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.

Spring

Anxious, flustered.

Frantic, you call.

I knew you were going to betray your promise.

Your key does not work.

Did you think it would?

Verde

You burn.

Not with lust for me but for what I am, what I possess.

I am a woman, by birth.

I possess soft hairless skin, breasts, curves, a cunt.

Late at night, you slip into what you think I would wear: lacy bra, stocking, garter, delicate g-string. You slip on high heels and walk around. Sometimes, you put on a wig and make-up and go forth to places where you think you are fooling others.

But we know you. We see you.

Did you know we chuckle and shake our heads?

Not because of your desires but because you think we do not know.

We notice our panties missing. We notice the perfume on our bras. Those are not the exact same stockings that were in the drawer before. Our things are out of place, our lipstick tubes have your smudged fingerprints.

You sit in the closet when we leave, heart racing, wearing a dress, your soul crying because you only have one hole below the waist, in which to be fucked.

Pity that, no?