and then he calls me angel...

if he saw me more often
if he kept me in a cage
and i ate but what he fed me
naked, down on hands and knees,
slurping from a bowl for dogs,
always with the chain around
my neck - well let's just say
if he did come here more...

i'd think he kept me drugged.

he'll tell me plans, he'll talk
of things i should protest,
i should write back and say
are you kidding?! do you
think i've lost my mind?

but i have
lost
my mind.
not to mention sure control
of all those juices that are swirling
in the maelstrom that was once
my cunt and now is his,
except he calls it pussy.
his pussy.

and he isn't drugging me.
except with words, perhaps,
and with the lure of the dark,
and the temptation to live
fantasies that have lived in me
so long they get their own junk mail.

he talks of sharing me.
he talks of sharing me and
i feel submissive and owned and
nervous and humiliated and
i'm not sure what and i'm
not sure i like how i feel.
i told him that. and he said
of course you don't like it.
you LOVE it.
you obsess over the idea,
you can't stop thinking about it.
which is true.
i spent the afternoon
afloat on the edge of a
submissive haze.
if he had walked in
and clicked his fingers,
i would have risen from my desk
and followed him out.

so yes.
he challenges me.
he frightens me.
he tortures me.
he beats me.
he taunts me.
he trains me.

and then he calls me angel.
not often, but just enough
just enough
that each time i know
that this angel
has fallen
and is wallowing
in the mud
at his feet
while he laughs.