I was set this homework a few weeks ago. I found it almost imposible to write. But then I did write it. Then it took me ages to post it. But here it is. It is not fiction. It is a part of me.
Knut was exceptionally tall and strong, and the handsomest of men, all except for his nose, that was thin, high-set, and rather hooked. He had a fair complexion none-the-less, and a fine, thick head of hair. His eyes were better than those of other men, both the handsomer and the keener of their sight.
—Knytlinga Sagai
Ironically, King Cnut (we like to spell it with a C and it is pronounced Canute) was King of England before he ruled Denmark. He was a prince though, Prince of Denmark, when he invaded us and took the English throne in 1016. Two years later he ascended to the Danish throne and took Norway ten years after that. He was a maritime ruler, spreading his authority over the waves around Scandinavia and beyond, right into the Gaelic kingdoms.
He was always destined for greatness. Any man given his schooling by Thorkell the Tall had to be either magnificent or crushed. So by the time he had all three thrones this powerful medieval ruler had an awesome and deserved reputation.
This is where our story occurs.
He was such a powerful ruler that he was flattered by all about him, His courtiers would fawn and splutter, and Cnut had no time for this. As a Christian it offended his faith, and as a soldier, I suspect, it tried his patience. He had his throne brought to the seashore and placed at the edge of the waves.
He took his place in his king’s finery and sat on the throne. His courtiers watched. He spoke with the authority of the ruler of their whole world.
He commanded the sea to stop and to go back. He commanded the waves to halt. He commanded and his courtiers watched. They watched the sea on her steady march inland. They watched their King as his commands were ignored. They watched as he continued to command and the waves swirled around, drenching the feet of their ruler.
“Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings. For there is none worthy of the name but God, whom heaven, earth and sea obey”.
**
Speaking of obedience (although you do not deign to have the authority of a deity) I am writing about this because you told me to. I have argued with you about it. I have delayed it. I have done other pieces of writing. I have refused to think about it.
I am forming these words in just the same way that I would walk along a very narrow ledge on the side of a mountain. I move slowly and cautiously, without thinking about it too much and certainly without looking down and getting a proper grasp of what is going on.
I am writing about this against my will. Can we be clear about this from the start? I do not want to write these words and I am doing so only because I have to. I would rather talk about my favourite episodes of Buffy or long-term implications of Tudor foreign policy. I would rather iron or
tidy my bedroom. I have done every avoidance activity that I can think of. You told me I did that, and I told you how wrong you were. We both knew you were right.
But you will not back down on this. I have tried every cunning ploy and play to get you to do so. You won’t.
You always say it is me who is stubborn, but it is your stubborn nature that led to this event even happening. It was you. It was your idea and your fault. How come it is me who has to write about it? You made me be there when it happened. You make me write about it now.
I would tell you it is unfair but that would not begin to phase you. You would smile at me like you always do and nothing would change.
I can’t alter you. You say that I have but never in the way I intend.
It started with you teasing me. You teased me and I got caught in words, like when you try tospoon treacle and it has sharp gooey trickles that get into everything, and no matter how fast you turn the spoon you can’t make it stop. We drove past a chemist’s and you mentioned it. You mentioned the e-word and I did not know if you meant it. You always mean everything, but the moment passed and you did not park. We did not go in, and nothing happened.
But I was already taken by that moment. I was there. I was all tangled up and confused by everything I felt. It is hard to write about this because the emotion has me tangled and tied. Much later that day, in the darkness, under a sheet, as I felt you slipping into sleep I found my way into your 
arms.
My lips against your cheek, I whispered to you. I told you I don’t want that thing. I told you I can’t sleep for not wanting it.
A stupid man, a lesser man, would not understand. He would think I wanted it, that it was desire that kept me wide-eyed in the dark. He would think I simply could not admit it, and he would say,“The lady doth protest too much,” and smile smugly at his petty wisdom.
You understood though. You understood the density of my not wanting. You knew without my telling you how my urgent, clinging desire of not wanting was overwhelming me.
You are the mirror image. Your desire is perfectly formed to compliment my own. You are pleased, I think, by how I curl and twist in your arms and by how it takes an age to stammer out those words. You are empowered by something deeper than embarrassment, something neither shame nor humiliation. When I writhed like a jumping fish in your palm you smiled at me in the dark. I could hear it in your words. You told me that tomorrow you would do it despite my confusion. I held on tight to you as you performed my release. You whispered to me of the desire of not wanting, the desire that only you understand. You exhausted me and I slept, holding onto your arm as if I might get lost in the bed in the night.
