Parsus

When you have been denied, you cannot rest.

Your dreams do not offer succor, only a harsh reminder of unmet need.

Waking from them into the grimness of the pre-dawn.

Mouth empty.

Heart empty.

Folding around the rumpled pillow, sigh of despair creeping out of your nostrils.

Falling back into troubled sleep.

Burdened with waiting during the day. After day.

Yet one night, you turn, tangled in your sheets.

To find her, see her.

There.

Half in the darkness, half-illuminated by the street lamps shining through your window.

Unbuttoning her blouse.

Beckoning your lips to clamp around her dropping swollen nipple.

Arms wrapped around her, cradled against her, you suckle and drink.

Your cock: harder than you think it could be.

Her sweet milk, filling your mouth, warming your throat.

Eagerly, you go from breast to breast. Afraid to stop, afraid she will be gone with the dawn.

Even you can be filled, can be satiated.

To slide into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Finally.

Power

You have been recalcitrant.

Itchy, antsy.

He knows how to soothe.

*

Wrapping the blindfold over your eyes, plugging your ears.

Placing your flat, feet in stirrups.

The purr of the machine hums gently, purring so sweetly.

A gasp you can’t hear escapes your lips. Floats in the air then dissipates slowly.

Followed by another and another. As the oiled dildo slips between your eager squirming pussy lips, the gasps solidified into moans that only rise briefly in the air and fall to the plush carpet.

15. 20. 50. 70. As the number of thrusts per minute increase, so does your resistance.

80, 90, 110.

Until the fiercely vibrating metal knot reaches your clit.Held firmly in place by his fingers, as the machine blindly and obediently does the job it was created for.

Back arched, hips thrust forward.

Shakes you out of you security of obstinacy.

The rhythm drags you along.

Vibrating.

Plunging.

Until you are no longer coherent, solid or liquid.

You have become a state of being–orgasmic waves the pulsate from the place where your body should be.

And then…

Nothing.

Who remembers anything while unconscious?

*

Waking up, cradled in his arms.

How soft and relaxed you feel.

The itch gone, anxiety healed by the aloe of fucking.

You ask him if you looked divine, cumming and cumming.

He smiles and turns on the TV screen. Hits ‘play’ on the remote.

Tells you to watch for yourself.

Accumulated

Your mouth opened in surprise when he told you the order for the day. Leaving you no time to prepare your mind, you were forced to your knees and quietly you began.

First, as always was his. The one you are used to and adore. He fills your mouth and your tongue knows every vein, every inch of the velvet pear skin of his shaft.

You cannot ever serve two masters. His cock leads the way, is your lodestar.

Then was the series.

One. You will remember him, for he used a honey almond soap and the smell wafting into your nostrils from his trimmed bush helped you not to cry.

You do not want to do this. But he says do it. And you do.

Two. His cock was weighty, it felt in your mouth you were holding two in mass, not one. You think of him as heavy water.  He must be more than the 5 grams that naturally occurs in us all.

Three. He bruised the back of your throat, for you are not used to suck ing such length. Your think of him as a redwood, growing higher than most.  Your ars burned just as brightly as the red leaves blowing past your windows.

Four. The shame grows.

Five.

Six. Your heart quails.

Seven.

Eight. Your soul has folded upon itself.

Nine.

Then nothing.

Except the labored breath of them all, pulling on their cocks.

Looking at you.

Your eyes are rooted on Him.

He nods.

That tiny nod is your anchor.

You hold onto it, that anchor, as the strained sighs turn to moans which transmute to cries of release.

The lids of your eyes are shutters, covering the world in red filtered light.

Each grunt falling from a pair of lips seems to precede of spurt of hot semen across you face but you lose count of the order.

You imagine the ropes of cum, etching you like glass in an artisan’s workshop.

Finally, your ears pick up the strained breath of final release.

As he forces your mouth open, to take his seed down your throat, you go from feeling dirty to feeling fresh, unsullied.

Your face is coated with the seed of strangers, all for the pleasure of him. Dripping slowly off your chin like candlewax, settling to pool on the upper slope of your breasts.

His murmured praise washes away your worry that he sees you as soiled.

It is enough.

Is it enough?

Pant

Wearing a groove in the floor.

Pacing, to and fro. The oak boards softly creaking under your bare feet.

