I was in the bathroom last night, preparing for bed. Preparing for my last and very special task for the pleasure of the man who guides my submission and owns my thoughts. I was on the toilet when I heard Marko start to cry. It was a painful, lonely, cry of despair and desertion. Totally uncalled for as I was not that many steps away. But he wanted me, and I wasn't there.
Alas, I understand the feeling all too well.
Finally, he joined me in the bathroom. He came into the bathroom and settled by my feet. He needed to be near me. He needed to show his devotion. He needed to demonstrate, by his nearness, his posture, the tension in his body, that I was the center of his life, and that he was ready to pop up at the first word and do whatever it would take to please me, to make me love him.
I looked down at his soft, gray body, poised next to my feet.. He was clearly so incredibly grateful that I was there, holding still, allowing him to be near. And then it washed over me, a feeling so strong I could reach out and touch it. This was the feeling, this was what I meant, what I felt, what I wanted to convey when I said I wanted to be on the floor at my torturing teacher's feet.
After a while, Marko left the little room and came back with a pipe cleaner. He laid it at my feet. It was more than an invitation to play. It was an offering at the fliving altar of his god. Being his mother doesn't stop me from being an object of worship.