Drawing Miracles
ambidentrous
Summary:
Time slows as a man’s hand falls.
Written extemporaneously and captured by suri because she knows when something is speaking.
Work Text:
This is the moment between the raised hand and the swat.
This is the age of waiting, the second before
You knew, and I knew. We knew what would happen
And what is playing out now was inevitable
from the moment you smiled at me
and said
“no”
But we can have no misunderstandings
and the clearest messages can be conveyed
in the most primal ways.
So don’t flex. Don’t move. Don’t try to anticipate
This is not your story to tell.
This is a story for you. To make you sigh, to redden your cheeks.
Isn’t it delicious though?
The suspended time.
Everything weightless between the promise and the fall of the hand.
I listen to your breaths and they calm me as you wait.
I close my eyes, breathe along with you, a little too fast.
You don’t know how connected to you I feel.
I feel your electricity, in this moment. I will feel the sting.
And now, as my hand begins to fall, I have a rush – this inevitability has begun.
I couldn’t stop it if I tried now.
Newton is in the driver’s seat. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion.
And you are at rest.
Bent over me, innocent.
And I wonder if you will cry out?
Will you bite your tongue? Your lip?
Are your fingernails digging into your palms?
There is no time to observe these things. No time to ask you what is awakening.
What will awaken when the blow strikes.
My eyes are closed when my hand makes contact with your skin.
An entire world in a stinging moment. I can’t even smell you right now.
You open your mouth, and I open mine, to inhale whatever comes out.
Your voice nourishing my desire.
This is not a time for questions. Neither mine nor yours.
Only the strike and shake, your exhale, and my own steel
reaching silently for the sky.
Don’t stop.
I don’t know if I say it or you.
But your voice is still echoing in the room.
Not a word, exactly.
But a phrase wrenched from your body
and delivered into a couch cushion.
I want to be that cushion,
to receive everything you have to give
I want to sentences you can’t say
I am hungry for them
Just fingertips now
burning a tickle up, over the small of your back.
Patience.
Savor the time.
It is delicious like this, and difficult to come by.
As I wonder if your mark is really the size of my hand.
I trace it with a finger and wonder who has done this
and how do I become that person?
Your movement is tantalizing
inarticulate want. Thirsty.
My mouth isn’t dry.
And I wonder what will pour from me in the minutes to come.
In the hours to come.
And what I will have the pleasure of drawing from you.
We will build something special tonight.
Something nobody else can understand.
The space between the first sting and the second, the way your flesh chills and peaks
We understand at the same moment that this is not about pain
Or even pleasure,
but the spaces between them.
And you cry out like I’ve swatted you when you feel my breath on your skin.
When my lips touch my palmprint on you.
Now I do smell you, your seeping melt. It makes me hungry.
The second sting on my palm catches even me by surprise. You don’t make a sound.
And our silence is eloquent. Fluent in whatever language this is.
I’ve said, with my palm, that you are my cherished.
And the nearly silent exhale through your nose tells me I am your cherished.
We need no language now. No translation.
My body speaks into yours, hard and sweet, and simmering longing
as I trace my other handprint on you with a tongue licked finger.
How it must freeze and burn. I am jealous of you.
How easy it is for you to make me understand.
And I understand, sweet.
We will break a bed tonight.
Make it into kindling, tear sheets, bind each other in shreds.
Our laughter will be like spanks,
sudden and reddening.
We will ruin this shirt, pop the buttons, stain the collar.
And your panties are already torn. I did that first.
We will wonder how the spoils of this battle have escaped museums.
But our history will be ours only.
Recorded in the moisture of your lower lip,
the scent of your breaths as you exhale
into my pants, heating my thigh again.
This is a story I will tell you again and again,
loving your beg and whine.
Loving your desperate escape, your desperate imprisonment.
Drawing miracles from your body and freeing them into the air.
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