Waiting.

On her. On him.

On yourself–for you seek liberation.

*

Settling on your knees, watching.

Eyes full of her. Of him.

Ears burning at the stream of consciousness pouring from her chapped and slightly bruised lips.

Smelling the tang of their mingled sweat, being pressed into your sheets.

Yet you are silent, except for your breath. So heavy it has a weight of its own.

*

Your moment arrives.

They call to you indirectly, as he bucks and jerks in her, his ass flexing with each spurt as he screws his eyes shut with relief.

She is the receptacle.

She receives.

She…

*

Offering to you. You approach the tabernacle of her well-fucked cunt.

Pausing there, all your anger dissipates. Your frustration at waiting.

Your stubborn refusal to see her guiding you by denying your instantly.

Eager, grateful, humble–you place your hands on her thighs, muscles tired from gripping his waist.

*

Lick.

Lick.

The saltiness.

Taste.

Taste.

Her juices.

Savor.

Savor.

Your place. Less than a tissue to be discarded.

*

After lapping away every bit of them -his nut, her pussy juices-you feel your breath.

Your breath. Lighter, barely discernible. Floating, like your heart in your breast.

Drop your forehead, rest your cheek against the velvet of her smooth thigh.

In the quiet, a still life of her, him, you.

Dream.

Dream.

Of the next time she lets you worship.

Reaching

Fasted.

Cleansed.

Prepared.

Presented, gag in your nervous right hand.

Bowing your head, sighing as the buckle is tightened across the back of your head.

Kneeling, for the sweet tight weight of the leather cuffs on your wrists.

Repeated on your ankles.

Struggling to your feet.

Falling onto the bed, face-down. Gasp flowing like melted oxygen from your mouth, dripping, as the plug goes into your eager ass.

Nestled in the soft crushed velvet sheets.

A jewel nestled in a gift box.  A choice handmade chocolate in a display case.

Left there, to complete your devotion.

Alone but not alone really, fluorescence of your thoughts and pleas ringing around your head, sugar plum prayers.

Seeking.

Waiting, as the sensation ebbs from  your joints. The stinging replaced by a laden nothingness.

Hoping fervently.

Seeing God.

See.

See…

Isolation

A click.  A buzz. The light-cool and grey blue, fills the room.

Angling, positioning, adjusting the light.

And you wait.

Until someone bites.

This time, it was subtle, not so explicit. You lured her gently, teased her until she clicked on the button and… watched you.

That is what you want. To be seen.

Last night, you were frustrated, anxious to connect.

You needed an audience, recognition.

No fun for you to do it alone. You need the rush, the thrill.

Junkie. Fiend. Addicted to an mental place.

Unseen by you, yet you are seen by them. Real in real time, in a way that you are not face-to-face.

Relaxed, easy. Taunt, throbbing. Panting, erupting.

Night after night, looking for a woman to look at you.

Further you retreat in your shell by day, only emerging when you are alone and wired.

More and more, you need. Need and need.

You looked at a woman as you walked by this morning, wondering if she will log on later and watch you. Your lips were frozen shut when she turned and smiles at you. She is too close, you must have distance. To function.

At times, you open up your cam, and idly stroke your cock, half-hard. Partially aroused, able to spring to life at a moment’s notice.

For someone, anyone.

You vaguely remember the feel of flesh, of bone, of skin other than your own.

Awash in a controlled climate, the reality is fading.

Life is slipping over you. See it?

No.

For how can the blind lead the blind?

By touch.

Not in your case.

Curatus

Some go to the gym, the temple where they pray with their sweat and give hot bursts of breath as offerings.

Others go to the docs, slinking onto the soft sofas where anxieties are waved and aired out. Soft clouds of grief and despair float from their lips.

Not you.

You go to her. Drop to your knees.

Waiting, trembling for her to diagnose and solve your ailments.

The smell wafts from her leather boots the sweetest aromatherapy.

Your mind hurts. She slaps your face, grips your jaw and ejects saliva in your eager mouth.

As her spit trickles, as the burn in your cheeks subsides, your thoughts calm.

Your heart hurts. The pinch of the clamps cuts right through your breastbone, warming your chest.

Weights are hung off the ends. Your eyes roll back and your back arches, then relaxes, vertebra licking like coins.

