Tempting The Dominatrix

T H I R T Y - T W O

Every single manifestation of myself surrendered to the back of my mind when he touched me.

The child, the woman, the trauma.

Is this what I have been running from?

I knew his fingers were stroking my own. I could tell that this boy – no.

No that's not right, is it?

An 18 year old who felt such an immense pain, the kind that haunted every waking minute is no boy. 

Trauma forces you to grow in ways that most couldn't fathom.

And so this young man stroked my tense fingers, and against my own accord, I felt a blanket of calm.

With every touch, with every flutter of a tentative stroke, I felt peace.

"Valencia?"

Again.

He spoke my name, again.

And yet, I couldn't bring myself to feel an iota of anger, or frustration, or trepidation.

Every single manifestation of myself surrendered to the back of my mind when he said my name.

My true name. My government name. 

No title.

No 'mistress'.

It was fucking confusing.

"Mistres-"

"No." I finally spoke.

Fuck, the single solitary word sounded so weak coming from my lips.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

A term I was so familiar with. A term that resided in my past. A word that still haunted my every waking moment.

'No'. A single solitary word that endured a myriad of iterations. Fear, desperation, final words before everything you've ever known went to complete and utter shit. A single solitary word that teleported me to my own personal hell. One not entirely of my own creation.

But this time, it was different.

This time, it was a request.

I looked up into his eyes, the mossy forest green that i tricked myself into thinking I didn't need. That I deluded myself into thinking I didn't miss.

Confusion marred that pretty little face. 

Trauma is a cruel mistress whose skeletal hands wrap tightly around one's sanity. One wrong move, she squeezes, and squeezes until all you can see is the slowly crawling darkness. 

Trauma is a cruel mistress who will stroke your hair in the middle of the night and whisper lowly into your ear, reminding you of all the wrong you've done, all the pain brought upon you. She will convince you that you deserve it. She will twist every single memory into a vapor. Convoluted memories that make no fucking sense until you go to sleep. And then she transforms into every single fucking demon. And she chases you, and you can't escape her.

But sometimes...

Rarely, but sometimes....

Trauma can be forgiving.

"No?" This young man's voice, this young broken man's voice manages to push through the fog. A man who just might be as broken as me. 

A question. I think?

I...

I feel like I'm sinking and this voice, a voice I can't entirely pinpoint....Is one that feels...