Obsession

"Wake up, sweetie."

I moaned into the pillow, cursing in the direction of his voice, too warm and too complacent to take his wheedling seriously.

"Cadence. . . "

The former night's tangle of emotion and ecstasy had not yet fully seeped into my skin past disbelief and incredulousness and into his arms. His holding me- hand resting on my hip bone, his heart beat insistent and protective into my back -was reassurance enough.

"Get up, you shameless cunt, it's 3 in the afternoon."

I looked up, groggily from his side of the bed, "What sort of good morning is that to your loving, devoted sub?"

"It'll get better, honey." he grinned dangerously from his dresser, slipping into a crisp white button down.

"Wait, what? It's 3?" I bolted up, panicked, forgetting the residual warmth of the covers. Slipping out onto the cold hardwood floor, I looked to Julian's relaxed frame, confused, "What are you still doing here?"

"Baby, don't worry about work, I-" his words cut off by a sudden slash of concern through his nonchalance.

"God, Cadence, look at you."

Following his gaze down the line of my body, I was confronted with fresh bruises and bites on my chest, my wrist had sustained some damage, I judged, from a stinging soreness not to mention the cuffs still attached to the frame of the bed.

"God is right." I couldn't suppress a grin at my array of unsightly badges. "So last night did happen."

" I can see that, yes." He exhaled, moving closer. "How could I have . . . "

His cologne stung my nose as I buried my face in his chest, his arms were wrapped around me. I felt his body tremor dangerously, and I looked up into a mask of remorse.

"Julian. . ."

Passion is oddly elusive, fantastically intangible. It comes in odd intervals, waves. It ebbs and flows and shows itself in different forms- a changeling of love, lust, remorse, and destruction.

"Sweetie, I'm so sorry. . . "

It's dangerous, the stuff that intoxicates the earth and sky, making everything fertile and vibrant. It's why I couldn't explain to him that I wanted his love like I wanted his bruises. It's not something you can easily convey, no matter how intimately you know someone. It has dangerous connotations, the willingness to ache, to bruise, to love unabashedly through what would be the most painful sort of draw to a sadomasochistic relationship; It's dangerous, and that danger, that passion, exemplified Julian..

He was a chance I took that in every way made me ache with uncertainty. With enough chemistry and blind acquiesce to lewd, primal proclivities; I was famished for his familiarity. We were, in our rawest state, playing with gasoline and fire- tangled in words and denial and love, and whether we would allow ourselves to be vulnerable enough to be set aflame. Ours was a passion I wasn't prepared for, one that couldn't wait for hesitation. It was explosive: a natural disaster but more devastating. It was all truth and whether I could afford to let him take control.

His passion had a sort of potency that was obvious when he was doing what he loved that made it clear that what he loved would take precedence over everything else, and as it turned out unpacking into his new apartment. I found this out while he was moving into my building. I didn't know a thing about him, but wanted to after I heard him one night as I was passing through with my dirty laundry. It took me a moment to recognize it- the Sibelius violin concerto.

His door was slightly ajar and the melody hummed, swirling in the air like oil on water. I was drawn in, as though there were magnets at play. The smooth, velvety sound pulled me, yanked me, really, making me seek it. I found myself inside his apartment, standing just inside the door.

I saw his confident stance there before I saw his actual form, his back was facing me. The bare windows cut the remaining daylight into fractions, casting slanted rectangles across the room, and illuminating his frame. His head had been swiveling and bobbing, his body bending where the piece needed him to go. It's the dance of the impassioned, when one is wholly consumed by the music they so masterfully produce. This is where they go; they retreat into the sound. I could tell by looking at him that his eyes were closed.

He tensed, stopped, feeling my presence. I was intruding on this holy moment and it felt like sacrilege to interrupt it. Lowering his instrument, he turned to stare at me.

I was despondent at best when it came to getting to know my neighbors. Admittedly, I was a veritable hermit and cared little for my appearances in the complex. My main concern had been comfort, and so my charming ensemble consisted of a fleece robe, slippers, and a page boy cap.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I just- your door was open and I just. . . it was so beautiful. I wanted to . . . Sibelius, right?" I felt an unstoppable blush burn under his skeptical look.

