and he goes to wash his face while I re-do mine. I prepare myself in a way he will associate with my willingness to engage in heavy, sordid, limitless sex. Makeup sex. Passion without cerebral thought. Fucking, for lack of a simpler term, but fucking like wild animals. Female, male, pheromones.
I change into a simple, form-fitting red dress. I stay barefoot, in keeping with my desires.
He comes back from the bathroom, his face composed and thoughtful.