As I write this I think maybe you are the only man in the whole world who can understand me.
The next day, you were not in the least ashamed when we bought the kit. You behaved in a normal and relaxed manner, exuding mild amusement at my discomfort. I gave my tight English smile and ignored everything. I am bred to pretend bad things are not happening, and I focused my conversation on the merits of gossip magazines as a panacea for the evils of the modern world. My pretence was stretched as thin as my smile while you collected the bag and my hand, and strolled us out of the shop as though the world was a delight, there for your edification.
I have never been so well behaved as I was for those next few hours. I forewent my cheekiness, my comebacks and my tweaking. I did not want to give you a way in. You would not have an excuse for your actions. You had told me the night before when you would do the deed. I determined that you would change your mind. The day altered its hours, exchanged one for the other. You did not change, and more resolute than time you called me to you just when you said you would.
***
You sit on the bed and watch me. I stand across the room from you. One finger in my mouth, one foot curled behind the other, I watch you.
But you call, and I am uns
ure if I go to you or you come to collect me … the latter I think. Whichever it is, my free will has precious little to do with it.
You take your time, in this and all things. You are kind enough to place me over your lap. I want to be close to you. I want to hold on to your leg while you do something that shames me so much I could cry. I do not cry. I am very quiet. I try to disappear.
I speak softly to you. I tell you that I don’t want you to do this. You tell me you know that. You lift my skirt (I could cry as I write this) and lower my knickers. They are pretty knickers. I wanted to distract you. They are yellow and have frills. You don’t even mention them and when I tell you to look at them you remark that they are pretty, and ignore them totally.
Slowly and with great care you glide your hand over my bottom. I think it trembles.
I want to stop writing now.
This is not me. It is some other girl and some other man. It is not me.
You tell me what you do as you do it. You describe what you can see and how you feel. You tell me how I feel. It does not astonish me that you know. I ask you why you do this, and you tell me you like to see me like this. You like to see me shy and embarrassed. You like to see me like I am. I realise what I am.
I have given myself over to you totally. I keep still despite myself and because of you. You busy yourself with the part of me you wish to, and the rest of me holds my breath. When you insert the nozzle I think I can feel you smile, or something deeper than a smile, some part of manhood that I don’t understand. I squeeze at the covers in both hands. I whimper.
I stay still though, and the experience settles into itself. I have submitted. I have accepted and am quiet. I find a peace in the centre of this moment. You have taken away my choices and I lie subdued on your lap. I hold on tight though. I squirm every now and again. I do not think about what is happening. Like an animal submitting I show you my most tender parts.
You talk softly to me. I ask you why we must do this. I ask you why you like it and you tell me. Hearing that makes me feel special, adored, like a hidden, sought after treasure discovered, and the cause of joy. But then I remember what you are doing. A cool sensation that I cannot expect brings it all back to me, and I beg you t
o stop. You hush me with a gentle stroking hand on my back and still me.
Do I have to tell all of this? Is that what this is? Is this a total revelation? Is that what it has to be?
I don’t know all of it. I don’t know. I am so caught up in you and your will that I don’t know. Your hand finds me. You touch me from your position so high above me that the pleasure I feel is commanded of me. You reach for me, and I shiftto allow you entry. The gates are down already; the walls have been breached. I have no method to refuse you, and you know this. It never occurs to either of us that I could deny or refuse. You touch me self assuredly and with a removed passion that makes me want you in deep waves.
I gasp and writhe over your knees. I call out and beg. You are unmoved and give me only as much as you want to. Piece by piece you bring my body from silent submission to desperate, giving submission. I want every part of me to be on your fingertips, every part of me to be designed by you and decided by you. I exist only where you touch me. I exist only where you want me.
You tell me to come. I come.
I do so at the moment created by you, by your words. Writing this and remembering you might utter those words again, I would return. The sensation and realisation is embedded in me.
You lift me from your lap and lie with me. I am in your arms. I am aware of the horrid sensation inside me. I do not want the moment broken. There is perfect peace in this experience that I do not want, perfect peace enduring something I want to end,and never to have started. It is perfect peace.
***
You are the waves, my love. You have placed me on a throne. I am beloved, adored and protected. I tell you to stop. I command you to stop. You advance evermore.