His gaze was fixed on me like I was some exotic bird that had flown in from the window and had perched on his bureau. He was studying me, wondering if I was okay to touch. It was then that I noticed all of the unpacked boxes piled everywhere, spilled over, its contents poured on the floor. The only thing he deemed necessary to christen this place was the sound of his violin.

"Hi," he blinked, shaking his head, as though I had just roused him.

"I live, down, in. . . I live here too," I stumbled over my words until he held up a hand.

"Okay, sorry. I thought you were trying to rob me." he gestured to my sack of laundry.

"I'm Cadence," I had to laugh, "and these are my dirty clothes." I sort of waved with the bag.

"Julian. Hi. Wow. I . . . " He stopped and smiled, in a way that could only be described as charming to collect his thoughts. "Well thanks- about my music- I just can't believe I left my door open."

"Oh right! You just moved in." I gestured to the unpacked boxes.

His eyebrows rose.

"Yeah," I explained, "your door does that sometimes. I have to admit, I'm glad the former tenant moved out. I saw a bit too much of . . . well he usually forgot to lock his door."

I bit my bottom lip, not sure of how to steer the conversation and myself back out of his room.

"Huh. I didn't see that on the contract . . ." He seemed more at ease with me, now he was certain he wouldn't have to be on constant watch for too-familiar neighbors. We chattered on but kept things superficial, and when I was about to make my exit his face brightened and he invited me to see the concert that night held at the university.

The air that night was swollen with a warm breeze, the streets illuminated by white strings of lights, coiled around the small, bare trees implanted in the side walk. The sheer contradiction of these cheerful little bulbs against the stark, straight lines of indifferent buildings gave the whole city a new feeling, a buzzing excitement to wash over and overwhelm the mundane. Culturally slaked, I was eager to get out of my stale apartment and away from all of the paint fumes I had been suffocated with, so I, of course, went. It was just the sense of spontaneity I needed.

I was all nervous excitement as I took my seat, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra was illuminated in the chilled auditorium. I strained to find him among the violins as they sat in their easy posture, speaking loosely in muted voices. I was confused, as I couldn't find him at all. The first chair was absent, and I assumed that was where he would sit. I was taken by surprise when a severe-looking girl with long, dark hair and exquisitely beautiful, sharp features began to walk across the stage, casting the room into silence. Giving the orchestra an "A" to tune to, she soon took her place.

The orchestra rose to their feet, and the audience gave their appreciative applause as Julian, dressed in a suit, crossed the stage, taking his place at the podium. I could see him breathe in after phantom-conducting a measure, his body leaned into the melody as it mourned in the notes of its entrance. It wrapped its deep, melancholy tones around my spinal cord in smooth, velvet streams. The sound was encumbering, like the song was made of deep blues and maroons to cover me like a blanket and absorb into my bloodstream.

Even through the raw emotive draw to the music, I caught myself tuning out the music and began to focus on Julian. He seemed to be in a realm of his own, breathing in the music that drugged him and controlling it at the same time. His confident stance arched and maneuvered as though his body was just a vessel to translate the sheet music into the siren song veiled over the audience. His students were marionettes of his, his gravid cues and dramatic gestures were thin, translucent strings connecting them, the whole affair charged by his obvious passion. I watched him translate all of the emotion of the minor key in his loose form. Growing entranced, I imbibed the dulcet tones with an insatiability I hadn't known I was capable of. I was intoxicated, but not by the music.

After the performance I was filled with an eagerness that surprised me. I truly felt that someone who could feel something so profoundly that lived in such close proximity had to be a sign. I had to have him, or, in a dramatic sort of sense, miss out on something terribly life changing. I felt in my bones that he could breathe life into me with his obvious passion. I could tell from the fact that he felt so deeply for his music, that we had something profound in common, an understanding of emotion, or maybe, what was truly important. I made my way up to the stage, and found him shaking hands with some older couple in the midst of the auditorium seats.

"You came!" A grin broke across his handsome face and it was like striking a match. He swept an appraising look over me. "I see you got your laundry done."

