I’ve cleared out the top drawer of my antique dresser that I’ve had since I was a young child. I needed to make room for the leather and chrome harnesses my friend leaves at my house. They kind of require their own drawer. First off, they’re rather large and heavy. They smell of tanning products, ink, and smoke. My collection of French lace bras had no interest in sharing a room with this sort, they said, ‘there goes the neighborhood,” and took a spot the next drawer down, next to the newly edited collection of panties. It’s like hell and heaven. Hell muscling it’s way, taking the top bunk.
My bedroom hasn’t been the same since. It’s so nice in my bedroom, iris painted walls, antique shutters snatched from the basement of a 100 year old house, a simple pine armoire my mother shipped from England, and a matching set of leather and chrome confinements, conveniently stored just inches away from my bed. Fitted for a very large man, complete with chrome c*ck ring, I must admit I have slipped each one on, on two occasions. When I had imagined wearing them, I thought I would be immediately tap into some powerful hulk-like mind set. But when I strapped them around me I felt like an innocent girl being coerced by a strong dangerous man – lovingly, dominantly, with delicious result.
My top drawer is the Pandora’s box that stays firmly shut, the leather and chrome inside quietly breathing. Around it’s tomb I fold cotton sheets, reach for perfume, adjust the paper shade on my small white lamp, the thought of it always with me, the visual of it above me filled with a man, or the gravity of it hanging and circling me as I stand in front of my mirror, there alone in my room.
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