Reverie

He was thinking of me all morning.
He told me so himself.
He was thinking all morning
of the soft, sweet undersides
of my soft, pale breasts.

He was gentle.
Kind and soft and sweet and gentle.

I'd been afraid. All through my period of struggle, as I thought of what would happen if we cleared away the underbrush and thorns, I thought of his return and was afraid. I pictured him in a fury. I've seen him in a fury, the beast broken free, I've felt his fury landing hard against my flesh, hands and cane and the flogger that he broke as he beat me at some time in the past. I feared the hard slaps to my face, feared the bruises he would leave for others to see and wonder about. I feared the marks although, in fact, none of his slaps have ever left betraying bruises.

He knows what he is doing, this man who holds me captive as surely as if I were locked in a cage.

I yearn for the cage.

Not a real one. I suspect it wouldn't match the sense I'm looking for. Longing for. But a cage nevertheless. Tight. Confining. Limits clearly visible. Vulnerability clearly stated as I spend my days naked in his cage, nothing for protection. As if I wanted protection.

It wouldn't matter anyway.
I have no choice.

In truth, I think that neither of us has a choice. There is something mystical in the connection that binds us both. I never had a chance once he found me - but he never had a chance, either. And he knows it. We both know it.

It was a reunion.
A re-union.
A sweet and soft and gentle union.
Mouths and hands and
the sweetest of cocks
and my pussy of velvet,
spreading and flowing
and calling him home.

I love you, Sir.
In truth,
in the fullness of who we are,
I love you.