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.

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.

Visitor, in brief

You have been pushing me, pulling at me, begging me for more of my time. Overtly and subtly.

Late one evening, on the phone, I hear your voice.

In the background, I hear your doorbell. I tell you to go answer it.

I hear him ask for you and tell you he was sent by me.

You race to the phone, full of inquiry. I tell you to place the phone on the counter and obey. No talking.

With a half ear tuned t you, I hear him tell you to kneel, to open your mouth.

I hear a slap.

Then: low moans murmured directions, gagging sounds.

Finally, I hear the grunt. You know the one, you make it when you are secretly jacking off to my photos.

I hear his voice fade, the door slam.

Soon, you come on the line, gasping, gently weeping.

You wanted my attention.

Are you pleased?

Smeared

One.

Can I love you, like you, desire you

if you are dripping with piss, lips pasted with excrement ?

No.

Two.

Can I want, embrace, touch you

If you are hard to break, stubborn, recalcitrant?

Yes