The Garden of Absences

I didn’t touch you. Not yet. I only held you with sentences that know where they’re going. A leash of words. Calm. Discreet. Tenacious. — Good evening. Your first sentence had the softness of a door closing without a sound. End of the day, screen warming your fingers a little. We had promised nothing. And yet, everything was already there, contained in the silence between two messages. — I’ve been reading for a long time. I don’t know how to say this… I need to be held. You describe yourself without apologizing. In your forties. Curves easy to love. Long blond hair falling down your back. A voice that can be guessed in your words, low, restrained. I recognize that quiet hunger that wants not to cast a shadow, but never leaves. I answer sparingly. I cut away the unnecessary. I make room for you. — What do you want? — Clarity. Gentleness. Firmness. There is no coincidence. Only an obvious truth laid there like an open hand. I talk to you about limits before desire runs away with itself. Not a list. A frame. Spare. — When it’s too much, you say “amber.” If you want to stop, you say “red.” You owe me no more than what you choose to offer. I keep watch. You obey. I answer. You pause. I can almost hear your breathing change. — All right. Thank you. I smile without showing it. Night settles in. The screen becomes the only lamp. I gently close my hand. — I won’t take you with my body. Not yet. I’ll take you with my words. You let fall a hesitation, a clear drop. — Yes, Master. I keep things simple for you. Two rituals to begin with. One breathing exercise for the morning. Another for the evening. — At 7 a.m., welcoming posture. On your knees, or seated if you prefer. Head inclined. Long back. Three slow breaths. You choose a word for your day. At 10:30 p.m., you send me three sentences: “I obeyed…” / “I resisted…” / “Tomorrow, I…” No more, no less. You agree. You offer your discipline the way one leaves the garden gate ajar. Things always begin with a handle. This one holds well. The next day, you write early. — I chose my word: gentleness. I do not praise you. I confirm you. — Received. Continue. I do not rush you. I let things ripen. Tension is born on its own when the body understands it will not be rushed. Then the mind moves forward. On the third night, I give you your first task. No flourish. A clean, smooth instruction. — Choose a pair of panties. Cotton if possible. White if you have them. You’ll wear them every day. You’ll touch yourself sometimes, but never take yourself all the way. You’ll stop before you tip over. You’ll breathe into the lack. You’ll let them drink you in. Then you’ll wrap them up. You’ll place them in a garden I will point out to you. We will not see each other. Silence. The kind of silence where you hear yourself say yes. Your fingers must be trembling. I do not help you. I add nothing. The leash tightens by itself. — Yes, Master. I send you a plan. A small discreet garden crossed by a stone bench. An authorized place, calm, almost forgotten. At midday, the light falls there at an angle and falls asleep on the leaves. A fountain can be heard there, a fountain that knows how to keep quiet. The denial days begin. I write little. You write better. — Day 1. You describe the fine warmth of the fabric against you. The elastic edge marking your skin. The sensation when you cross your thighs in the elevator. You say your body is calling, that you answer with the palm of your hand, only two minutes, then you remove your hand like one pulls a strand away from fire. You explain without crudity. You put the words down clearly. I answer in proportion. — Two minutes, then thirty seconds of stillness. Do it once more. Then hands flat on your stomach. Inhale. Let it pass. You obey me. You write to me at night: three sentences. Nothing too much. It is just right. — I obeyed the instruction. I resisted the second wave. Tomorrow, I will be even quieter. I can feel the panties teaching you. The cotton takes what it must. Salt, warmth, traces. A signature. You stay with it. — Day 2. You confess a tiny act of disobedience. You went on for ten seconds longer without telling me. A quick sting of shame. I put you back in line without noise. — You owe me the truth, not perfection. Tomorrow, you will return to the protocol. You will write it to me first. You can breathe. At night, you send me a voice note. Your voice low. A little rough. The friction of a sheet. “I’m wearing it. It’s heating up. It sticks. I thought of you in a supermarket, in the fruit aisle. I clenched my teeth. I stopped. I felt like crying, then laughing. I’m continuing.” I stop the file. I listen to the silence after it. It has the shape of your submission. It holds. — Received. You’re doing well. — Thank you for holding me. Day 3. The text gets shorter. You save your words to save your strength. Good sign. You list what your senses perceive. “Cotton: damp. Skin: hot. Smell: stronger. Mind: clear at times, impatient often.” I tighten the leash a notch. — Today, you will touch yourself only once. Evening, curtains drawn. Two minutes. Stop cleanly. Say “calm” out loud on the exhale. Three times. You’ll go to bed without looking for sleep. It will come. You comply. You confirm. I praise you without drama. The low light does its work in our place. Day 4. The fabric becomes a language. You learn to read