Your soul hurts; is twisted in knots. The gag tightens around the back of your head,  as she pushes you face down.

Like a beast pulling a plow, you are mounted. Whipped. Plugged.

At that moment, you heard a sharp snap.

You are aligned. Whole.

They have their therapy; you have yours.

What you can be

I met you with a smile on your face. In your heart, soared a tiny gnat of hope.

Unsuspecting, you thought of me. Gullible, wide-eyed.

Ready to be molded into the shapes that power your constantly changing dreams.

You do not know yourself. How could you attempt to know me?

*

Small things at first;  hints, suggestions. I lifted a brow and ignored you.

Until you had the temerity to offer your ass to me, tell me you wanted to feel the soft leather paintbrush of my belt painting your skin.

You are not my clay, my kiln. Mortar and pestle we are not.

You don’t pull me in your tide to cause Eros and pain.

I do not salivate at the thought of your tears coursing, snot bubbling from your reddened nose, as your balls tighten sweetly with each snap of the leash.

*

Persistent, you are so very. But my heart is not into it. My lust has been bypassed and now is coiling into anger.

You want to give what you will, push me into controlling you as you see fit.

No.

You plan and plot to dress me in what turns you on, in clothing that binds and restricts. Reflecting light that dazzles your eyes, the latex and patent leather.

I want to take your excited blindfolded form into a darkened room, and give you to two women. Or two men.  Who can make it hurt more?

Listening to you gag as your throat is bruised, watching the drool from your raw used mouth pool on your chest.  Chuckling as you twist and try to pull away from the hard cock-natural, synthetic, but huge-that opens your ass and pulls you into an altered state.

Feel it, for I don’t. It tires me and will cause me to toss you away.

I did not see you in my mind as a servant  but as a mate. You disdain vanilla but I adore the creamy coolness. That is what you are to me.

You do not cause my fingers to curl around my brush, as I fight the urge to beat you.

In your imagination, you are chained, kneeling, panting. In the clear light of day…you are hazy, drifting, catching on a chimera that melts in the face of reason.

*

Do  you want love? Or do you love to be in control?

Backseat driver. Giving orders under the guise of just being along for the ride.

*

Tiresias, I called in your direction. But you are neither fully male nor female in  your desires. You cannot hear me, my human throat falls flat on your ears.

Liar, liar, soul on fire.

Burning but not consumed, for your duplicity.

Speak

Watching the pulse at the base of your throat.

A bead of sweat.  Travels, hangs, drips.

Eyes wild, you part your lips. My name emerges, a butterfly startled from the bushes.

Right then: I grab your balls, tight hold. Pinch the tip of your cock, bifurcating the seismic flow.

You call my name.

Bitch.

“Say it louder,” I say softly, as I strangle the orgasm you have been crying for.

“Bitch,” you bark over and over. Spittle flying from your lips.

My name never escapes your mind, even in the most urgent moments.

Trace

Like the all beasts that creep stealthily across the earth, you picked up my subtle scent before the stabbing pain emerged.

Distracted but concerned, I wondered of your persistent pacing, your fingertips twitching against your damp palms.

Then I knew.The cramps enveloped me in a tight fist. A trickle that signifies my membership in the triune club raced down my leg. I am still in the dream that is the Mother.

Maddened by the smell, the sight, you leaned against the wall and begged  silently for strength. But your mouth watered.

You thrill over dead blood. You debase yourself.

God likes it fresh, pushed by a beating heart, spurting from a sliced neck. Hot and wet, as the soul unhinges from the body, eyes clouding.

You have fancied yourself Him. Imagined that I love you as much as Him.

Yet you delight in the decaying things, at the wrong time.

See why you do not compare?

Unsteady

How can I tell you of my split consciousness or of my fractured will?

You would not be able to look at me the same, for it would pierce the very heart of you. The tender heart that drew me in, that I promised to cherish and protect.

I am the same yet different. There are parts of me that are growing, others that are dead.

As much as I love you, I love thinking of of others. Their soft lips, their naked breasts, the curve of their asses, the imagined scent that emanates from between their legs.

I love you and my soul thrills like a bird heralding Spring, when I see you pick up our youngest and dry her tears.

But there is a part of me that wants to leave you there-frozen, time still surrounding you-and go fuck others.

