Still life

I'm knelt, legs slightly spread, between The Photographer's knees. I'm naked and collared, facing away from him watching the wall and the sofa opposite. My skin is radiating heat from the shower earlier, where I was on all fours in the draining bath whilst he washed me perfunctorily. He's reading a book. I can hear the pages turn, slowly, maddeningly, as I grow increasingly desperate for his touch.

I'm being ignored in the way a chair or table is ignored. Occasionally he touches my shoulder in an idle grip, and then goes back to reading. I concentrate on keeping quiet and still, which is becoming more difficult. The collar helps to ground me, remind me of my place both mentally and physically. My universe is totally reduced, confined to certain points of contact between myself and him: the hand brushing my neck, his calf against my side. I feel very small.

I am reassuring and comforted by his presence. I have not been left alone, I am being kept close by and thus must be, in some way, pleasing. This line of reasoning helps me, as does the knowledge that if he wanted me to be doing anything else, he would either say so, or move me. None of this detracts from the pressing fact that I really want him to fuck me. And I know that he won't until he's ready, if he wants to, and not until then. My motionlessness starts to become a torment, and it is a relief when I am asked to fetch some water. The activity and the purpose is refreshing - to actually do something for him rather than be merely present.

On my return he places me back in front of him, this time to be used as a footstool. Time passes, and I can't really measure it, my lack of being has no frame of reference. The functionality of my position is satisfying to me, but the passivity reduces me to one agonising thought that rolls over and over in my brain, getting louder: fuck me, please. I can feel myself getting wetter and there is an ache in my cunt. I think my thighs start to tremble slightly, although I do my best to hold them firm.

I keep silent until I realise I'm loosing sensation in my hands and have to stop. I feel glad to be back to myself somewhat, but also sorry for being unable to maintain the desired position for as long as he might have wished it. There was no comeback or punishment to my behaviour and I wonder if I disappointed him as I did myself or if it was expected that eventually I would falter. Still life: work in progress.