December 2001

Happy birthday, Kim!

The first stars glitter faintly against the gold and russet of sunset when we begin. I stand at the window for a moment, enjoying the wash of fading color over your skin, its twinkle in the corners of your dark eyes, the warm kiss it bestows upon the curve of your lips.

You are smiling -- so brave, my pet -- but I can sense your fear. The tension, the confused and thrilling anticipation that sings through your perfect form so clearly for those, like me, who have ears to hear.

"Undress," I say. "Now." Then I turn and draw the blinds.

Dusk 'til dawn, that is what I require; that is what you will give me.

I watch carefully as you undress. Each garment drifts across your skin, a feast for my senses; precisely as I have taught you. The linen shirt is first, baring your broad shoulders. Next, the worn and faded jeans whisper down your thighs and pool around your feet. Finally, you turn to face me, eyes lowered, and pause so that I may enjoy the contrast of your tawny skin against the white of your briefs. When you slide them down your legs, the length of your erect cock is exposed and I am pleased anew.

We have traveled a long way since our first time together. This is no longer such a struggle for you.

Now I need only say, "Down, pet," and you gracefully kneel at the foot of the bed, forehead nearly touching the floor, the unbound length of your hair spilling across one cheek, wrists properly crossed at the base of your spine.

My stomach clenches suddenly and my cock is hard and tight.

Oh yes, indeed. You have learned well.

I step away to catch my breath, then prepare the loft for the rest of our evening: soft lighting, our toys, my tools carefully arranged, and the more expensive or fragile pieces of furniture pushed aside.

Preparations complete -- and my composure regained -- I cross to the armoire, open its creaky doors, then reach into to retrieve a polished wooden box hidden in one far corner. The box itself is exquisite. Several centuries old, it is beautifully inlaid with onyx, ivory, and wood of varying shades, crafted by a master of the art.

Valuable and exceedingly rare.

Were I to show you its provenance, your full lips would form the silent, stunned question: How?

I would not answer, of course, choosing instead to enjoy your attempts to seduce the answer from me instead. I would revel in your determination, in our pleasurable distraction until you abandoned your inquiry. Until the next time, of course.

Oh, how I would relish your persistence.

But this evening, no matter how outrageous the assessed value of the box, it is made truly priceless by its contents, and what its contents represent to me.

To us both.

I cross the room then pause before you again, running my thumbs over the intricate pattern on the lid, and admiring the image of grace and barely constrained power that you project so effortlessly.

I am quite grateful that I had the foresight to don a cock ring before we began.

"Kneel up, pet," I say. "And offer me your hands."

You lean forward promptly then lightly kiss each of my bare feet in turn and the skin of my inner ankles, just below the hem of my ragged jeans. A moment later, your hands are outstretched, fingers extended and palms flat and open, willing to receive whatever in whatever manner I might choose to bestow.

Beautiful.

Nearly five decades have passed since last I made such an offering. It has been centuries since the recipient was, like we two, immortal. How many children of the sword, kin of the electric scythe, could hope to be worthy of such trust?

As though I am.

And how more rare the woman or man who would freely kneel thus, stripped of all but the desire to accept and please to deliver into uncertain, blood-stained hands that priceless gift?

When I place the box on your palms, you remain utterly still; expected, but nonetheless impressive. Eyes downcast, not even the twitch of an eyelash betrays your curiosity, although I can feel your attention splinter. One portion flows towards the weight in your hands, assessing, and the other awaits my next instruction.

Although you are naked, it is I who am completely exposed, vulnerable in a way I have not been in what seem to be uncountable years. When did this come to mean so much to me?

My hands are trembling although you cannot see.

"Look at me," I say finally, tilting your chin upwards so our eyes meet. I notice that your eyes widen as they slide past the box you hold; no doubt you suspect what treasure it contains. "In this, Duncan, remember. You are utterly free to choose." My voice remains steady with effort. "Whatever your decision, either yes or no, it is your choice alone. Do you understand?"

Swallowing hard -- I know that this is difficult, it is for me as well -- you nod and say, "Yes. I do, Sir." So proud and courageous in the face of any challenge, you wear your submission like royal raiments.

Oh yes, Duncan, I am most unworthy.

After a moment, I withdraw to the window and tilt open the blinds, allowing the dusk to filter in. The street lamps have been lit and the skyline glitters in the distance. Motorists have turned on their head lamps and I idly count them as they pass along the street below.

No doubt I appear calm and relaxed to you, after all I have had an frightening amount of practice over the years. But if you could see into my heart, you would know my terror, my paradoxical fear of your answer, be it Yes or No.

Behind me, I hear the creak of the box as you open it and wonder: which is the more frightening response?

After a lengthy time, a span in which I've desperately counted three trucks, a van, and twenty seven cars -- two with broken tail lights, you break the silence.

"Sir?" you say softly, and I tense, gripping the window sill far too tightly.

It is so very difficult to unclench my hands, to smooth my face to calm and impassivity, to inhale deeply, then to turn and face you. The few steps from the window to the foot of the bed stretch into impossibility, with no certain outcome at the end; despite my skill, this time I can not decipher the answer from your body.

When I finally stand before you, I see that the box is opened and my offering still lies coiled against the rich silk within. My eyes are stinging.

"Methos. Offer me your hands." Your words tremble in the air between us, vibrating across this small space of ambiguity that you and I have created here, with our words and our acts.

"Sir," you then say respectfully, reaching into the box to lay the dark leather collar across my upturned hands. "Sir, will you?"

It is fully dark now; the firelight sparkles on your cheeks.

I smile, ignoring the twins flashes of elation and fear in my gut as well as the of prickle of my own tears, then say, "Yes, Duncan. I will."

Finis.