I might want a pair or a trio. I may prefer to line them up and go from one wet eager mouth to the next, until the final one gets filled with my hot sticky seed.  Or it may please me to slip away and sped a weekend fucking a sex machine in all her holes, over and over, until the need is quieted and spent.

It has nothing to do or for you. It is me, my libido, my curiosity.

You however, do not dampen the flames when you toss me crumbs of attention.

The lie I will not tell  is that you are the same.  You are different.

The children, the house the dogs, the phone, your sister, my Mom,  the bake sale, the garden, the old friendly widow across the street, your latest project. They are crowding out the space in your mind that should belong to only me.

You are not able to see it, you snap at me when I mention that I feel left out at times. But you promised me that you would never run out of time for me.

Remember?

Even when you let me fuck you-yes, you let me at times,  for your mind is already dropping kids off at school the next day- I feel that I am an intruder. A distraction from the more important things that you do everyday.

Should I apologize for feeling bitter over it? Do you expect me to become neutered and asexual, due to the rhythm of our grown-up lives?

I am your husband. I do not want to beg you for your loving touch, your soft words.

You have changed. You have.

I want you to change back.

++++

You speak of change as if it is unilateral, not bilateral. As if it is only my issue.

You get impatient with me, with how I do not have the same amount of time to give to you. You are right–I don’t. But is that your only reason for getting bent out of shape?

Funny that you think I can’t see how you get distracted when the brunette neighbor  from next door runs by on her daily afternoon trail past our house. I do not fault you for looking. But don’t blame me for your dick getting hard or the fact that I am not childless as she is.

Of course she has plenty of energy to screw her husband, as much as he likes and hang off his every word when he speaks. She is not juggling kids, this house, your Mom, work and all those things that make up our life. Or, as I see it should be called, my life.

You and I are living in these parallel spaces. You get that dejected look in your eye to my refusal, when you want a quickie while the spaghetti is cooking and the kids are screaming with glee in the backyard.

Yes, when we had one child, I could hike up my skirt and push my ass against yours for all of the hot 5 minutes you needed. I love you, so when you need me, I want to give, to satisfy.

When we had two children, I did have more energy and could also spend the time you needed, after they were put to bed.

Our lives are not the same, we have more of everything. We had another baby, I went back to work, your Mom needed support after your Dad passed. This new house, while beautiful, requires more time to clean.

And yes, I need a few minutes, not just a hurried bath or shower.

I do not make excuses, I only expect you to understand that sometimes, I have nothing more to give. I just want to sleep.

I do not always want your dick poking into me. I just want you to hold me. Cliche, but true. I love being in your arms just as much as when we shared our first kiss.

Hold me tight and keep me warm, as I grab just enough sleep to get me through the next day.

Were are here in the present, not in the past. So why are you acting like we are still those people, those single kids?

I have not stopped loving you one bit. You mean more to me than ever before. Am I suppose to neglect parts of our life, because you need more attention?  What more do you want me to give?

The porn websites, the times you jack off in the shower, your discreet admiration of other women…I can deal with it; we don’t need to speak of it.

But your silent persistence that I have changed and that I neglect you…you are wrong.

That is what is in the bed with us at night-a cold shadow called Resentment.  I can only lie there, when you come to me, already blaming me.

I have freely given you my love, my heart, my time. Bore our babies and see my changed body everyday in the mirror. Did all I could to please you, support you, be a partner.

Do you think I don’t care? Honestly, you know better.

You are not dealing with the changes within yourself as easily as you should.

I also want you to change back. Go back to the man who wears his ring around his finger, as well as his heart and mind.

Come back to us.

Come back.

Peeled

Breaking open my disposable as I left my warm bath, I called your name.

Sullenly, you came to me, the hidden fear washing from your damp armpits. You had been waiting for days, wondering when I would chastise you.

But isn’t that part of our holding pattern?

Leading you by the hand, over to the window, I frowned at you.

Shame blossomed across your face. Finally that.

First your thumb, then every finger of that formerly wayward right hand of yours. The blade dug in, sliding through each layer, until it found the crimson bed.

It rested. You didn’t.

But you dared not part your lips. Your groan rolled out in waves. Flowed into nothing.

I watched the drops of blood hit the floor. They mingled with the water sluicing from my hair, creating beauty.

