The Writer in the Next Room

So you like me to play dead. You’ve commanded me to be silent, still, unresponsive. You caress me with your words, teasing, tantalizing. The juices of my consciousness begin to flow. I am wet and ready for you. Waiting for whatever comes next. My senses screaming, I am completely blind to your next move. And then it comes. Playful now, tickling my fancy so skillfully. Still, I do not respond. Now you’re in my ears, filling them with the sound of your mesmerizing voice, hypnotizing my psyche, as your whispers echo through the cathedral of my skull. But I remain quiet. Your words push and pull at me, sucking me in, thrusting me away, manipulating me effortlessly. My heart races. My breath quickens. And yet I am but a ghost, who cannot speak, or see, or touch. But you touch me. You touch me with your mind. Touch me and touch me and touch. Harder now. And faster. You pummel me relentlessly, penetrating my mind until it is no longer mine. Until you own me. Completely. The staccato of letters pound into me ruthlessly, driving every thought from my brain, except the desire to be there with you. But instead, I lie lifelessly, hiding behind this cloak of silence. Awaiting your next command.