yourself through it. You note the trail it leaves on your skin when you sit too quickly. The little bite of the elastic after the stairs. At midday, you say the air smells of damp bark. You say it calms you. You repeat “calm” without my asking. You offer yourself to me without realizing it. I accept. — Tonight, nothing. No hand. You’ll only breathe. You’ll let the heat rise and then fall back on its own. You’ll note what it does to your neck, your chest, your stomach. You’ll write me those three places, and nothing else. I like it when you withdraw instead of fleeing yourself. That is where I hold tight and you do not break. Day 5. You write early. One line. “The neck: warm, heavy. The chest: hollow, alive. The stomach: docile.” I read it again. I hear the space you make for me. — Today, you’ll prepare the envelope. Brown paper. String. A small white card. Your initials on the back, in gray pencil. No perfume. No artifice. You record another voice note. I hear the rustle of paper. The small regular click of the string sliding under your nails. The closing of a box. A dull sound. You blow on it like a candle. “It’s ready. It’s simple. It’s yours.” At noon, I send you the time and the point. In broad daylight. No ridiculous hiding. The stone bench. Shaded side. A flat stone set near the bench leg will be waiting for you, like a wink. You lift it, slide the box into the hollow, put the stone back. You walk away. That’s all. — You won’t wait for me. You won’t look back. You’ll continue on your way as if nothing happened. — Yes, Master. The night before, I speak to you about aftercare. Not a grand word. A real thing. — After the drop-off, you’ll drink a glass of water, slowly. You’ll send me three sentences: “It’s done.” / “I feel…” / “I’m breathing.” I’ll reply. I’ll be there. Amber and red remain valid at every moment. Do you understand? — I understand. I don’t want amber. I don’t want red. I want yes. On the appointed day, the light has that clarity that erases edges. I am early, at a distance. The garden breathes. The leaves make their tiny music. It feels as though the whole neighborhood is holding its breath for itself. An hour before the time, I slide under the stone, into the hollow, a rolled white ribbon and a small card: “Wear me.” Nothing else. You enter. Your steps are simple. No theater. Jeans, a light T-shirt. Your blond hair tied back with an elastic. You have nothing beyond the essential. I feel your decision all the way into my palm. You circle the bench as if looking for shade. You find the stone. You lift it just a little. Hollow. You slide in the box, and your fingers meet a rolled white ribbon, a small card. You take them without lingering, palm closing. Rustle. The stone returns to place with a muffled, full sound, like a sustained note. Nothing spills over. You stay a half-second too long. Then you pull away. You leave. You do not look back. I do not move. I let you reach the side gate. You disappear. The garden becomes a garden again. Only then do I step forward. I place my hand on the stone, kneel to it, and lift it. The box is there. It has already taken the temperature of the place. I take it as one takes an offering. I put it away without opening it. Not here. Not in front of the leaves. I leave by the other exit. We keep the whole garden between us like a witness. Two minutes later, your message arrives: “It’s done. I feel light and deeply held. I’m breathing.” I send you a voice note. My voice stays low. “Received. Well received. You did exactly what I asked. Now you’re going home. A lukewarm shower. The ribbon on your left wrist. Three long breaths. You’ll lie down for ten minutes, hands on your stomach. You’ll let it settle. Tonight, 10:30 p.m., you’ll write me your three sentences. And tomorrow, we’ll talk about your silence by the bench.” I keep the box closed until night. Not as a precaution. As a form of respect. I like the discreet weight it has taken in my pocket. I set it on the table at home when the light softens. I untie the string. The sound is almost a caress. The brown paper keeps the day’s smell. The panties are there, simple, white, made into something else. Preserved warmth, salt, traces. I take them in my palm, gently. I bring them to my face. I close my eyes. The smell passes through me. It is dense. It is hot. It rises straight up. Like a slow bite. It has your name. It has your breath. It has your silences. I breathe harder. I hold back. Then I open my eyes again. I am here. With you. Against nothing. And it is immense. I close it again. Slowness is a prayer when you know who you are speaking to. I send you only this: — Wear the ribbon tomorrow. Light T-shirt. Breathing breaks at 10, 2, and 6. Word of the day: grounding. You answer quickly. — Yes, Master. I turn off the screen. Silence holds the room. In the memory of my fingers, I can still feel the matte softness of the paper, the little whisper of the string. I can also feel your extra second near the bench, the one where everything shifted without moving. We never crossed paths. We know each other. It is more carnal than any hands. Tomorrow, I’ll tighten one notch more. Nothing else. Nothing more. You will wear the ribbon the way one wears a secret that breathes. And I will keep taking you with my words, until your silences say yes even before you write. The leash cannot be seen. It holds. So do we.