The Rorschach of your desire.

Defense against the Dark Art

“…Amazement seized the mortal men and gods

To see the hopeless trap, deadly to men.

From her comes all the race of womankind

The deadly female race and tribe of wives

Who live with mortal men and bring them harm.”

Hesiod-Theogony/Works

~

They called her the beautiful evil. Pandora-’kalon kakon‘.

You think I am she, reincarnated as the device to hold your hate.

But I was not curious of you. It was you, that attempted to pry me open, against my clear admonition that I was more wisdom than your fragile mind could hold.

You-when you paint me in the sick hard colors of your desire, when you kneel before me and command me to fulfill your fantasies-are what that should be shut away, until you become sane.

There is a slumbering beast which threatens too pen its yellow eyes, that keeps you leashed away from kindness. Halts you from seeing my strength as only mine, not a threat to you.

Messalina. Gorgo. Sempronia. Eryxo.

Despite your efforts,  we persist. In spite of the mineral that follows out of the cauldron of your soul.

+++

“Do not let a woman practice reasoned argument,  that is frightful.”

-Democritus of Abdera, Fragment 110

~

It delights you, gives you a startling thrill, to think that I am not aware of the plans you have, the knots you tie while I am sleeping.

Under the cover of night, you concoct the details of your dominion.

By the flash of the noon Sun, I dismantle you. Piece by piece. As was the Parthenon, to be carted off and wondered about.

Do not offer me the lash, with the sour syrup of false praise on your lips. Cover your bared back, your flexing haunches. Cover your erect shame with the truth.

Which is:

you want to whip, not be whipped. You think I am too dim to see into it. Yet and always,  I burn softly, the source of my own light.

Theano. Damo. Hypatia. Leontion.

The more you push, the better we become. Push and push again until the force of our minds washes you away, as sand goes back into the sea at high tide

+++

“We have hetaerae for pleasure, pallakae to care for our daily body’s needs and gynaekes to bear us legitimate children and to be faithful guardians of our households.”

-Demosthenes, On Wives and Heitarai , Speeches 59.122

~

Every and all things are categories for you. Neat rigid boxes into which you force spheres, pyramids, heptagons, handfuls of stars.

The nature of my gender furls into your mind. It/I/Us/Them must be contained.

You have labeled me evil, prone to fantasy and superstition.  Weak and easily held by dreams and unreality.

I go to my mothers, aunts, sisters and call, for they deliver to me tools to defeat you. The magic mirror in my hand shows me what you are.

It removes the glamour you cast, unsheathes your false humility.

Maiden, Mother. Crone. Call us what you will but our ears are closed.

Thargelia, Aspasia. Phryne, Archeanassa,Thaïs.

How can anyone harness the beauty of a molecule, so artfully arranged in the terms,  sp¹ sp² sp³, for such a perverted sense of self?

Not selflessness. That is a  solid state utterly foreign to you.

+++

You.

I am wary, on guard.

You.

Since we crawled out of the Mind of God, you have been my unwanted adversary.

Using my love, my kindness, my physical weakness as weapons to skewer me.

Causing my heart to shrivel with neglect, for my desire to take shelter elsewhere.

You put me in a lonely cold place and denied me even the rudiments of heat.

Doesn’t even the dog get scraps at the Master’s table? Not in your house.

I have wiped my tears, bound my sorrow in my hair.

This time, the Hammer for the Witch is in my hands.

Our hands.

We watch you scream but we proceed on.

Ever on.

Carnivore

I eat bread.

You eat my ass.

I eat fruit.

You eat my cunt.

Your desire and devotion are treats sitting in the cupboard.

Who’s cravings  in the middle of the night are going to triumph?

Cream

Blindfolded, you wait.

Fingertips  digging into the bedspread.

I cough, then wrap my fingers in your hair. My weight settles on your chest, then your face.

Eagerly, you open your mouth.  Your tongue lashes my silken folds.

I verbally correct you.

That is not your purpose.

For now,  I grind your inadequacy in your face.

You absorb the salt, the stickiness. You drink in the humiliation.

You are my water, my soap, my washcloth.

Things to be used and discarded.

Regressed{stage2}

Hungry, you call for me. No response.

You go room to room.

I am not there.

My phone goes unanswered, messages are not returned.

