Purest Blue

The day had passed in a blur of muted sounds and measured breaths.

When evening finally came, the house seemed to hold its breath, the soft light spilling through the windows painting long shadows that danced slowly across the floor.

I sat in the music room, the silence around me filled with the faintest hum of the piano's resting strings, still warm from the day's lessons.

Alisa entered quietly, her steps nearly soundless, her pale blue blouse catching the last golden rays of sunlight.

She smiled softly—not the smile I used to know, but something deeper, more knowing.

"Come," she said, her voice a gentle invitation.

I followed her without hesitation, drawn by the calm certainty that always seemed to wrap around her like a second skin.

We moved to the sitting room, where the big armchair awaited—soft, inviting, and familiar.

Alisa sat down and beckoned me closer.

"Lie down here," she whispered.

I obeyed, letting myself fall onto her lap, the world narrowing to the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath me.

Her hand settled gently on my hair, fingers threading through the strands with practiced tenderness.

For a long moment, we just sat there.

No words were spoken, but I felt the unspoken weight of her care—both a shield and a subtle tether.

Then she began to hum—a soft, wordless melody that slipped into the quiet like a breeze through leaves.

Her lips brushed my hairline as she leaned down.

The touch was feather-light, and I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth spread across my skin.

Then, ever so gently, she pressed her lips to the sensitive skin at the base of my neck.

The kiss was innocent on its surface—soft, tender, almost shy—but beneath it carried an intensity I could not ignore.

The spot where she kissed me tingled, a warmth blossoming there that pulsed long after her lips had moved away.

"Sleep now," she murmured softly. "I'll be here."

I closed my eyes, the world blurring at the edges as the ache in my chest settled into a quiet ache of belonging.

This became our new ritual.

Every afternoon, like clockwork, I would lay my head on Alisa's lap for two hours.

She would stroke my hair, hum that same soothing melody, and occasionally place those gentle, deliberate kisses along my neck—each one a quiet claim, a soft reminder.

At first, the time felt long—too long.

But gradually, the ritual seeped into my bones, weaving itself into the rhythm of my days.

It was comfort, yes.

But it was also control.

Each kiss marked me—sometimes just a faint blush beneath my skin, sometimes a deeper red that lingered for days.

I could feel the eyes of my carefully chosen friends at school flicker over those marks, their cautious words sliding through my thoughts like shadows.

"Are you okay?" one of them asked once, voice low.

I shrugged, brushing it off. "It's nothing."

But inside, a storm of confusion churned.

Why did it matter so much to me?

Why did her touch feel like a promise—and a warning?

At night, before sleep, the kisses deepened.

Alisa's lips would press again and again to that same spot on my neck, soft and insistent.

She whispered words I could barely catch—words of love, protection, and possession.

"Mine," she said once, so quietly I almost thought I'd imagined it.

But the mark she left wasn't a secret.

It was visible.

Red, tender, almost bruised.

And it stayed there, day after day, a reminder no one else was meant to understand.

I didn't know how to feel about it all.

Safe?

Trapped?

Loved?

Controlled?

The lines blurred and shifted beneath her touch.

But one thing was clear.

Alisa's love was not simple.

It was a quiet, fierce force that shaped me—softly, relentlessly—into someone I barely recognized.

Someone who belonged, completely, to her.

As I drifted to sleep each night, the imprint of her lips on my skin pulsed like a heartbeat I could never quite escape.

And in that pulse, I found both my cage—and my sanctuary.