It drives me mad with fear and lust

Mistress. I hope you don’t mind that word. It feels so very, very appropriate. Mistress, just without a name, because there is only one. Or does that make the word interchangeable with other women. Would Mistress Lea be better for these posts. Of course. Mistress Lea. Mistress Lea, I keep thinking back to the night Mommy said you and she had sex. It thrills me in such an ingrained way. It does not make me love you more. It does not make me want you more. But it frightens me, swells my clit, burns my navel with tingles. How long? How long would you fuck me before you became Mommy? Months? A year? Taking my ass, whenever you wanted it, any way you wanted it. My body waxed, my hair . . . you’ll love the idea I have. Cornsilk blond with flecks, not highlights, but flecks of lilac or lavender. I’m going to get it done next week or the week after. I want you to have time to relax into it, to play around and find what you like. I’d love you to initiate, but I’d presume any day or evening you asked me to wear a specific something, I was to lure you to bed.

Back to Mommy. Did it feel like being me? I know you must have talked about me afterward. I know you must have made a promise, to make sure I was loved, to make sure I was taken care of. Mistress Lea, the words in my head are that I want you to tell me how you know. I don’t know if you know me or know about something or know everything, but it has my hands bound behind my back and my face on your knee.

I wish I could tell you these things, but they’re so weird, so crazy, and I worry so, so much that they’re so wrong, that even if they are what you want and even though they are true that there’s something about them that’s polluted. I love you. Love is a tantalizing thought right now. I do love you, and you must know that, but I feel hurt and confused and unwanted and like fucking me would please you and I imagine myself, numb, on knees and forearms, face planted sideways on the mattress, staring off with empty eyes while you nail my sissy ass. But then I realize the pleasure that would bring and wonder whether it would feel like a reward for letting you use my body for your gratification or whether it would rouse me from my mood, and I know I would prefer the former. Tonight. At least tonight. And, oh God, your soft voice washing over me: “Michael, understand that I own you.” Fireworks going off in my brain that steal my sight and then a level of acceptance that cannot be described.

Mistress Lea, give me a chance?