You feel ignored.

Nervous, you call others, timidly asking if they know where I am.

They do not. One even snorts and hangs up on you, not dignifying your request with even a dismissal.

Eventually, you go to bed. Stomach gnawing in more than one way.

You drift, fingers twitching, wanting to cradle my engorged mammary.

Suddenly, you feel my weight, straddling you, knocking you from your uneasy slumber.

Silently, you stare up  at me. Angry, horny, lonely, eager.

Pulling off my sweater, taking off my shirt, I am stripped to a bra and tank top.

My areolas are outlined, in the damp circles from my leaking milk.

Your cock springs to life, causing you to gasp.

Reaching your hands for me caused your face to get slapped the last time, so you wait.

Slowly I take off my top and bra.

I stuff the damp part of one of the cups in your mouth and command you to suck it.

You do. You do anything I tell you to.

With a small smile, I replace the fabric with my right  nipple.

Then I switch, allowing you to drain the other breast.

Content and full, you ask me why I was not home when you arrived.

I slap your mouth as my  reply.

Your training never ends.

Unity

I was taking too long, I suppose. But that is what girls do. Hair, makeup, daydreaming.

Then, a sharp knock. Followed a three insistent ones.

Irritated, I opened the door. And closed it, as it is only L. My useless stepbrother.

He knocked again and when I did not answer, twisted the knob and stuck his nosy head inside.

“When are you going to be done?”

“When I am finished! Close the door, creep.”

“Who are you  calling creep?”

“You, asshole. Not talking to myself.”

With a satisfied smirk, I went back to my beauty rituals.

For some reason, L is back. He opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind him, as I squealed in irritation.

“I am not dressed. GET OUT OF HERE! You moron!” I was in my lucky red cotton bar and matching boyshirts. Not for L to feast his eyes on me, that was for sure.

Leanign back on his hells, he cocked his head tothe side and coolly appraised me.

“You do not have to be shy. After all, we are family now.” As if 2 years equaled ‘family’. But he said it in a voice that set my nerves on edge.  Just a bit. Not that I would show it.

Frustrated, I decided to ignore him. If I hurried, I could finish my makeup in my bedroom.

After about five tense minutes, I announced I was done.

“Move out of the way, idiot; show’s over.”

“Actually, it is just staritng,” he said, as he blocked my path. As I launched off on a tirade, it was cut off by his hand across my mouth, the other gripping my upper arm.

Temper rising, I fought him but being taller, stronger and possibly crazier, he had me. I was pushed againstt the door and there was nothing I could do but squirm.

Easily, he caught both my wrists in one of his hands and deftly yanked the front of my bra until the closure surrendered. My breasts spilled out, nipples hardening in the process.

I froze-shocked, horrified, appalled. What the hell was going on?

Leaning close to me, so close I could count the hairs of his silky dark eyebrows, he smiled.

And slapped me.

Five seconds later, I was being kissed and my tits encased in his big hands.  I tried to wrench away, but my nipples betrayed me.

His body planted steadily against mine, I could not only feel his hard cock but my fingers. Teasing, pinching, pulling my nips.

Sending a shameful squirt of juice to moisten my cunt.

“How long did you think I would let you play with me?

“Whhaaa..what are you saying?” I was truly stunned by his words.

” Always walking around half-dressed, cleavage showing. Tits hanging out, short skirts. You must have wanted this.”

“No! I did not want this! Let go of me. NOW!” And I renewed my efforts to free myself.

Then he dropped his smirk, his face went blank. His eyes matched the hardness of his cock.

In a flash, he reached in his front right pocket and  balled his fists, hiding what he had. The bad thing was that with his other hand,  he grabbed the straight razor out of the mug on the counter and held it in front of my face.

My smart words crumpled on my tongue.

“Present you tits to me, nasty girl. Do not play virgin. Hurry.”

Because he pressed the razor to my throat, I did as he commanded.  My knees felt weak; not sure if it was all fear or part desire.

“Look at your nipples and do not look away. No talking.”

He pinched the right one. And then the pain.  Of the clamp, of course. I bit down on my scream.

As the pain was ebbing, it was replaced by a fresh wave, as the left nipple was subjected to the same torture.

In my head, the pain was a concrete rose.

