Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

“I have a role to play.”

These words, said out loud before I have a moment to think about them, hover in the spaces between her lips and mine. My hands are tied above my head. My shirt unbuttoned. This is her need. A moment of control over something in her life.

She pulls away from me. She digs through her over-sized purse, pulling out a Zippo-style lighter and a vanilla-scented candle. She sparks the light and lights the wick. All I can do is stare at the dancing flame as she rotates the candle, making sure to get the wax ready.

How many times has she imagined this scenario in her head? I’m sure the person in it was in better shape. Better equipped to fulfill the need gnawing at her.

She tips the candle just enough for the wax to dribble down. I tense at the sensation. The burn.

“Are you usually this submissive?” she asks.

“I’m whatever you need me to be,” I say.

Her phone rings after. She sends it to voicemail before putting back into her purse. It rings again.

“You better answer it,” I say. “It could be your husband.”

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