Sinful Sunday: the waiting game

He calls her into the room. “Strip,” he commands.

She feels his eyes on her. She is aware of the time she’s taking as she rushes to comply. She doesn’t like to leave her clothes in a heap nor does she want to keep him waiting, so she compromises, quickly folding and stacking the garments in such a way that they look tidy but will still come out wrinkled.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the sheepskin.

She lowers herself delicately and settles, clasping her arms around her knees, which she has kept demurely up. She awaits his next order.

He eases himself into the leather armchair, picks up a book from the side table and begins to read.

She looks towards his chair, monitoring his every movement in her peripheral vision. After a few minutes, she shifts. The floor is no more comfortable than it was, but it is becoming more familiar.

He senses her movement from over the top edge of the book. He makes a point of turning the pages at regular, credible intervals. Time passes.

She leans against the trunk, stretches her legs out, takes up space as if to say, “I’m waiting.”

It’s what he has been waiting for.