“I expect you to wear these until I take them off later. Nod ‘yes’

Barely, I did.

‘Look at yourself, “he said, stepping back.

Taking the place he held, I then turned toward the mirror. Saw myself, my fearful look, my wild eyes.

“I think you will do as I tell you for now on, won’t you?”

I nodded my head in the ‘yes’ signal but inside I was screaming “no no no you crazy fucker NO”.

I felt hope when I heard his Dad call out from downstairs “Anyone here?’, with a slam of the garage door.

In that instant it died, as he cut the side of my underwear and they half fell off me. With a playful slap on my ass, he grinned and said “Count to ten before you come out. BTW, I will be hanging on to this.” He waggled the razor at me.   And like that, he turned that knob-the one I should have locked-and left.

I heard him say, “I am up here, Dad. She will be out on about ten seconds”.  He kept talking but he was on his way downstairs, I could not make out what his receding voice was saying.

I coud make out my shame, my confusion. As I counted to ten, I watched my image blur and  shift  from my angry tears.

End of part I

Regressed {stage 1}

Barely awake, still holding on to my dream, I feel your hands, tugging, pulling at me.

You are hungry, aching for nourishment.

Undoing my buttons, you push he material of my nightgown aside, until the soft, full flesh is revealed.

My nipple-erect, ready-glistens with a bead of milk, in the barely seen light coming into the room.

With a pang that reaches from your mind into your soul, you latch on.
Sucking, drawing form me, you settle into the peace that you only have found in your most quiet fantasies.

Until I chose to bring you from there to reality.

Inside

You admitted that you tried to break the lock.  You also knew I would be angry, which is why you stopped before it was broken.

You cried but your outward tears are nothing to me. You do not have real sorrow in your heart.

I want your soul to be soaking, salted, with weeping.

Then I will relent.

Only then.

Distance

Two of you.

Kneeling, waiting. Anxious. Afraid.

One is to be used, the other discarded. Left empty.

I take you, the male specimen. Lean, sinewy, slightly furred along your runner’s legs and arms.

You fail. Your mind rebels as your body hopes, struggles, begs to accommodate.

Your sphincter pushes against me, the strongest indication of how you are not worthy.

With a push, I move you, tears running silently into your mouth. The salt tastes sweeter than your defeat.

With the slightest flare of her nostril to indicate her contempt, she consumes the spot where you were. Her knees fit into the warmth yours left behind.

Made for this, eager for this, needing this.

I easily take her, the only sound is the smack of my hands settling onto her hips.

She is rounded, soft, silky. Shaven, as I directed.

We slip down , so deep, into the rhythm that is natural to us by birth, and is alien to you.  You are the subject, not the object by the rising of the sun and throughout the day. The verb, not the adjective.

Both of our eyes are upon you, cloaking you in derision and shame.

The steady gaze penetrates you, slowly turns your remorse into loud gulping sobs.

Faster than I entered her, you register the sharp crack of my hand against your cheek. With a slight shake of my head, I tell you to stifle your cries.

Chastened, you freeze;the shock binding to your disappointment, like how butter creams with sugar.

Then. There. How. Why.

I show you what a woman can do.

You cannot go the distance and it fills your heart and mind with gall. Coasts your tongue, ashes crumbling in your mouth, the acrid grit stinging.

What use are you to me?

Regressed{ in stages}

Stage one:

Shaking, you look up at me. Flushed, sweating.

Your eyes, heart and soul form one word, which breaks the barrier of your lips.

Mama.

Like your dreams solidified, the haze burning off dawn, I caress you face and offer you comfort.

My tits-heavy, full,engorged-leak precious pearls of milk.

Erection throbbing, you scramble to catch every prismatic drop.

Mouth open, you strain to catch every bit that drips.

Past speech, past coherence, you latch your mouth upon the right, cradling the weight of the left in your hand.

You were denied, so your mouth floods. Eyes rolling back in your head, you brain pops.  just like your tight nutsac, which erupts hot ropes upon my boots.

Pulling, suckling, murmuring. Lost in the rhythm of your lips and tongue, coaxing forth your sustenance.

Your mouth is full but I hear your unspoken adoration.

I am the Mother you seek, The Goddess that hardens your cock, the Logos of your prayers.

In your belly, milk splashes.

In your soul, truth is revealed.