by the philosopher
Monday, 12 February 2007
Written 9 days into our literary affair,
after he ordered me to sleep naked.
As I write this you are naked, because it pleases me. The chain that you wear around your ankle, while admittedly covering some scant bit of skin, reveals far more. It strips bare your soul, declaring for all the world that you are a slave, the property of a mad stranger who keeps you as a pet.
The sheets feel good against your naked skin. The sensation probably kept you awake longer than you intended. . .perhaps you are awake yet, shifting uncomfortably, restless with desire, gorging yourself on the pleasure your nakedness affords.
Perhaps you try to stroke yourself to sleep, my feral kitten, and not with the slow fumbling strokes of a tepid housewife. . .you savagely rape yourself, plundering every last bit of pleasure from your warm depths. . .in vain attempt to satisfy the hunger your feel. (You didn't used to be so hungry. . .what has changed in the last week to turn a housecat into a tigress?)
Enjoy it, my pet. . .I don't want you to get used to the feeling, so I will not allow it often. But tonight I want my kitty to purr. . .
Because it pleases me.