The Garden of Absences

I did not touch you. Not yet. I only held you with words that know where they are going. A leash of words. Calm. Discreet. Tenacious. — Good evening. Your first line had the softness of a door closing without a sound. End of day, the screen warming your fingers a little. We had promised nothing. And yet, everything was already there, held in the silence between two messages. — I’ve been reading for a long time. I don’t know how to say it… I need to be held. You describe yourself without apologizing. In your forties. Shapes easy to love. Long blond hair falling down your back. A voice you can almost hear in your words, low, restrained. I recognize that quiet hunger that does not want to cast a shadow, but never goes away. I answer briefly. I cut the unnecessary. I make room for you. — What do you want? — Clarity. Softness. Firmness. There is no coincidence. Only an obvious truth set there, like an open hand. I talk to you about limits before desire can get carried away. Not a list. A frame. Sparse. — When it’s too much, you say ‘amber’. If you want to stop, you say ‘red’. You owe me nothing more than what you choose to offer. I watch. You obey. I answer. You pause. I can almost hear your breathing change. — Okay. 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 go of a hesitation, a clear drop. — Yes, Master. I keep it simple for you. Two rituals to begin. One breath for the morning. One for the evening. — At 7 a.m., receiving posture. On your knees, or seated if you prefer. Head tilted. Back long. Three slow breaths. You choose one 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 a garden gate half open. Things always begin with a handle. This one holds well. The next day, you write early. — I chose my word: softness. I don’t praise you. I confirm you. — Received. Continue. I don’t rush. I let it 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 theatrics. A clean, smooth instruction. — Choose a pair of panties. Cotton if possible. White if you have them. You will wear them every day. You will caress yourself sometimes, but never take yourself all the way. You will stop before you fall. You will breathe into the lack. You will let them drink you in. Then you will wrap them up. You will place them in a garden I will point out to you. We will not see each other. Silence. The kind of silence in which you can almost hear yourself say yes. Your fingers must be trembling. I don’t help you. I add nothing. The leash tightens by itself. — Yes, Master. I send you a map. A small discreet garden crossed by a stone bench. A permitted place, calm, almost forgotten. At midday, the light falls there at an angle and falls asleep on the leaves. There is a fountain there that knows how to keep quiet. The days of denial begin. I write little. You write better. — Day 1. You tell me about 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 calls, and you answer with your palm, two minutes only, then you remove your hand as one takes a strand away from the fire. You explain without crudity. You put clear words to it. I answer in measure. — Two minutes, then thirty seconds still. Repeat once. Then palms flat on your belly. Breathe in. Let it pass. You obey me. At night you write me three sentences. Nothing too much. That is enough. — 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, scent. A signature. You stay with it. — Day 2. You admit to a tiny act of disobedience. You extended it by ten seconds without telling me. A quick sting of shame. I put you back in place without a sound. — You owe me the truth, not perfection. Tomorrow, you will return to the protocol. You will write it to me first. You can breathe. That night, you send me a voice note. Your voice low. A little rough. The rustle of a sheet. ‘I wear it. It gets hot. It sticks. I thought of you in a supermarket, in the fruit aisle. I clenched my teeth. I stopped. I wanted to cry, then laugh. I keep going.’ I stop the file. I listen to the silence after it. It has the shape of your submission. It holds. — Received. You are doing well. — Thank you for holding me. Day 3. The text gets shorter. You save your words to save your strength. That’s a 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 caress yourself only once. Evening, curtains drawn. Two minutes. Stop cleanly. Say ‘calm’ under your breath as you exhale. Three times. You will go to bed without chasing sleep. It will come. You do it. You confirm it. I praise you without show. The low light does its work for us. Day 4. The fabric becomes a language. You learn to read yourself in it. You point out the trail it leaves on your skin when you sit too quickly. You note the small bite of the elastic after the stairs. At midday, you say the air smells of damp bark. You say it soothes you. You repeat ‘calm’ without me asking. You offer yourself without realizing it. I accept. — Tonight, nothing. No hand. You will only breathe. You will let the heat rise and then fall again on its own. You will note what it does to your neck, your chest, your belly. You will write me those three places, and nothing else. I like it when you withdraw instead of running from yourself. That is where I tighten my grip and you do not break. Day 5. You write early. One line. ‘The neck: warm, heavy. The chest: hollow, alive. The belly: obedient.’ I read it again. I feel the space you make for me. — Today, you will prepare the envelope. Brown paper. String. A small white card. Your initials on the back, in grey pencil. No perfume. No frills. You record another voice note. I hear the rustle of paper. The little regular click of the string sliding under your nails. The closing of a box. Matte. 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. Shady side. A flat stone placed near the foot of the bench will be waiting for you, like a wink. You lift it, slide the box into the cavity, put the stone back. You walk away. That’s all. — You will not wait for me. You will not turn around. You will continue on your way as if nothing had happened. — Yes, Master. The day before, I speak to you about aftercare. Not a grand word. A real thing. — After the drop-off, you will go drink a glass of water, slowly. You will send me three sentences: ‘It’s done.’ / ‘I feel…’ / ‘I’m breathing.’ I will answer. I will 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 day, the light has that clarity that smooths away the edges. I am early, at a distance. The garden breathes. The leaves make their tiny music. It feels as if the whole neighborhood is holding its breath for itself. An hour before the time, I slide under the stone, into the cavity, 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 more than the essential. I can feel your decision even in my palm. You circle the bench as if looking for shade. You find the stone. You lift it only slightly. Cavity. You slide in the box, and your fingers meet a rolled white ribbon, a small card. You take them without lingering, your palm closing over them. Rustle. The stone goes back into place with a muted, full sound, like a sustained note. Nothing spills over. You stay half a second too long. You pull away. You leave. You do not turn around. I do not move. I let you reach the side door. You disappear. The garden becomes a garden again. Only then do I move forward. I kneel my hand on the stone. I 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 of you. Now you will go home. A lukewarm shower. The ribbon on your left wrist. Three long breaths. You will lie down for ten minutes, hands on your belly. You will let it all go down. Tonight, 10:30 p.m., you will 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 way of respecting. 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 scent of the day. The panties are there, simple, white, changed into something else. Held warmth, salt, scent. I take them in my palm, gently. I bring them to my face. I close my eyes. The scent runs through me. It is dense. It is warm. 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 whom you are speaking to. I send you only: — Wear the ribbon tomorrow. Light T-shirt. Breathing pauses at 10 a.m., 2 p.m., 6 p.m. Word of the day: grounding. You answer quickly. — Yes, Master. I cut the screen. The silence holds the room. In the memory of my fingers, I hear the matte softness of the paper, the little hiss of the string. I also hear your extra second by the bench, the one where everything tipped without moving. We did not cross paths. We know each other. That is more bodily than any hands. Tomorrow, I will tighten it a notch. Nothing else. Nothing more. You will wear the ribbon like a secret that breathes. And I will keep taking you with my words, until your silences say yes before you even write it. The leash is invisible. It holds. So do we.