"Well, it can't all be haute couture." I grinned, embarrassed as I took special pains to make myself look as decent as possible in a pencil skirt and heels to redeem myself of the just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

"It was amazing! You were amazing," I gestured towards the stage, "I haven't experienced something so powerful in so long, and just . . ." I felt myself blush. "I'm gushing."

He seemed amused, pleased, "No, that's perfectly fine. It's a great compliment. So you enjoyed it?"

The dark-haired girl strode over, glanced at me shortly and tapped his shoulder, telling him something brief, and walked off with a cellist.

". . . I more than enjoyed it."

He looked back at me with something of a spark.

"Look, I know this may be a bit forward, but I think the library cafe is still open. . . would you like to get coffee?"

The halting conversation and awkwardness of first impressions were forgotten that night with the apparent chemistry that was all but boiling over. I couldn't help but see him as anything but a genius, for the way he played and conducted was something remarkable. , and I was shameless in letting him know that. As an artist I recognized the talent and passion, the beauty of what he created; it wasn't something just anyone could do. I was all but glowing as I told him these things, noticing the spark igniting in his eyes as my enthusiasm bubbled. We talked mostly inane and useless conversation, just ongoing banter and coy, veiled advances. I forgot about the demeanor of collectedness I had wanted to portray and found myself just being honest with him. We poured ourselves out, and I drank in his mannerisms as though they were Bailey's- Smooth cream of conversation coating my mouth with a wince of sarcasm- not bitter, just hard to miss. There was an edge to his otherwise welcoming and open demeanor that wouldn't allow me to be totally comfortable around him, some note of defensiveness I was drawn to. I told him about how I painted, how when I find that someone creates something beautiful and profound like art or music or writing that they become more of a person to me. It adds depth to their personality. We had an understanding about each other, an odd sort of rapport that kept me entranced. We were spreading ourselves out like a bedtime story that night. Both of us were waiting for the other to sort of fall asleep, stripped out of the polite, guarded facade of who we present ourselves as when we first walk into a relationship and into the odd familiarity we could feel growing between us.

"Sit still!"

"You know, we really should be unpacking. . ."

"Don't move your mouth, either!"

He forced a frown.

At the conclusion of that night, I had him agree to pose for me. We had said our mournful goodbyes with lame excuses of how late it was becoming. Something- maybe the way the sun being swallowed into darkness around his frame in a dramatic gesture- pushed me, these impulses I don't usually act on. I needed an excuse to captivate him, make sure he didn't slip away.

"You know, I'd really appreciate if you'd let me paint you. Would you mind being my model?" I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, trying to make it sound as though I hadn't been plotting it the moment I saw him. A small, pleased smile broke onto his face, his shoulders squaring as he ran his hand absently through his hair.

"That sounds," he cleared his throat, "that sounds good. I have a lot to do, though. Unpacking, you know. I just got all of my stuff together this morning."

"Tomorrow after I get off work I could help you out; then I'll have more time with my muse," was my final offer -a desperate one, but I was, looking back, desperate.

"Sure. Just try to knock this time."

I had smeared burnt umber and yellow ochre over the canvas, staining his hair with the lamp black that shone in its unruly mass. Sitting, posed for me, he was more tangible. It was sort of a trick I wanted to play out for him- I was an unusually quick and remarkably accurate painter. I could spit out a portrait in a few hours and I suppose I felt for all of the art I'd seen Julian perform, that he needed to see something similar in me. In what turned out to be a mutual excitement, we hadn't bothered to unpack and because he wasn't separated by the rooms between us, he was mine for a moment longer. We functioned with a strong tension; an excitement that held the evening taut and what words were exchanged each seemed to hold a duality to them.

He was leaning against a wall, sitting crossed-legged on the floor, looking down at his violin as he cradled it. His patience was stunning, as most of my live models are only interested in something to hang in their pretentious upscale apartments, but not for a few hours of sitting still. The usual trance I seemed to slip into while losing myself in paint was tinged with a warmth that bloomed in me like raw whiskey, burning me from the inside, I hardly noticed that my brush had been immobile and I had just been studying him.

"As long as you're there, be sure to catch the passion in my eyes." He grinned as I groped for composure.

"Oh, fuck, sorry. Why don't we take a break?"

"I'm going to get some of this out of the way, your nerves will get shot with that detail brush, help me out."

