My Therapist
I hear the door open. There comes the tap of shoes, heavy, more likely boots. Whomever approaches. A hand gently pats my hooded head. Fingers go to the blinding strip of cloth, assuring such is held in place, the Velcro well bound. A hand glides down my right arm. To my wrist cuff there comes the sound of a click. The boots tap. To my left side. To my left wrist. Another click. Left ankle cuff, a click, right ankle cuff, a click. Cuffs clamped to the bench, I am a prisoner, the captive of someone unseen and unknown.
Dare I speak?
The boots tap to the credenza. A drawer opens. I hear snaps of rubber. Gloves? My therapist returns. Hands go to my buttocks. There is cooling unguent applied, warming as the hands gently palpate, rubbing about in a knowing and comforting massage.
