The man locks his eyes into her and slowly nods his head. “I see,” he murmurs. “There are problems arising.”

He holds up his left hand and raises a finger, pointing it at her. “You think you are unique because you fear the darkness. You think I must empathize with your fear and feel sympathy for your condition.” He turns his back on her and paces away then turns and walks back. Again, his eyes bore into hers intently and he smiles.

“You do not listen and obey, but ‘interpret’ what I say. Did you think I was unaware that if I had not pulled you through the darkness, you would not have followed on your own? And…” Again, he makes a characteristic gesture of throwing away an invisible scrap.

“…and you believe a small confession of fear will move me. I have laid your heart and your mind bare to myself and you offer me…this? Are you a child or a woman? Everyone fears the dark, by whatever name they may call it. You remained here in hope…in hope of what? That I would beat the fear out of you and beat trusting back in? That my…sensual training would instruct you in romance and sentiment?”

Now, he begins to slowly pace back and forth. She can feel the intensity of him growing with every firm step, every thud of his boot heels on the stone of the floor. His voice is soft but hard-edged, not with anger or chaotic emotion, but simply strength of purpose making his words cut across the air between them.

Her eyes are wide as she follows his movements and she seems to shrink back into herself, forgetting those feelings of heat and desire from before. As if sensing the growing shell she assembles around herself, he spins sharply and stands looking at her, sweeping his eyes from her feet to her face.

“Stop that. Unless you wish to immediately go back…there.” His arm thrusts backward.
He sighs deeply and lowers his hand, pinning her gaze with his own.

“This is not a game. It is not to determine me a winner or you a loser. It is about two people finding and sharing ecstasy. Prolonged, ever creative, ever changing ecstasy…”

For the first time, she notices his eyes have grown softer as he has spoken. “But these,” he continues, “are merely words, not experiences. You stand there bound and chained. A pit of surging black water between us.” He lifts his arms and twists his wrists to make the links attached to the cuffs jingle musically.

“I have bound myself to you across that pit. Symbolically and in the flesh. Based upon what, do you feel?”

She thinks she should respond, but cannot comprehend what answer to make.

He snorts and squats down, slowly making the chains between them more taut until she feels the unmistakable tug on her ankles. “On trust,” he says quietly. “Is mine less valuable, more shallow, less afraid of that…” He points to the opening where the dark water gurgles and splashes. “…than yours?” She watches as he stands again and her jaw drops as he suddenly leaps across the pit and stands on the narrow ledge at the base of the St. Andrews Cross to which she is bound. She looks down to see his heels hanging over the open space, turgid fingers of water lapping at them. His hand reaches up to touch her cheek and he leans close to her ear.

“Now, will you obey utterly?”