He stretched, putting his violin to bed in its case and began pulling books out of a box, his order in placement was meticulous as I watched him dress his bare bookshelves. I watched him immerse himself in the task with voyeuristic delight. He organized in genres, though every book seemed completely random from the last. Kundera, branching to Durrell, Foer, Burroughs, Doestoyevsky, and a few that surprised me; Nabokov, Sedaris, Chopin and a few names I didn't recognize.

"Well?"

I snapped to attention, "What?"

"Do they meet your standards, or . . .?"

"Oh, God! I'm sorry! I guess by offering to help you unpack I meant that I would watch you work."

He chuckled indulgently, "It works out in your favor, actually, 'turns out I'm a bit of an exhibitionist."

Everything seemed empty, almost as if he were packing to move out, I could almost feel where all of his things belonged, and so I began filling his empty bureau with his folded clothes. Consumed in the construction of some sickeningly complicated shelving unit, he hardly noticed me moving around in his peripheral vision.

The apartment seemed lighter in the next hours although it was nearing midnight. With art on the walls and his mini-library arranged to his pleasing, it seemed he had been occupying this negative space longer than a few days. Almost all of his clothes nestled comfortably in neat stacks that seemed mandatory for the all of the order he applied to all other aspects of the room. I noticed a large black bag peeking out from beneath a few tattered pairs of jeans.

It was too big for a delicates bag, though I didn't question it at the time- there are stranger things for men to have. I pulled out his top drawer. and reached in, feeling not the soft cotton of boxers or socks, but a leather strap. Thick with surprise, I opened the bag completely. The only thing that hadn't been organized and meticulously placed and packed was a small jumble of black leather, clamps, whips, floggers, handcuffs, and toys I didn't have a name for. My gasp must have been audible, for he looked up; his eyes rounded as he stuttered for a moment.

"Oh, I. . .I don't really, I just, I don't, it's just something I tried once and. . ." I watched him grope uncomfortably for a moment, moving towards me, almost as though he meant to clear the thickness of the tension by moving.

"No, Julian, It's okay." I reached in, pulling out a collar, and felt its weight in my hand for a moment. I looked up at him, feeling brave as I held it to my neck. "How does it look on me?"

I could feel his relief as he stopped, looking at me with a sort of surprise and gravity that burned. We looked at each other like the moment was held in fermata, my fingers fumbling with the buckle as my bravado faded. My boldness was instantly regretted and I felt myself shrinking in hesitance. I opened my mouth to relieve some of the pressure when he answered with his hands. He took the collar from me and fastened it properly. A look of lust was drawn over him as we just felt the tension between us, this moment of just standing, connected by his touch, our gazes locked.

I looked up at his suddenly cool exterior; regaining any composure he had lost in my discovery. His mouth found mine in a light, teasing kiss, his hand tilting my face up to meet him.

"You really shouldn't have looked in that bag."

He wound a few fingers in my auburn hair, and I all but purred, drugged by the feel of his breath on my neck and his grip on my hair. He locked up my tongue when he buckled the collar.

"With my collar around your neck there's nothing to hide behind." his words rolled like velvet off of his tongue. "You've been hiding, too, haven't you? 'Holding the cards closely to your chest so you can't be vulnerable, can't be found out."

He recited as though it was some pre-prepared monologue, pulling my arms behind me gently, and I waited for him to bind them together. My chest thrust out obscenely against my white, clinging blouse, "Just look at you, sweetie. Look at how excited you are- speechless!" he shook his head, grinning, "and I really thought it'd be harder, much more time consuming to reveal all of this to you."

I could feel myself becoming helplessly aroused, my nipples hardening, pressing my thighs tightly together. What else was there to do? I was losing all control of the situation fast. Despite his cautiousness, his tender touch, I was caught off-guard, -intrigued- insatiable.

"I won't do anything you don't want, honey. Notice your hands aren't bound, and they'll stay that way. . . I don't take what isn't given."

Looking over me, it was as if he had found something he had once lost but had forgotten what it was for. Julian's soft grazing touch made me sigh, his fingers tracing my face as though he were trying to remember me. My eyes closed, I parted my lips and flicked his thick fingers with my tongue. With their retreat, he pulled the words from me.