Wednesday, 1 February 2012
My black mistress
I have a mistress of sorts. She is very black. At frequent times, she shows up in my life. All chosen at her own convenience and pleasure it appears. As she slides in through the door to my bedroom - or wherever she shows up - she takes me in, measures and weighs me with her gaze. After that she slowly and smoothly floats over me. She climbs on top of me. Weighs me down. She plays around with me. Pokes at me. Grabs my pump. The grip is firm but not to hard. She feels at its scars. Some are self-inflicted obviously. Most others put there by others through the ages. I gasps as she presses it tightly with her cold grip. I try to be strong but in the end I always beg for her to let me come with her. It is not from fear, neither of apathy. I just know then and there that it is the right thing to do because it will set me free. But by then she usually stops. She unmounts and never ever takes her eyes of me as she leaves for her next lover. Her satisfied saying "later..." in my mind. She knows she can have me any time but she can and will wait for me to ripe even more. She is Death and she will prevail.