Confession by Anonymous

Anonymous.

I wanted to tell you one of the last images I had -- before I was told to stop; before I knew it had better stop.

In this image, I'm at home, at the far end of a room full of books, with my laptop open on a wooden desk. I'm completely focused on the laptop. I'm still in my work clothes, long grey skirt and a blue blouse with long sleeves, the cuffs rolled halfway to elbows. I know you're standing in the doorway watching me, my silent boy, but I ignore you and continue doing whatever I'm doing.

You walk across the room to me, and I continue to ignore you, my shoulder to you, my face impassive and lit by the monitor. And you do not try to touch me, or speak. You sink down onto the Turkish carpet that's thrown over the hardwood floor in this room, kneeling close to my chair, close to my leg. I'm sitting with one knee out, thighs slightly parted, as if I might get up at any moment.

I feel your hands, encircling my ankle, your fingers drifting down over my knee high sock, over the shape of my high heeled ankle boot. I ignore you while you nudge my calf with your hands to give yourself leverage, and remove the boot altogether. I feel your hands tracing the elastic of my knee sock, working it down over my leg, my foot. You remove the delicate sock, my bare foot flexes slightly, small and warm in your cool hands, slightly damp.

And you go down onto your belly on the old carpet, your rough cheek resting against the musty bristles of gold and red, your head positioned next to my bared foot. You lie there with your arms straight at your sides, your head turned, my newly bare foot an inch from your eyes.

And then I move, my boy. My lithe foot lifts from the carpet and disappears somewhere above your head, and then presses, clammy, against your cheek. The ball of my foot is a cooling, damp pressure of naked flesh against your skin, my painted toes curling to nudge and push against your closed eyelids, against the side of your nose. I push against the fat of your unshaven cheek, I knead your face with small movements of my toes.

And I just leave my bare foot there, the weight of it resting against your face, cheek, jaw. The slightly sweating skin sealed against yours, moving sometimes, toes stroking into the short silk of your hair. Like you belong there, belly down on the floor, beneath me.

I never spoke.

It was indescribable. And it was the tip of iceberg.